General Information

Dear readers,

'Dangerous Ground' by Lawrence L. Lynch was published in 1886. Actually, Lawrence Lynch is the pseudonym of Emma Murdock Van Deventer, American thriller writer.

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K. C. Lee
Story Collector
June 3, 2012

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---

"Not just yet; I ain't quite ready!"

"Mamma brings the candle very near to the closed eyes, waving it to and fro, rapidly."

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.

"They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by one they touch it; curiously, reverently."

"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;"

"Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look both of you; do you see that?"

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.

"Yes; I've a dainty bit of mystery for you. No blind alleys and thieves' dens in this"

---

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!"

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."

"What, has Van agreed to work against me--without a word to me--and so soon!"

"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!"

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!"

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.

"Dear lady, trust me! Your secret shall be safe; your enemy shall become mine!"

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.

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;"

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.

"Stanhope, bounding to his feet, springs through the open window"

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.

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?"

"The rag picker can be an honest man as well as another, Josef."

"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."

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.

"There is a moment of awful stillness in the room."

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!"

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."

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.

"Leslie! Alan!" she cried, coming toward them with a sob in her throat, "we have lost little Daisy!"

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 apprehension of the murderer of the man who had been identified as one Josef Siebel, professional rag-picker, and of Jewish extraction, having a sister who ran a thieving "old clo'" business, and a brother who kept a disreputable pawn shop.

The second and third rewards were for the arrest of, or information concerning, the fellow calling himself "Silly Charlie," and the parties who had occupied the hovel up to the night of the murder.

These last "rewards" were accompanied by such descriptions of Papa and Mamma Francoise as Vernet could obtain at second-hand, and by more accurate descriptions of the Sailor, and Silly Charlie.

Rightly judging that sooner or later Papa Francoise, or some of his confederates, would attempt to remove the concealed booty from the deserted hovel,--which, upon being searched, furnished conclusive proof that buying rags at a bargain was not Papa's sole occupation,--Van Vernet set a constant watch upon the house, hoping thus to discover the new hiding-place of the two Francoise's. Having accomplished thus much, he next turned his attention to his affairs with the aristocrat of Warburton Place.

This matter he now looked upon as of secondary importance, and on the second day of Archibald Warburton's illness he turned his steps toward the mansion, intent upon bringing his "simple bit of shadowing" to a summary termination.

He had gathered no new information concerning Mrs. Warburton and her mysterious movements, nevertheless he knew how to utilize scant items, and the time had come when he proposed to make Richard Stanhope's presence at the masquerade play a more conspicuous part in the investigation which he was supposed to be vigorously conducting.

The silence and gloom that hung over the mansion was too marked to pass unnoticed by so keen an observer.

Wondering as to the cause, Vernet pulled the bell, and boldly handed his professional card to the serious-faced footman who opened the door.

In obedience to instructions, the servant glanced at the card, and reading thereon the name and profession of the applicant, promptly admitted him, naturally supposing him to be connected with the search for little Daisy.

"Tell your master," said Vernet, as he was ushered into the library, "tell your master that I must see him at once. My business is urgent, and my time limited."

The servant turned upon him a look of surprise.

"Do you mean Mr. Archibald Warburton, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then it will be impossible. Mr. Warburton has been dangerously sick since yesterday. The shock--Mr. Alan receives all who have business."

Mentally wondering what the servant could mean, for in the intensity of his interest in his new search, he had not informed himself as to the late happenings that usually attract the attention of all connected with the police, and was not aware of the disappearance of Archibald Warburton's little daughter, Vernet said briefly, and as if he perfectly understood it all:

"Nevertheless, you may deliver my message."

Somewhat overawed by the presence of this representative of justice, the servant went as bidden, and in another moment stood before Alan Warburton, presenting the card of the detective and delivering his message.

Alan Warburton started at sight of the name upon the card, and involuntarily turned his gaze toward the mirror. The face reflected there was not the face we saw unmasked, for a moment, at the masquerade. The brown moustache and glossy beard, the abundant waving hair, were gone. To the wonder and disapproval of all in the house, Alan had appeared among them, on the morning following the masquerade, with smooth-shaven face and close-cropped hair, looking like a boy-graduate rather than the distinguished man of the world he had appeared on the previous day.

Van Vernet had seen his bearded face but once, and there was little cause to fear a recognition; nevertheless, recalling Stanhope's warning, Alan chose the better part of valor, and said calmly:

"Tell the person that Mr. Warburton is so ill that his life is despaired of, and that he is quite incapable of transacting business. He cannot see him at present."

Wondering somewhat at this cavalier message, the servant retraced his steps, and Alan returned to the sick-room, murmuring as he went:

"It seems the only way. I dare not trust my voice in conversation with that man. For our honor's sake, my dying brother must be my representative still."

And then, as his eye rested upon Leslie, sitting by the bedside pale and weary, a thrill of aversion swept over him as he thought:

"But for her, and her wretched intrigue, I should have no cause to deceive, and no man's scrutiny to fear."

Alas for us who have secrets to keep; we should be "as wise as serpents," and as farseeing as veritable seers.

While Alan Warburton, above stairs, was congratulating himself, believing that he had neglected nothing of prudence or precaution, Van Vernet, below stairs, was grasping a clue by which Alan Warburton might yet be undone.

Reentering the library, the servant found Vernet, his cheeks flushed, his eyes ablaze with excitement, standing before an easel which upheld a life-sized portrait--a new portrait, recently finished and just sent home, and as like the original, as he had appeared on yesterday, as a picture could be like life.

When the servant had delivered his message, and without paying the slightest heed to its purport, Vernet demanded, almost fiercely:

"Who is the original of that portrait?"

"That, sir," said the servant, "is Mr. Alan Warburton."

A Business Call

It was grey dawn when Stanhope left the hospital and turned his face homeward, and then it was not to sleep, but to pass the two hours that preceded his breakfast-time in profound meditation.

Seated in a lounging-chair, with a fragrant cigar between his lips, he looked the most care-free fellow in the world. But his active brain was absorbed in the study of a profound problem, and he was quite oblivious to all save that problem's solution.

Whatever the result of his meditation, he ate his breakfast with a keen relish, and a countenance of serene content, and then set off for a morning call upon Mr. Follingsbee.

He found that legal gentleman preparing to walk down to his office; and after an interchange of salutations, the two turned their faces townward together.

"Well, Stanhope," said the lawyer, linking his arm in that of the detective with friendly familiarity, "how do you prosper?"

"Very well; but I must have an interview with Mrs. Warburton this morning."

"Phew! and you want me to manage it?"

"Yes."

The lawyer considered a moment.

"You know that the Warburtons are overwhelmed with calamity?" he said.

Stanhope glanced sharply from under his lashes, and then asked carelessly:

"Of what nature?"

"Archibald Warburton lies dying; his little daughter has been stolen."

"What!" The detective started, then mastering his surprise, said quietly: "Tell me about it."

Briefly the lawyer related the story as he knew it, and then utter silence fell between them, while Richard Stanhope lost himself in meditation. At last he said:

"It's a strange state of affairs, but it makes an immediate interview with the lady doubly necessary. Will you arrange it at once?"

"You are clever at a disguise: can you make yourself look like a gentleman of my cloth?"

"Easily," replied Stanhope, with a laugh.

"Then I'll send Leslie--Mrs. Warburton, a note at once, and announce the coming of myself and a friend, on a matter of business."

An hour later, a carriage stopped before the Warburton doorway, and two gentlemen alighted.

The first was Mr. Follingsbee, who carried in his hand a packet of legal-looking papers. The other was a trim, prim, middle-aged gentleman, tightly buttoned-up in a spotless frock coat, and looking preternaturally grave and severe.

They entered the house together, and the servant took up to Leslie the cards of Mr. Follingsbee and "S. Richards, attorney."

With pale, anxious face, heavy eyes, and slow, dragging steps, Leslie appeared before them, and extended her hand to Mr. Follingsbee, while she cast a glance of anxious inquiry toward the seeming stranger.

"How is Archibald?" asked the lawyer, briskly.

"Sinking; failing every moment," replied Leslie, sadly.

"And there is no news of the little one?"

"Not a word."

There was a sob in her throat, and Mr. Follingsbee, who hated a scene, turned abruptly toward his companion, saying:

"Ours is a business call, Leslie, and as the business is Mr. Stanhope's not mine, I will retire to the library while it is being transacted."

And without regarding her stare of surprise, he walked coolly from the room, leaving Leslie and the disguised detective face to face.

"Is it possible!" she said, after a moment's silence; "is this Mr. Stanhope!"

The middle-aged gentleman smiled and came toward her.

"It is I, Mrs. Warburton. An interview with you seemed to me quite necessary, and I considered this the safest disguise, and Mr. Follingsbee's company the surest protection."

She bowed her head and looked inquiringly into his face.

"Mrs. Warburton, are you still desirous to discover the identity of the person who has been a spy upon you?" he asked gravely.

"I know--" she checked herself and turned a shade paler. "I mean I--" again she paused. What should she say to this man whose eyes seemed looking into her very soul? What did he know?

"Let me speak for you, madam," he said, coming close to her side, his look and manner full of respect, his voice low and gentle. "You do not need my information; you have, yourself, discovered the man."

Then, seeing the look of distress and indecision upon her face, he continued:

"On the night of our first interview, I pledged my word to respect any secret of yours which I might discover. At the same time I warned you that such discovery was more than possible. If, in saying what it becomes my duty to say, I touch upon a subject offensive to you, or upon which you are sensitive, pardon me. Under other circumstances I might have said: Mrs. Warburton, it is your brother-in-law who has constituted himself your shadow. But the events that followed that masquerade have made what would have been a simple discovery, a most complicated affair. Can we be sure of no interruption while you listen?"

She sank into a chair, with a weary sigh.

"There will be no interruption. Miss French and my brother-in-law are watching in the sick-room; the servants are all at their posts. Be seated, Mr. Stanhope."

He drew a chair near that which she occupied, and plunged at once into his unpleasant narrative, talking fast, and in low, guarded tones.

Beginning with a description of the Raid as it was planned, he told how he had been detained at the masquerade--how he had discovered the presence of Vernet, and suspected his agency in the matter--how, without any thought other than to be present at the Raid, to note Vernet's generalship, and satisfy himself, if possible, as to the exact meaning of his unfriendly conduct, he, Stanhope, had assumed the disguise of "Silly Charlie", had encountered Vernet and been seized upon by that gentleman as a suitable guide,--and how, while convoying his false friend through the dark alleys, they were startled by a cry for help.

As she listened, Leslie's face took on a look of terror, and she buried it in her hands.

"I need not dwell upon what followed," concluded Stanhope. "Not knowing what was occurring, I managed to enter first at the door. I heard Alan Warburton bid you fly for your husband's sake. I saw your face as he forced you through the door, and then I contrived to throw Vernet off his feet before he, too, should catch a glimpse of you."

Leslie shuddered, and as he paused, she asked, from behind her hands:

"And then--oh, tell me what happened after that!"

"Your brother-in-law closed and barred the door, and turned upon us like a lion at bay, risking his own safety to insure your retreat. What! has he not told you?"

"He has told me nothing."

"There is little more to tell. I knew him for your brother-in-law, because, here at the masquerade, I was a witness to a little scene in which he threw off his mask and domino. It was when he met and frightened the little girl, and then reproved the servant."

"I remember."

"I recognized him at once, and fearing lest, by arresting him, we might do harm to you, or bring to light the secret I had promised to help you keep, I connived at his escape."

She lifted her head suddenly.

"Arrest!" she exclaimed; "why should you arrest him?"

Stanhope fixed his eyes upon her face; then sinking his voice still lower, he said:

"Something had occurred before we came upon the scene; what that something was, you probably know. What we found in that room, after your flitting, was Alan Warburton, standing against the door with a table before him as a breast-work, in his hand a blood-stained bar of iron, and almost at his feet, a dead body."

"What!"

"It was the body of a dead rag-picker. Before you left that room, a fatal blow was struck."

"Yes--I--I don't know--I can't tell--it was all confused."

She sank back in her chair, her face fairly livid, her eyes looking unutterable horror.

"Some one had committed a murder," went on Stanhope, keeping his eyes fixed upon her pallid face; "and the instrument that dealt the blow was in your brother-in-law's hand. To arrest him would have been to compromise you, and I had promised you safety and protection."

She bent forward, looking eagerly into his face.

"And you rescued him?" she said, eagerly.

"You could scarcely call it that. He resisted grandly, and was brave enough to effect his own rescue. I guided him away from that unsafe locality, and warned him of the danger which menaced him."

"And is that danger now past?"

"Is it past!" He took from his pocket a folded placard, opened it, and put it into her hands.

It was the handbill containing the description of the escaped Sailor, and offering a reward for his capture.

With a cry of remorse and terror, Leslie Warburton flung it from her, and rose to her feet.

"My God!" she cried, wringing her hands wildly, "my cowardice, my folly, has brought this upon him, upon us all!"

Then turning toward the detective, a sudden resolve replacing the terror in her eye, a resolute ring in her voice, she said:

"Listen; you have proved yourself worthy of all confidence; you shall hear all I have to tell; you shall judge between my enemies and me."

"But, madam--"

"Wait; I want your advice, too, your aid, perhaps. Mr. Follingsbee also shall hear me."

She started toward the library, but the detective put out a detaining hand.

"Stop!" he said, firmly. "If what you are about to say includes anything concerning Alan Warburton, or the story of that night, we must have no confidants while his liberty and life are menaced. His identity with that missing Sailor must never be known, even by Mr. Follingsbee."

She breathed a shuddering sigh, and returned to her seat.

"You are right," she said hurriedly; "and until you shall advise me otherwise, I will tell my story to none but you."

Vernet On The Trail

The discovery made by Van Vernet, on the day of his visit to the Warburton mansion, aroused him to wonderful activity, and made him more than ever eager to ferret out the hiding-place of Papa Francoise, who, he felt assured, could throw much light upon the mystery surrounding the midnight murder.

He set a constant watch upon the deserted Francoise house, and kept the dwelling of the Warburtons under surveillance, while he, in person, gravitated between these two points of interest, during the time when he was not employed in collecting items of information concerning the Warburton family. Little by little he gathered his bits of family history, and was now familiar with many facts concerning the invalid master of the house and his second marriage, and the travelled and aristocratic brother, who, so rumor said, was proud as a crown-prince, and blameless as Sir Galahad.

"These immaculate fellows are not to my taste," muttered Van Vernet, on the morning following the day when Stanhope held his last interview with Leslie, as he took his station at a convenient point of observation, prepared to pass the forenoon in watching the Warburton mansion.

His first glance toward the massive street-door caused him to start and mutter an imprecation. The bell was muffled, and the door-plate hidden beneath heavy folds of crape.

Archibald Warburton was dead. The hand that stole his little one had struck his death-blow, as surely as if by a dagger thrust. His feeble frame, unable to endure those long days of suspense, had given his soul back to its origin, his body back to nature.

Within was a household doubly stricken; without, a two-fold danger menaced.

"So," muttered Van Vernet, as he gazed upon this insignia of death; "so my patron is dead; that stately, haughty aristocrat has lost all interest in his wife's secrets. Well, so have I--but I have transferred my interest to his brother, Alan Warburton. Death caused by shock following loss of his little daughter, no doubt. That tall, straight seigneur looked like a man able to outlive a shock, too."

He was not at all ruffled by the sudden taking-off of the man he supposed to be his patron. He had not made a single step toward the clearing-up of the mystery surrounding the goings and comings of Mrs. Archibald Warburton. His discovery of Stanhope at the masked ball, and his machinations consequent upon that discovery, together with the fiasco of the Raid and all its after-results, had made it impossible that he could interest himself in what he considered "merely a bit of domestic intrigue."

He was not sorry that Archibald Warburton was dead, and he resolved to profit by that death.

Since the discovery of Alan Warburton's picture, Van Vernet's mind had been drifting toward dangerous conclusions.

Suppose this wealthy aristocrat and the Sailor assassin should prove the same, what would follow? Might he not naturally conclude that a secret existed between Alan Warburton and the Francoises, and, if so, what was the nature of that secret? Why was Alan Warburton, if it were he, absent from his house on a night of festivity, a night when he should have been making merry with his brother's guests?

If he were in league with those outlaws of the slums, it was not for plunder; surely the Warburtons were rich enough. What, then, was the secret which that stately mansion concealed?

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," quoted Vernet, grimly. "That Sailor assassin first--the Warburton skeleton first. They are almost under my hand, and once I grasp them, my clutch is upon the Warburton millions, too."

The morning was yet early, there was quiet in the street and Van Vernet, wearing for convenience sake the uniform of a policeman, paced slowly down toward the house of mourning. As he neared the street-corner, two women, beggars evidently, came hurrying around the corner straight toward him.

At sight of his uniform the larger and elder of the two, a stout woman with a vicious face, a sharp eye, and head closely muffled in a ragged shawl, started slightly. Then with a furtive glance and a fawning obeisance, she hurried her companion past him, and down the street.

This companion, a younger woman, her face covered with bruises and red with dissipation, walked with a painful limp, and the hesitating air of the blind, her eyes tightly shut and the lids quivering.

"Playing blind," muttered Vernet, as they hastened past him. "If I were the regular officer here, I'd have them out of this; as it is--"

He gave a shrug of indifference and glanced back over his shoulder.

The two women had halted before the Warburton mansion, and the elder one was looking up at the crape-adorned door.

Then she glanced backward toward the officer, who seemed busy contemplating the antics of a pair of restive horses that were coming down the street. Seeing him thus employed, she darted down the basement-stairs, dragging her stumbling companion after her.

Suddenly losing his interest in the prancing horses, Van Vernet turned and hastily approached the mansion, screened from the view of the two women by the massive stone steps.

Even a beggar, of the ordinary type, respects the house of mourning. And as he drew near them, Vernet mentally assured himself that these were no ordinary mendicants.

They were standing close to the basement-entrance. And as he stealthily approached, he saw that the elder woman put into the hand of the servant, who had opened the door, a folded paper which she took reluctantly, glanced down at, and with a sullen nod put into the pocket of her apron. Then, without a word to the two beggars, she closed and locked the door, while they, seeming not in the least disconcerted, turned and moved leisurely up the basement-stairs.

They would have passed Vernet hurriedly, but he put out his hand and said:

"Look here, my good souls, don't you know that this is no place for beggars? You can't be very old in the business or you'd never trouble a house where you see that on the door." And pointing to the badge of mourning, he concluded his oration: "Be off, now, and thank fortune that I'm a good-natured fellow."

The woman muttered something after the usual mendicant fashion, and hastened away down the street.

At the same moment the prancing horses, held to a walk by the firm hand of their stout driver, came opposite the mansion, and a face muffled in folds of crape looked out from the carriage.

But Van Vernet had now no eyes for the horses, the carriage, or its occupant.

Noting, with a hasty glance, the direction taken by the two women, he sprang down the basement-steps and rang the bell.

The servant who had opened to the women, again appeared at the door.

"What do you want?" she asked, crossly; for being an honest servant she had no fear of the blue coat and brass buttons of the law.

The bogus policeman touched his hat and greeted her with an affable smile.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "I thought you might be annoyed by those beggars. I can remove them if you enter a complaint. I saw that they gave you some kind of a paper; a begging letter, probably. Just give it to me, and I will see that they don't intrude again upon people who are in trouble enough."

He extended his hand for the letter; but the servant drew back, and answered hastily:

"Don't bother yourself. I've had my orders, and I guess when I don't want beggars around, I know how to send them to the right-about."

And without waiting to note the effect of her speech, she shut the door in his face, leaving him to retreat as the two beggars had done.

"Be off, now, and thank fortune that I am a good-natured fellow."

Hastening up the steps he looked after the women, who were already nearly two blocks away. Then, with one backward glance, he started off in the same direction, keeping at a safe distance, but always in sight of them.

"So," he mused, as he walked along, "the Warburton servant has had her orders. That was precisely the information I wanted. These women were not beggars, but messengers, and they brought no message of the ordinary kind."

Suddenly he uttered a sharp ejaculation, and quickened his pace.

"That old woman--why, she answers perfectly the description given of Mother Francoise! And if it is Mother Francoise, she has undoubtedly brought a message to Alan Warburton. If it is that old woman, I will soon know it, for I shall not take my two eyes off her until I have tracked her home."

The Return Of The Prodigal

In every city where splendor abounds and wealth rolls in carriages, can be found, also, squalor and wretchedness. If the rich have their avenues, and the good and virtuous their sanctuaries, so have the poor their by-ways and alleys, and the vicious their haunts. In a great city there is room for all, and a place for everything.

Papa and Mamma Francoise had left their abiding-place in the slums for a refuge even more secure.

Van Vernet had followed the two women to a narrow street, long since left behind by the march of progress; a street where the huts and tumble-down frame buildings had once been reputable dwellings and stores, scattered promiscuously along on either side of a thoroughfare that had once been clean, and inhabited by modest industry. But that was many years ago: it had long been given over to dirt and disorder without, and to rags, poverty, rats and filth within. Here dwelt many foreigners, and the sound of numerous tongues speaking in many languages, might always be heard.

On this street, in the upper rooms of a rickety two-story house, Papa and Mamma Francoise had set up their household gods after their flight from the scene of Josef Siebel's murder; the lower floor being inhabited by a family of Italians, who possessed an unlimited number of children and a limited knowledge of English.

It is evening, the evening of the day that has witnessed Van Vernet's most recent discovery, and Papa and Mamma are at home.

The room is even more squalid than that recently occupied by them, for, besides a three-legged table, two rickety chairs, a horribly-dilapidated stove and two dirty, ragged pallets at opposite sides of the room, furniture there is none.

Perched upon one of the two rickety chairs, his thin legs extended underneath the table and his elbows resting upon it, sits Papa Francoise, lost in the contemplation of a broken glass containing a small quantity of the worst whiskey; and near him, Mamma squats upon the floor before the rusty stove, in which a brisk fire is burning, stirring vigorously at a strong-smelling decoction which is simmering over the coals.

"Come, old woman," growls Papa, with a self-assertion probably borrowed from the broken glass under his eye, "get that stuff brewed before the gal comes in. And then try and answer my question: what's to be done with her?"

Mamma Francoise stirs the liquid more vigorously, and takes a careful sip from the iron spoon.

"Ah," she murmurs, "that's the stuff. It's a pity to spoil it."

She rises slowly, and drawing a bottle from her pocket, pours into the basin a few drops of brown liquid, stirs it again, and then removing the decoction from the fire, pours it into a battered cup, which she sets upon the floor at a distance from the stove.

If one may judge from Mamma's abstinence, the liquor has been spoiled, for she does not taste it again.

Having thus completed her task, she turns toward one of the pallets, and seating herself thereon lifts her eyes toward Papa.

"What's to be done with the girl?" she repeats. "That's the question I've asked you often enough, and I never got an answer yet."

Papa withdraws his gaze from her face, and fixes it once more upon the broken tumbler.

"She ain't no good to us," resumes Mamma, "and we can't have her tied to us always."

"Nor we can't turn her adrift," says Papa, significantly.

"No; we can't turn her adrift," replies Mamma. "We can't afford to keep her, and we can't afford to let her go."

"Consequently--" says Papa.

And then they look at one another in silence.

"We may have to get out of this place at a minute's warning," resumes Mamma, after a time, "and how can we expect to dodge the cops with that gal tied to us? You and I can alter our looks, but we can't alter hers."

"No," says Papa, shaking his head, "we can't alter hers--not now."

"And if we could, we can't alter her actions."

"No; we can't alter her actions," agrees Papa, with a cunning leer, "except to make 'em worse."

And he casts a suggestive glance toward the tin cup on the floor.

"It won't do," said Mamma, noting the direction of his glance; "it won't do to increase the drams. If she got worse, we couldn't manage her at all. It won't do to give her any more."

"And it won't do to give her any less. Old woman, we've just got back to the place we started from."

Mamma Francoise rests her chin in her ample palm and ponders.

"I think I can see a way," she begins. Then, at the sound of an uncertain footstep on the rickety stairs, she stops to listen. "That's her," she says, a frown darkening her face. "She's got to be kept off the street."

She goes to the door, opens it with an angry movement, and peers out into the dark hall.

"Nance, you torment!"

But the head that appears above the stair-railing is not the head of a female, and it is a masculine voice that says, in an undertone:

"Sh-h! Old woman, let me in, and don't make a fuss."

The woman starts back and is about to close the door, when something in the appearance of the man arrests her attention.

As he halts at the top of the stairway, the light from the door reveals to her a shock of close-curling, carroty-red hair.

In another moment he stands with a hand on either door-post.

"How are ye, old uns? Governor, how are ye?"

"How are ye' old uns?" he says, with a grin. "Governor, how are ye?" And then, with a leer, and a lurch which betrays the fact that he is half intoxicated, he adds, in a voice indicative of stupid astonishment: "Why, I'm blowed, the blessed old fakers don't know their own young un!"

"Franzy!" Mamma Francoise starts forward, a look of mingled doubt and anxiety upon her face. "Franzy! No, it can't be Franzy!"

"Why can't it be? Ain't ten years in limbo enough? Or ain't I growed as handsome as ye expected to see me?" Then coming into the room, and peering closely into the faces of the two: "I'm blessed if I don't resemble the rest of the family, anyhow."

The two Francoises drew close together, and scrutinized the new-comer keenly, doubtfully, with suspicion.

Ten years ago, their son, Franzy, then a beardless boy of seventeen, and a worthy child of his parents, had reluctantly turned his back upon the outer world and assumed a prison garb, to serve out a twenty years' sentence for the crime of manslaughter.

Ten years had elapsed and this man, just such a man as their boy must have become, stands before them and claims them for his parents.

There is little trace of the old Franz, save the carroty hair, the color of the eyes, the devil-may-care manner, and the reckless speech. And after a prolonged gaze, Papa says, still hesitatingly:

"Franzy! is it really Franzy?"

The new claimant to parental affection flings out his hand with a fierce gesture, and a horrible oath breaks from his lips.

"Is it really Franzy?" he cries, derisively. "Who else do ye think would be likely to claim yer kinship? I've put in ten years in the stripes, an' I'm about as proud of ye as I was of my ball and chain. I've taken the trouble ter hunt ye up, with the police hot on my trail; maybe ye don't want ter own the son as might a-been a decent man but for yer teachin'. Well, I ain't partikeler; I'll take myself out of yer quarters."

He turns about with a firm, resentful movement, and Mamma Francoise springs forward with a look of conviction on her hard face.

"Anybody'd know ye after that blow out," she says with a grin. "Ye're the same old sixpence, Franzy; let's have a look at ye."

She lays a hand upon his arm, and he turns back half reluctantly.

"Wot's struck ye?" he asks, resentfully. "Maybe it's occurred to ye that I may have got a bit o' money about me. If that's yer lay, ye're left. An' I may as well tell ye that if ye can't help a fellow to a little of the necessary, there's no good o' my stoppin' here."

And shaking her hand from his arm, this affectionate Prodigal strides past her, and peers eagerly into the broken glass upon the table.

"Empty, of course," he mutters; "I might a-known it."

Then his eyes fix upon the tin cup containing Mamma's choice brew. Striding forward, he seizes it, smells its contents, and with a grunt of satisfaction raises it to his lips.

In an instant Mamma Francoise springs forward, and seizing the cup with both hands, holds it away from his mouth.

"Stop, Franz! you mustn't drink that."

A string of oaths rolls from his lips, and he wrests the cup from her hand, spilling half its contents in the act.

"Stop, Franzy!" calls Papa, excitedly; "that stuff won't be good for you."

And hurrying to one of the pallets he draws from under it a bottle, which, together with the broken tumbler, he presents to the angry young man.

"Here, Franzy, drink this."

But the Prodigal shakes off his father's persuasive touch, and again seizes upon the cup of warm liquor.

"Franzy!" cries Papa, in a tremor of fear, "drop that; it's doctored."

The Prodigal moves a step backward, and slowly lowers the cup.

"Oh!" he ejaculates, musingly, "it's doctored! Wot are ye up to, old uns? If it's a doctored dose, I don't want it--not yet. Come, sit down and let's talk matters over."

Taking the bottle from the old man's hand, he goes back to the table, seats himself on the chair recently occupied by the elder Francoise, motioning that worthy to occupy the only remaining chair. And courtesy being an unknown quality among the Francoises, the three are soon grouped about the table, Mamma accommodating herself as best she can.

"Franzy," says Mamma, after refreshing herself from the bottle, which goes from hand to hand; "before you worry any more about that medicine, an' who it's for, tell us how came yer out?"

"How came I out? Easy enough. There was three of us; we worked for it five months ahead, and one of us had a pal outside. Pass up the bottle, old top, while I explain."

Having refreshed himself from the bottle, he begins his story, interluding it with innumerable oaths, and allotting to himself a full share of the daring and dangerous feats accompanying the escape.

"It's plain that ye ain't read the papers," he concludes. "Ye'd know all about it, if ye had."

Franz Francoise Belligerent

After the departure of the Sister of Mercy, an unnatural silence brooded over the room; a silence, not a stillness, for Mamma Francoise, uttering no word, dragged the unfortunate Nance to one of the pallets, forced the remainder of the warm liquor down her throat, and then pushed her back upon the pallet, where she lay a dirty, moveless, stupid heap of wretched humanity.

Then Mamma seated herself upon the one unoccupied stool, and glared alternately at the two men.

Papa Francoise was evidently both disturbed and alarmed at this visit from the Sister of Mercy, and he seemed intent upon solving some new problem propounded to him by the scene just ended.

Franz leered and lounged, with seeming indifference to all his surroundings. His recent potations were evidently taking effect, for after a few moments, during which he made very visible efforts to look alert, and interested in the discussion which, as he seemed vaguely to realize, was impending, he brought himself unsteadily to his feet, staggered across the room, and flinging himself upon the unoccupied pallet, muttered some incoherent words and subsided into stillness and slumber.

The eyes of the old woman followed his movements with anxious interest, and when he seemed at last lost to all ordinary sound, she arose and carried her stool across to where Papa, leaning against the table, still meditated.

"Sit down," she said, in low, peremptory tones, and pushing the stool lately vacated by Franz toward her spouse; "sit down. We're in a pretty mess, ain't we?"

Papa seated himself and favored her with a vacant stare.

"Eh!" he said, absently; "what's to be done?"

Mamma cast a quick look toward her recumbent Prodigal, and leaned forward until her lips touched the old man's ear.

"Mind this," she hissed; "he ain't to know too much. He's got the devil in him; it won't do to put ourselves under his thumb."

"Don't you worry," retorted Papa, in the same sharp whisper, "I ain't anxious to be rode by the two of ye; Franzy's too much like his ma. It won't do to let him know everything."

Mamma gave a derisive sniff, a sort of acknowledgment of the compliment--one of the only kind ever paid her by her worser half,--and then said:

"Franzy'll be a big help to us, if we can keep him away from the cops. But you an' me has planned too long to let him step in now an' take things out of our hands. He's too reckless; we wouldn't move fast enough to suit him, an'--he'd make us trouble."

"Yes," assented the old man, "he'd have things his own way, or he'd make us trouble; he always did."

Mamma arose, stirred the smouldering fire, and resuming her seat, began afresh:

"Now, then, we've got to decide about that gal. She can't go to no hospital?"

"No; she can't."

"And she can't stay with us. It was a big risk before; now that Franzy is back, it's a bigger risk."

"That's so." Papa wrinkled his brows for a moment and then said: "See here, old woman, Franz'll be bound ter know something about that gal when he gits his head clear."

"I s'pose so."

"Well, s'pose we tell him about her."

"What for?"

"Ter satisfy him, an' ter git his help."

"His help?" muttered Mamma. "That might do."

Suddenly Papa lifted a warning finger. "Hush," he whispered; "there's somebody outside o' that door."

A low, firm knock put a period to his sentence. Mamma made a sign which meant caution, and then creeping noiselessly to the door, listened. No sound could be heard from without, and after another moment of waiting she called sharply:

"Who's there?"

"Open de do'; I's got a message fo' yo'."

The voice, and the unmistakable African dialect, reassured the pair, whose only dread was the police; and to barricade their doors against chance visitors was no part of the Francoise policy.

Mamma glided toward the pallet where lay her returned Prodigal, and bent above him.

His face was turned outward toward the door, and putting two strong hands beneath his shoulders, she applied her strength to the task of rolling him over, drew a ragged blanket well up about him, and left him lying thus, his face to the wall and completely hidden from whoever might enter.

Then she went boldly to the door, and opening it wide, stood face to face with a tall African, black as ebony, and wearing a fine suit of broadcloth, poorly concealed underneath a shabby outer garment. He bowed to Mamma as obsequiously as if she were a duchess, and this garret her drawing-room, and stepping inside, closed the door behind him.

"You will excuse me," he said, politely, "but my business is private, and some one might come up the stairs."

"What do you want?"

The incautious words were uttered by Papa Francoise, who, noting the entire absence of his negro accent, arose hastily, his face full of alarm.

The African smiled blandly.

"I assumed my accent in order to reassure you, sir," he said, coolly. "You might not have admitted me if you had thought me a white man, and I am sent by your patron."

"By our patron!" Mamma echoed his words in skeptical surprise.

"Yes; I am his servant."

Papa and Mamma gazed at each other blankly and drew nearer together.

"He has sent you this note," pursued the nonchalant fellow, keeping his eyes fixed upon Mamma's face while he drew from his pocket a folded paper. "And I am to take your answer."

Papa took the proffered note reluctantly, glanced at the superscription, and suddenly changed his manner.

"That is not directed to me," he cried, sharply. "You have made a mistake."

"It is directed to Papa Francoise."

Papa peered closer at the superscription. "Yes; I think that's it. It's not my name; it's not for me."

"My dear sir, I know you too well. You need not fear me; I am Mr. Warburton's body servant."

"Oh!" Mamma uttered the syllable sharply, then suddenly restrained herself, and coming toward the messenger with cat-like tread, she said, coaxingly: "And who may this Mr. War--war, this master of yours be?"

The man looked from one to the other, and then turned his gaze upon the occupants of the two pallets. "Who are these?" he asked, briefly.

Mamma's answer came very promptly.

"Only two poor people we knew in another part of the city. They have been turned out by their landlord, poor things, and last night they slept in the street."

A smile crossed the face of the wily African, and he turned toward Papa.

"Read my master's note, if you please," he said. "It was written to you."

Slowly Papa unfolded the note, and his eyes seemed bursting from their sockets as he read.

Name your price, but keep your whereabouts from the police. If you are called upon to identify me, you do not know me.

---

While Papa reads, the slumbering Franz begins to move and to mutter.

"Give me the file, Jim," he says, in a low, cautious tone. "Curse the darbies--I--"

The sudden overturning of a stool, caused by a quick backward movement on the part of Mamma, drowns the rest of this muttered speech.

But the words have caught the ear of the colored gentleman, who moves a pace nearer the sleeper, and seems anxious to hear more.

While Papa still stares at the note in his hand, Mamma stoops and restores the stool to its upright position, making even more noise than in the overturning. And Franz turns, yawns, stretches, and slowly brings himself to a sitting posture.

Something like a frown crosses the dark face of Papa Francoise's visitor. To bring himself face to face with Papa, and to satisfy himself on certain doubtful points, he has paused for neither food nor rest, but has followed up his discovery of the morning, by an evening's visit to the new lurking-place of the Francoises,--for the sable gentleman, who would fain win the confidence of Papa in the character of body servant to Alan Warburton, is none other than Van Vernet.

Fertile in construction, daring in execution, he has hoped by a bold stroke to make a most important discovery. Viewing the events of the morning from a perfectly natural standpoint, he has rapidly reached the following conclusion:

If the fugitive Sailor and Alan Warburton are one and the same, then, undoubtedly, the message left by Mamma at the door of the Warburtons was intended for Alan. What was the purport of that message, he may find it difficult to discover,--but may he not be able to surprise from Papa an acknowledgment of his connection with the aristocrat of Warburton place?

To arrest the Francoises was, at present, no part of his plan. This would be to alarm Alan Warburton, and to lessen his own chances for making discoveries. He had found Papa Francoise, and it would be strange if he again escaped from his surveillance.

He had not counted upon the presence of a third, and even a fourth party, in paying his visit to the Francoises. And now, as the recumbent Franz began to move and to mutter, Van Vernet turned toward the pallet a keen and suspicious glance.

But never was there a more manifest combination of drowsiness and drunken stupidity than that displayed upon the face of Franz, as he raised himself upon the pallet and stared stupidly at the ebonied stranger.

Then a look of abject terror crept into his face, and he seemed making a powerful effort to rouse his drunken faculties. Slowly he rose from the pallet, and staggered to his feet, muttering some unintelligible words. Then, after a stealthy glance about the room, he turned and reeled toward the door.

As he approached, Van Vernet, still gazing steadfastly into his face, stepped aside, and at the instant Franz made a lurch in the same direction.

In another moment,--neither Papa nor Mamma could have told how it came about,--the two were upon the floor, Franz Francoise uppermost, his knees upon the breast of his antagonist!

As Van Vernet, who had fallen with one arm underneath him, made his first movement in self-defence, his ears were greeted by a warning hiss, and he felt the pressure of a keen-edged knife against his throat!

Franz Francoise's Generalship

When the three had returned to the outer room, Papa turned anxiously toward his hopeful son.

"Franz, my boy," he began, in a quavering voice, "if there should be cops outside--"

"Ye're the same whinin' old coward, ain't ye?" commented Franz, as he favored his father with a contemptuous glance. "I've seen a good many bad eggs, but blow me if I ever seed one like ye! Why, in the name o' blazes, air ye more afraid of a cop than you'd be o' the hangman?"

The mention of this last-named public benefactor, caused Papa to shiver violently, and Mamma bent upon him a look of scorn.

"Don't be an idiot, Francoise," she said, sharply. "We've got somethin' to do besides shakin' an' shiverin'?"

"Time enough ter shiver when the hangman gits ye," added Franz, reassuringly. "But ye needn't fret about cops--I ain't no baby; there ain't no backers outside."

"But, Franzy,--" began Papa.

"Shet up; I'm runnin' this. If there'd a-been any help outside, we wouldn't a-had it so easy, you old fool! That cove in there ain't no coward; he'd a taken the chances with us, and blowed his horn when we first tackled him, if there'd been help handy."

"Ah, what a brain the boy has got!" murmured Mamma, with rapturous pride.

"Look a-here," said Franz, after a moment's consideration, "I'm satisfied that there ain't no cops about; but to set yer mind at rest, old un, so that you kin use it ter help git to the bottom of this business, I'll go and take a look around, and I'll be back in jest five minutes." And he made a quick stride toward the door.

"Now, Franzy,--" began Mamma, coaxingly.

But he waved her back, saying: "Shut up, old woman; I'm runnin' this," and went swiftly out.

When the sound of his retreating footsteps was lost to their ears, Papa and Mamma drew close together, and looked into each others' faces--he anxiously, she with a leer of shrewd significance.

"Old man," she said, impressively, "that boy'll be the makin' of us--if we don't let him git us down."

"Eh! what?"

"He's got your cunnin' an' mine together, and he's got all the grit you lack."

"Well," impatiently.

"But he'll want to run us. An' when he knows all we know, he'd put his foot on us if we git in his way."

"Yes," assented the old man, with a cunning wink, "he's like his ma--considerable."

"On account o' this here cop business," went on Mamma, ignoring the thrust, "he'll have to be told a little about that Siebel affair. But about the rest--not a word. We kin run the other business without his assistance. Franzy's a fine boy, an' I'm proud of him, but 'twon't do, as I told you afore, to give him too much power. I know the lad."

"Yes," insinuated Papa, with a dry cough, "I reckon you do."

"Ye kin see by the way he took the lead to-night, that he won't play no second part. We'll have to tell him about Siebel--"

"An' about Nance."

"It's the same thing; an' ye'll see what he does when we give him an idea about it."

"I know what he'll do;" with a crafty wink. "I'll tell him all about Nance."

"Yes," muttered the old woman, "ye're good at lyin', and all the sneakin' dodges."

And she turned upon her heel, and went over to the pallet where Nance, undisturbed by the events transpiring around her, still lay as she had fallen in her drunken stupor.

"There's another thing," said Mamma, apparently satisfied with her survey of the unconscious girl, and returning to Papa as she spoke. "We've got to git out of here, of course, as soon as we've settled that spy in there."

"We'd a-had to git out anyhow," muttered Papa, "on account of that charity minx. Yes, we will; an' we hain't heard from her. You'll have to visit her agin."

"I s'pose so. An' when I do--that cop's comin' has given me an idea--I'll bring her to time."

"How?"

Mamma leaned toward him, and touched his shoulder with her bony forefinger.

"Just as that cop 'ud have brought you to time, if it hadn't been for Franzy's comin'."

Over Papa's wizened face a look of startled intelligence slowly spread itself.

"Old woman," he ejaculated, "Satan himself wouldn't a-thought of that; The devil will be proud of ye, someday. But Franzy mustn't see the gal."

"I'll manage that," said Mamma. "It's risky, but it's the only way; I'll manage it."

They had heard no sound, although as they talked they also listened, but while the last words yet lingered on the old woman's lips, the door suddenly opened and Franz entered.

"There's no danger," he said, closing the door and securing it carefully. "Ye kin breathe easy, old top; we're a good deal safer jest now than our 'dark lantern' in there," and he nodded toward the inner room.

"Then," put in Mamma, "while we're safe, we'd better make him safe."

"Don't git in a hurry, old un; we want a better understandin' afore we tackle his case. Come, old rook, git up here, an' let's take our bearings."

He perched himself upon the rickety table, and Papa and Mamma drew the stools up close and seated themselves thereon.

"Now then," began Franz, "who did yon nipped cove come here to see, you or me, old un? He 'pears to know a little about us both."

"Yes," assented Papa, "so he does."

"What he knows about me, I reckon he told," resumed Franz. "Now, what's the killin' affair mentioned?" Papa seemed to ponder a moment, and then lifted his eyes to his son's face with a look of bland ingenuousness.

"It's a kind of delicate affair, my boy," he began, in a tone of confidential frankness, "but 'twon't do for us to have secrets from each other--will it, old woman?"

"No," said Mamma; "Franzy's our right hand now. You ort to tell him all about it."

"Oh, git along," burst in Franz. "Give us the racket, an' cut it mighty short--time enough for pertikelers later."

"Quite right, my boy," said Papa, briskly. "Well, here it is: I--I'm wanted, for a witness, in a--a murder case."

"Oh," groaned Franz, in tones of exaggerated grief, "my heart is broke!"

"You needn't laugh, Franzy," remonstrated Papa, aggrieved. "It's the business I was tellin' you about--at the other place, you know."

"Well, see here, old un, my head's been considerable mixed to-night; seems to me ye did tell me a yarn, but tell it agin."

"Why, there's not much of it. We was doing well; I bought rags an'--an' things."

"Rags an' things--oh, yes!"

"An' we was very comfortable. But one night--" and Papa turned his eyes toward Mamma, as if expecting her to confirm all that he said--"one night, when there was a number there, a fight broke out. We was in another room, the old woman an' me,--"

"Yes," interjected Mamma, "we was."

"An' we ran in, an' tried to stop the fight."

Mamma nodded approvingly.

"But we wasn't strong enough. Before we could see who did it, a man was killed. And in a minute we heard the police coming. Before they got there, we had all left, and they found no one but the dead man to arrest. Ever since, they've been tryin' to find out who did the killin'."

"Um!" grunted Franz, "and did you tell me they had arrested somebody?"

"No, my boy. They caught one fellow, a sailor, but he got away."

"Oh, he got away. How many was there, at the time of the killin'?"

"There were three in the room, besides the man that was killed, and there was the old woman and me in the next room."

"You forgit," interrupts Mamma, "there was Nance."

"Oh, yes," rejoined Papa, as if grateful for the correction, "there was Nance."

Franz glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping girl, and then asked sharply: "And what was Nance doin'."

"Nance was layin' on a pile o' rags in a corner," broke in Mamma, "an' I had to drag her out."

Franz gave utterance to something between a grunt and a chuckle.

"So you dragged her out, did ye? 'Tain't exactly in your line neither, doin' that sort o' thing. Ye must a-thought that gal worth savin'."

"She ain't worth savin' now," broke in Papa, hastily. "She's a stone around our necks."

"That's a fact," said Mamma. "An' it's all in consequence of that white-faced charity tramp's meddlin' we've got to get out of here, an' we'll be tracked wherever we go by that drunken gal's bein' along."

"Well, ye ain't obliged ter take her, are ye?" queried Franz, as if this part of the subject rather bored him. "Your keepin' her looks all rot to me. She ain't good for nothin' that I kin see, only to spoil good whiskey."

Papa and Mamma exchanged glances, and then Papa said:

"Jest so, my boy; she spoils good whiskey, but she's safer so than without it. We kin afford to keep her better than we kin afford to turn her loose."

"D'ye mean ter say," queried Franz, "that if that gal knew anything, she'd know too much?"

"That's about it, my boy."

Franz gave vent to a low whistle. "So," he said; "an' that's why ye keep her full o' drugged liquor, eh? I'll lay a pipe that's the old woman's scheme. Have I hit the mark, say?"

"Yes, Franzy."

"Yes, my boy."

"Then what the dickens are ye mincin' about? Why don't ye settle the gal afore we pad?"

"Easy, my boy, easy," remonstrates Papa.

"Just wot I say, Franz," puts in Mamma. "When we leave here, it won't be safe for us to take her--nor for you, either."

"Safe!" cried Franz, springing from the table with excited manner; "safe! It 'ud be ruination! Afore to-morrow we must be out o' this. I ain't goin' to run no chances. If 'twas safe to turn her loose, I'd say do it. I don't believe in extinguishin' anybody when 'tain't necessary; but when 'tis, why--" He finishes the sentence with a significant gesture.

"But, Franz--" begins Mamma, making a feint at remonstrance.

"You shet up!" he exclaims; "I'm runnin' this. The gal's been tried an' condemned--jest leave her to me, an' pass on to the next pint. Have ye got a hen-roost handy?"

"D'ye think we're in our dotage, Franzy," said Papa plaintively, "that ye ask us such a question? Did ye ever know us to be without two perches?"

"Well, is it safe, then?"

"If we kin git there without bein' tracked, it's safe enough."

"Well," said Franz, "we kin do that ef we git an early start, afore our prisoner is missed. As soon as it's still enough, an' late enough, we'll mizzle."

"Wot's yer plan, Franzy?"

"Easy as a, b, c. You an' the old woman lead the way, ter make sure that there won't be nobody ter bother me, when I come after with the gal."

"With the gal?"

"Yes; ye don't want ter leave a dead gal here, do ye? Ye might be wanted agin, fer a witness."

Papa winced and was silent.

"But, Franz,--" expostulated Mamma.

"You shet up! I'm no chicken." And Franz drew his dirk and ran his finger along the keen edge. "Here's my plan: You two give me the bearings of the new hen-roost, an' then start out, keepin' a little ahead, an' goin' toward the drink. I'll rouse up the gal an' boost her along, keepin' close enough to ye to have ye on hand, to prove that I'm takin' home my drunken sister if any one asks questions. When we get near the drink, you'll be likely to miss me."

"Oh!"

"An' after a while I may overtake ye, somewhere about hen-roost, alone;"

"Oh," said Mamma, "you'll finish the job in the drink?"

"I'll finish with the drink but I'll begin with this." And he poised the naked dagger above Mamma's head with a gesture full of significance.

"But the other," said Papa, with nervous eagerness; "what shall we do with him?"

"The other," replied Franz, slowly putting away his knife, "we will leave here."

"What!" screamed Mamma.

"But--" objected Papa.

"Are ye a pack o' fools after all?" snarled Franz. "A dead cop'll make us more trouble than a livin' one. Ye kin kill ten ordinary mortals an' be safer than if ye kill one cop. Kill ten men, they detail a squad to hunt ye up mebby. Kill one peeler, an' you've got the whole police force agin ye. No, sir; we bring him out o' that closet, and leave him ter take his chances. Before morning, we'll be where he can't track us; and somebody'll let him loose by to-morrow. He'll have plenty o' time to meditate, and mebby it'll do him good."

There was a look of dissatisfaction in Mamma's eyes; and Papa's assent was feeble. But already this strong-willed ruffian had gained an ascendency over them, and his promptitude in taking Nance so completely off their hands, assured them that it would not be well to cross him.

Nevertheless, as they made their preparations for a midnight flitting, Papa and Mamma, unseen by Franz, exchanged more than one significant glance.

A Brand From The Burning

There is a cry of alarm in the street below. The fire has broken through the roof, and so revealed itself to some late passer-by.

"Fire! fire! fire!"

Soon the space before the doomed building is swarming with people running, vociferating, cursing, jesting. Drunken men are there, haggard women, dirty, ragged children, who clap their hands and shout excitedly at this splendid spectacle.

"The flames rise and spread; the door of the closet has fallen in, and now he feels their hot breath."

It is useless to attempt to save the old tenement; they realize that. But its occupants--They have heard the alarm, and they come out hurriedly, en deshabille, pushing and dragging the children, screaming, and cursing each other and the world.

All on the lower floor are then safe. But the upper floor, and its occupants?

"Fire! fire! fire!"

No signs of life above stairs. No terrified faces at the windows. No flying forms down the rickety stairway. No cries for help from among the fast-spreading flames.

"Fire! fire! fire!"

They hear the tinkle of bells, the gallop of speeding hoofs upon the pavement.

"Ah!" cries an on-looker, "the fire boys are coming!"

"Too late, they are," growls another; "too late, as usual."

The engine approaches; and from the opposite direction comes a man, running swiftly, panting heavily, almost breathless.

The roof is all ablaze now; in a moment the rafters will have fallen in.

The panting new-comer stops suddenly before the door of the burning tenement, and glances sharply about. Near him is a half-dazed woman who has rushed to the rescue, as frightened women will, with a pail of water in her unsteady hand. The man leaps toward her, seizes the pail, dashes its contents over his head and shoulders, and plunging through the doorway, disappears up the stairs.

"Stop! Come back!"

"What a fool!"

"That's the end of him;"

The on-lookers shout and scream. Exclamations, remonstrance, pity, ridicule--all find voice, and are all lost upon the daring adventurer among the flames.

The engine rushes up; the firemen spring to their work: useless effort. Nobody thinks of them, or what they do; all eyes are on the blazing upper story, all thoughts for the man who is braving the flames.

A crash from aloft; a cry from the multitude. The roof is falling in, and the gallant rescuer--ah! he is doomed.

But no; a form comes reeling out from among the smoke and fire tongues, comes staggering and swaying beneath a burden which is almost too much for his strength.

Then a triumphant yell rises from the multitude. They seize upon rescued and rescuer, and bear them away from the heat and danger. How they scream and crowd; how they elbow and curse; how they exclaim, as they bend over these two refugees from a fiery death!

The rescuer has sunk upon the ground, half suffocated and almost insensible; but all eyes are fixed upon the rescued, for he is bound, gagged and blindfolded!

What is he? Who is he? Why is he thus? They are filled with curiosity; here is a mystery to solve. For the moment the gallant rescuer is forgotten, or only remembered as they seek to avoid trampling upon him in their eagerness to obtain a view of the greater curiosity.

They tear off the fetters of the late prisoner. They wrest the bandage from his eyes. They remove the gag from his mouth. Then curiosity receives a fresh stimulus; exclamations break out anew.

"It's a nigger!"

"No; look here!"

"Hello, he's been playin' moke!"

"He's been blacked!"

"Look at his clothes, boys."

"Jerusalem! he's been robbed."

Then they begin their efforts to bring him to his senses; partly for humanity's sake, quite as much that they may gratify their curiosity.

"He's dead, I reckon."

"No; only smothered."

"Stand back there; give us air."

"Let's have some water."

"No, brandy."

"Look; he's coming to."

He is "coming to". He shudders convulsively, gropes about with his hands and feebly raises his head. Then respiration becomes freer; he draws in a deep breath, sits up and looks about him. He is bewildered at first; then memory reasserts herself. He sees the now almost-demolished tenement, the crowd of eager faces, and notes the fact that he is free, unfettered. He rises to his feet, and unmindful of the questions eagerly poured upon him, gazes slowly about him.

At last two or three policemen have appeared upon the scene. He shakes himself loose from the people about him, and strides toward one of these functionaries; Van Vernet is himself again.

"A form comes reeling out from among the smoke and fire-tongues, staggering beneath a burden."

The eyes of the crowd follow his movements in amazement. They see him speak a few words in the ear of one of the officers; see that worthy beckon to a second, and whisper to him in turn. And then, leaning upon the arm of officer number one, and following in the wake of officer number two, who clears the way with authoritative waves of his magic club, he passes them by without a word or glance, and soon, with his double escort, is lost in the darkness, leaving the throng baffled, dissatisfied and, more than all, astounded.

"And he never stops to ask who saved him!" cries a woman's shrill voice.

"Oh, the wretch!"

"What shameful ingratitude!"

And now their thoughts return to the rescuer, the gallant fellow who has risked his life to save an ingrate.

But he, too, is gone. In the moment when their eyes and their thoughts were following Vernet, he has disappeared.

Flint To Steel

There was a long moment of silence, and then Alan Warburton spoke.

"Much as I desire to hear that sentence completed, Mrs. Warburton, I could do no less than interrupt."

Leslie dropped Winnie's hand and rose slowly, moving with a stately grace toward the entrance before which Alan stood. And Winnie, with a wrathful glance at the intruder, flung aside a handful of loose leaves with an impatient motion, and followed her friend.

But Alan, making no effort to conceal his hostile feelings, still stood before the entrance, and again addressed Leslie.

"May I detain you for a moment, Mrs. Warburton?"

Leslie paused before him with a face as haughty as his own, and bowed her assent. Then she drew back and looked at Winnie, who, with a gesture meant to be imperious, commanded Alan to stand aside.

"Will you remain, Miss French?" asked Alan, but moving aside with a courtly bow.

"No; I won't," retorted the irate little lady. "I don't like the change of climate. I'm going up stairs for my furs and a foot-warmer--ugh!"

And casting upon him a final glance of scorn, she dashed aside the curtains, and they heard the door of the library close sharply behind her.

For a moment they regarded each other silently. Since the night of that fateful masquerade they had not exchanged words, except such commonplaces as were made necessary by the presence of a third person. Now they were both prepared for a final reckoning: he with stern resolve stamped upon every feature; she with desperate defiance in look and manner.

"I think," she said, with a movement toward the portierie, "that our conversation had better be continued there."

He bowed a stately assent, and held back the curtains while she passed into the library.

She crossed the room with slow, graceful movements, and pausing before the hearth, turned her face toward him.

Feeling to her heart's core the humiliation brought by the knowledge that this man, her accuser, had fathomed the secret of her past love for him; with the thought of the Francoises' threat ever before her--Leslie Warburton stood there hopeless, desolate, desperate. She had ceased to struggle with her fate. She had resolved to meet the worst, and to brave it. She was the woman without hope, but she was every inch a queen, her head haughtily poised, her face once more frozen into pallid tranquility.

Standing thus, she was calm, believing that she had drained her bitter cup to its very dregs; that Fate could have no more poisoned arrows in store for her.

Ah, if she had known that her bitterest draught was yet to be quaffed; that the deadliest wound was yet to be inflicted!

She made no effort to break the silence that fell between them; she would not aid him by a word.

Comprehending this, after a moment of waiting, he said:

"Madam, believe me, I have no desire to do you an injustice. I have purposely avoided this interview, wishing, while my dead brother remained among us, to spare you for his sake. Now, however, it is my duty to fathom the mystery in which you have chosen to envelop yourself. What have you to say?"

"That, knowing his duty so well, Mr. Alan Warburton will do it, undoubtedly." And she bowed with ironical courtesy.

"And you still persist in your refusal to explain?"

"On the contrary, I am quite at your service."

She smiled as she said these words. At least she could humble the pride of this superior being, and she would have this small morsel of revenge. Her answer astonished him. His surprise was manifest. And she favored him with a frosty smile as she asked:

"What is it that my brother-in-law desires to know?"

"The truth," he replied sternly. "What took you to that vile den on the night of your masquerade? Are those Francoises the people you have so frequently visited by stealth? Are they your clandestine correspondents?"

"Your questions come too fast," she retorted calmly. "I will reverse the order of my answers. The Francoises are my clandestine correspondents. My visits by stealth, have all been paid to them. It was a threat that took me there that eventful night."

"A threat?"

"Yes."

"Then you are in their power?"

"I was."

"And their sway has ceased?"

"It has ceased."

"Since when?"

"Since the receipt of this."

She took from her pocket the crumpled note, and held it out to him.

He read it with his face blanching.

"Then it was you;" he gasped, with a recoil of horror.

"It was a blow in my defence," she said, with a glance full of meaning. "It would not become me to save myself at the expense of the one who dealt it."

His eyes flashed, but she looked at him steadily. "Do you know who struck that blow?" he asked.

"To tell you would not add to your store of knowledge," she retorted. "Have you more to say, Mr. Warburton?"

"More? yes. Who are these Francoises? What are they to you?"

Her answer came with slow deliberation. "They call themselves my father and mother."

"My God!"

"It is true. I was adopted by the Ulimans. My husband and Mr. Follingsbee were aware of this. It seems that I was given to the Ulimans by these people."

She had aimed this blow at his pride, but that pride was swallowed up by his consternation. As she watched his countenance, the surprise changed to incredulity, the incredulity to contempt. Then he said, dryly:

"Your story is excellent, but too improbable. Will you answer a few more questions?"

"Ask them."

"On the night of the masquerade you received here, in your husband's house, by appointment, a man disguised in woman's apparel."

"Well?"

"You admit it? Do you know how I effected my escape that night?"

"I do. A brave man came to your rescue."

"Precisely; and this 'brave man', is the same who was present at the masquerade; is it not so?"

"It is."

"Who is this man?"

"I decline to answer."

"What is he to you, then?"

"What he is to all who know him: a brave, true man; a gentleman."

"Hem! You have an exalted opinion of this--this gentleman."

"And so should you have, since he saved your life, and what you value more, your reputation. And now listen: this same man has bidden me tell you, has bidden me warn you, that dangers surround you on every hand; that Van Vernet has traced the resemblance between you and the Sailor of that night; that he will hunt you down if possible. Your safety depends upon your success in baffling his efforts to identify you with that Sailor."

"Your friend is very thoughtful," he sneered.

She turned toward the door with an air of weariness.

"This is our last interview," she said coldly; "have you more to say?"

He made a quick stride toward the door, and placing himself before it, let his enforced calmness fall from him like a mantle of snow from a statue of fire, with all his hatred and disgust concentrated in the low, metallic tones in which he addressed her.

"I have only this to say: Your plans, which as yet I only half comprehend, will fail utterly. You fancy, perhaps, that this snare, into which I have fallen, will fetter my hands and prevent me from undoing your work. I cannot give life to the victim whose death lies at your door, the husband who was slain by your sin, but I can rescue your later victim, if her life, too, has not been sacrificed. As for these two wretches, whose parental claim is a figment of your own imagination, and this lover, who is the abettor, possibly the instigator, of your crimes, I shall find him out--"

"Stop," she cried wildly, "I command you, stop;"

"Ah, that touches you! I repeat, I shall find him out. To succeed, you should have concealed his existence as effectually as you have concealed poor little Daisy."

A death-like pallor overspreads the face of the woman before him. She stretches out her arms imploringly, her form sways as if she were about to fall, and she utters a wailing cry.

"As I have concealed Daisy? Oh, my God; my God! I see! I understand! My weakness, my folly, has done its work. I have killed my husband! I have brought a curse upon little Daisy! I have endangered your life and honor! I conceal our Daisy? Hear me, Heaven; henceforth I am nameless, homeless, friendless, until I have found Daisy Warburton and restored her to you!"

Her voice died in a low wail. She makes a forward movement, and then falls headlong at the feet of her stern accuser. For the second time in all her life, Leslie Warburton has fainted.

One moment Alan Warburton stands looking down upon her, a cynical half smile upon his lips. Then he turns and pulls the bell.

"Mrs. Warburton is in a swoon," he says to the servant who appears. "Call some one to her assistance."

And without once glancing backward, he strides from the library.

Alan Begins His Game

Baffled in this first attempt to obtain the desired information, Alan sets his lips firmly, and plans a new mode of attack. And in the morning he made a second effort.

Going down to his lately-deserted study, shuddering with a little fastidious chill as he made his way across the darkened room and noted the stale atmosphere; frowning, too, when he drew back a heavy curtain and observed that there was dust upon his cabinets, and that motes were swimming in the streak of light that came through the parted curtains he rang his bell and sent for Millie.

She came promptly, courtesying demurely, and seemingly keeping in her mind Leslie's instructions, "to listen, to obey, and to keep silence."

"Millie," said Alan, with just a shade of patronage in his tone, "go to Mrs. Warburton, and ask her if she will receive me for a few moments this morning. Tell her that it is a matter of business."

Millie dropped another courtesy, and silently departed with her message, proudly conscious that she had, on this occasion at least, deported herself like a proper servant. And Alan returned to the window, where the light streamed in, and the motes drifted lazily up and down in its rays.

This study was situated at the end of a wing, the front windows opening upon a well-kept lawn, but the side window, at which Alan stood, directly overlooking a by-street, quite narrow and lined with rows of shade trees.

For a few moments Alan stood looking down into this quiet street. Then with an impatient movement, he turned his gaze inward. It fell first upon a tall cabinet which stood near the window, and was partially lighted up by it.

Again he noted the dust upon its panels with a frown of discontent, and then he moved toward it, opening one of the doors with a sort of aimless restlessness peculiar to people who wait impatiently, yet delude themselves with the belief that they are models of calm deliberation.

It was a deep cabinet, richly lined with embossed velvet of a glowing crimson hue, and studded with hooks and brazen brackets, which supported a splendid collection of arms that gleamed at you in cold, cruel, brilliant relief from their gorgeous background.

There were highly polished, elegantly finished modern rifles, rare pieces of home and foreign workmanship; there were blood-thirsty duelling pistols; Damascus blades; light, jaunty French foils; Italian stillettoes; German student-swords; and a heavy, piratical-looking cutlass. In the midst of them all, a group of splendid Toledo swords, beautiful in design and workmanship, were suspended.

As his eye rested upon this group, Alan's face lost its frown of annoyance and took on a look of profound sorrow, while a heavy sigh escaped his lips. They had been gifts from Archibald, years before, when the two had made a foreign tour--Alan's first and Archibald's last--together.

Gazing upon these souvenirs, his mind went back to the old days of his student-life, and his brother's companionship. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he recalled himself with a start, pushed the door of the cabinet from him with a hasty movement which left it half unclosed, and turned toward Millie, who entered as demurely as before, closely followed by a footman, who presented to Alan an official-looking letter.

Taking the missive from the salver, Alan dismissed the man and then turned to the girl.

"Well, Millie?"

"Mrs. Warburton says, sir, that she can not leave her room this morning, but hopes to be able to do so this afternoon."

"Very well, Millie;"--the frown returning to his face--"you may go." And he muttered: "I suppose that means that she will condescend to receive me this afternoon. Well, I must bide my time."

He returned to the window, and standing near it, looked curiously at the envelope in his hand. It was addressed in bold, scrawling characters that were, spite of their boldness, almost illegible. Slowly he opened it, and slowly removed the sheet it enclosed.

"What a wretched scrawl!" he muttered. And then, with a glance at the printed letter-head, "Office of the Chief of Police:" "That's legible, at all events. It's from--from--hum, strange that a man can't write his own name--B--B--C--of course, it's from the Chief of Police."

Slowly and laboriously, he deciphered the letter.

A. WARBURTON. etc.

Dear Sir:--We have just secured, for your case, a very valuable man, Mr. Augustus Grip, late of Scotland Yards. He is an able and most successful detective; we hope much from him. Have already instructed him to extent of our ability, and he will wait upon you personally this P. M., between, say, three and four o'clock. You will do well to give Mr. G--full latitude in the case.

Very respectfully, etc.

This much Alan slowly deciphered, and this gave the key to the unreadable signature. It was from the Chief of Police, evidently.

Alan reperused the letter, and slowly returned it to its envelope.

"This comes at the right moment," he soliloquized. "If this Grip is what he is said to be, he may save me in more ways than one."

And once more he summoned a servant, and gave these instructions:

"See that this room is thoroughly aired and set in order before three o'clock;" adding, as the servant was turning away: "Show a person who will call here after that hour, into this room, and then bring me his name."

In the arrival of such a message, at that precise moment, there was, to Alan Warburton, no occasion for surprise. From the first he had communicated with the officers of the law by letter, or by quiet interviews held in his own apartments.

He was fully alive to the fact that, in dealing with the police, he was himself in momentary danger. But having resolved, from the beginning, to make his own safety and welfare secondary to that of little Daisy, he had been strengthened and confirmed in this resolve by his recent interview with Leslie. And now, in his dogged determination to find the Francoises, he vowed to sacrifice, if need be, his entire fortune, and accept any attendant danger, in prosecuting a vigorous search for these old wretches, and the missing child.

His brother's illness and death had furnished him with a sufficient reason for living secluded, and for receiving such business callers as he chose to admit, in his own apartments. Only this morning he had dispatched a missive to police headquarters, desiring the Chief to secure the services of the best detectives at any cost, and to send to him for instructions or consultation, representing himself as confined to the house by slight indisposition.

He hated a falsehood, but, as he penned this fabrication, he had thrown the moral responsibility of the act upon the already heavily burdened shoulders of his sister-in-law.

And now, as he went slowly from the study, he looked forward anxiously, but not apprehensively, to the two coming interviews: the first, with Leslie; the second, with Mr. Grip, of Scotland Yards.

Mr Grip Finds A 'Skeleton'

This sudden appearance of Mr. Grip was not precisely to Alan Warburton's taste, and he eyed his visitor with a somewhat haughty air, while he said:

"Mr. Grip is prompt, to say the least. I believe that the hour--"

"Hour appointed, between three and four--precisely, sir; precisely. But my time's valuable, Mr. Warburton; valuable, sir! And it's better too early than too late. Everything's cut and dried, and nothing else on hand for this hour; couldn't afford to waste it."

Mr. Grip's words fell from his lips like hailstones from a November sky--rap, rap, rap; patter, patter; swift, sharp, decisive. And Alan was not slow to realize that all the combined dignity of all the combined Warburtons, would be utterly lost upon this plebeian.

Plebeian, Mr. Grip evidently was, from the crown of his head to the tips of his too highly polished, creaking boots. Vulgarity reveled in the plaid of his jaunty business suit, flaunted in the links of his glittering watch guard, and gleamed in the folds of his gorgeous neck gear. You smelled it in his ambrosial locks; you saw it in his self-satisfied face, and heard it in his inharmonious voice.

And this was Augustus Grip, of Scotland Yards! Well, one might be a good detective and yet not be a gentleman. So mused Alan; and then, seeing that Mr. Grip, while waiting for him to speak, was utilizing the seconds by making a survey of the premises, he said:

"Will you be seated, Mr. Grip?"

Mr. Grip dropped comfortably into the nearest lounging-chair, crossed one knee over the other, and resting a hand on either arm of the chair, began to talk rapidly.

"I've got your business down fine, sir; fine," emphasizing with both hands upon the chair arms. "Saves time; always do it when possible. Posted at Agency--less to learn here." And Mr. Grip begins to fumble in the breast-pocket of his startling plaid coat. "Was informed by--um--um--" producing a packet of folded papers and running them over rapidly; "oh, here we are."

He restores the packet to his pocket, having selected the proper memoranda, and then without rising, but with a jerking movement of the knees and elbows, he propels his chair toward the table near which Alan is still standing. Putting the memoranda on the table before him, he unfolds them rapidly, and looks up at his host.

"Sit down, Warburton."

A look of displeasure flits across Alan's face. He remains standing, seeming to grow more haughtily erect.

"My instructions," continues Mr. Grip, who has not lifted his eyes from the documents before him, "are, take entire charge of case; investigate in own way. That's what I like."

If Alan had ventured a comment just then, it would have been, "you are not what I like." But he did not speak; and Mr. Grip, having paused for a remark and hearing none, now glanced up.

"Is that your pleasure, Mr. Warburton?"

A certain touch of acidity in the tone, recalls Alan to a sense of his position. This man before him is a man of business, a detective highly recommended by the Chief of Police, and he needs his services. He moves a step nearer the table and begins.

"That is what I--"

"Precisely," breaks in Mr. Grip. "Now, then," referring to papers, "first--sit down, won't you? it's more sociable."

And Alan puts his aristocracy in his pocket and sits down opposite the dazzling necktie.

"Now then," recommences Mr. Grip, "I've got the facts in the case."

"You have?"

"Facts in case; yes." And he takes up the memoranda, reading therefrom:

"Lost child; daughter of Archibald Warburton; only daughter." Then, turning his eyes upon Alan: "Father killed by shock, I'm told; sad--very."

And he resumes his reading. "Relatives: Alan Warburton, uncle; fond of niece, eh--ahem; step-mother--um--a little mysterious; little under suspicion."

"Stop!" interrupts Alan sternly. "On what authority dare you make such assertions?"

Mr. Grip permits the hand which holds the papers to rest upon one knee, and lifts his eyes to the face of his interrogator.

"I've reconnoitred," he says tersely. "It's a detective's business to reconnoitre. I'm familiar with the facts in the case."

Alan feels the perspiration start upon his brow, while he utters a mental, "Heaven forbid!"

"Now then," resumes Mr. Grip, throwing himself back in his chair and stretching his legs underneath the table; "now then, here we go. Daisy Warburton is her father's heiress. Remove her, the bulk of property probably goes to second wife--step mother, d'ye see? Remove her, property comes down to you." "Stop, sir! How dare you--preposterous!" And Alan Warburton pushes back his chair and rises, an angry flush upon his face.

Mr. Grip rises also. Stepping nimbly out from between the big chair and the table before it, he inserts his two hands underneath his two coat tails, bends his head forward, raising himself from time to time on the tips of his toes as he talks, and replies suavely:

"Ta ta; I'm reasoning. They have not both disappeared, have they? The lady in question is in the house at this present moment, is she not?"

"She is," replied Alan, beginning to feel most uncomfortable.

"She is. Well, now, if she should disappear, then suspicion might point to you. As it is--ahem--" Here Alan fancies that Mr. Grip is watching him furtively. "As it is--we will begin to investigate."

"Stop, sir! How dare you--preposterous!"

Mr. Grip reseats himself, folds away his memoranda, and, reclining once more at his ease, looks up at Alan coolly.

"First, Mr. Warburton, I must see your sister-in-law."

Alan cannot restrain his start of surprise, nor the look of anxiety that crosses his face.

"Not at present," he says, after a moment's hesitation. "She is ill; it would--"

"So much the better," interrupts the detective. "Worn out, no doubt; nervous. May surprise something. I must see her, and every other member of this household, myself unseen."

"Ah!" thinks Alan, his hands clenching themselves involuntarily, "if I dared throw you out of the window!"

And then, with a shade more of haughtiness than he had as yet used in addressing this man, who was fast becoming his tormentor, he asks:

"Mr. Grip, is this so very necessary?"

Slowly the detective leans forward; slowly he raises a warning forefinger.

"My dear sir," he says impressively, "if you want to catch a thief will you say, 'come here, my dear, and be arrested?' No, sir; you catch her unawares. Tell that fine lady that she is to be interviewed by a detective, and, presto! she shuts her secrets up behind a mantle of smiles or sneers. Call her in, and lead her to talk; I'll employ my eyes and ears. Use the cues set down here--" he extends to Alan a folded slip of paper. "Put her at her ease, and leave the rest to me. Now then--"

Again he rises, and this time he begins a slow survey of the room.

Alan, thoroughly alarmed for Leslie's safety as well as for his own, begins to wonder how this strange interview is to end. Even if he should summon Leslie, would she come at his call? Yes; he feels sure that she would, remembering her message of the morning. And what may she not say? If he could give her a word, a sign of warning. But those eyes, that are even now bestowing questioning glances upon him, are too keen. He would only bungle. He will try again.

"Mr. Grip," he says, "my sister-in-law is already ill from excitement. If we could spare her this interview--"

"Sir!" Augustus Grip wheels suddenly, and looks straight into his face while he continues sharply: "My good sir; for your own sake, don't! You should have no reason for keeping a witness in the background."

The hot angry Warburton blood surges up to Alan's brow. Realizing his danger more than ever, and recognizing in the man before him a force that might, perhaps, be bought or baffled, but never evaded, he lets his eyes rest for a moment, in haughty defiance, upon the detective's face. And then he turns and walks to the door.

"Where do you purpose to conceal yourself?" he asks coldly, as he lays his hand upon the bell-rope.

Again Grip looks about him, and then steps toward the cabinet near the window.

"What's this," he asks, with his hand upon the closed door. "Will it hold me?"

"Yes," replies Alan; "that will hold you." And he pulls the bell.

"There's no resisting Fate," he mutters to himself. "At least that fellow shall not see me flinch again, let Leslie entangle me as she may, and as she doubtless will."

And then there tingled in his veins a new sensation--a burning desire to seize that most impertinent, vulgar trail-hunter, who was now tugging away at his cabinet door, and send him crashing headlong through the window into the street below.

"Ask Mrs. Warburton if she will grant me a few moments of her time," he said to the servant who appeared at the door, which Alan did not permit him to open more than half way. And then he turned his attention to Mr. Grip.

That individual, still tugging unsuccessfully at the door of the cabinet, has grown impatient.

"It's locked!" he says, with an angry snap.

"No,"--Alan strides toward him--"it is not locked." And he adds his strength to that of Mr. Grip.

A moment the door hesitates; then it yields with a suddenness which causes Alan to reel, and flies open.

In another instant, Grip has pounced upon the luckless organ-grinder, and dragged him into the centre of the room, where he crouches at Alan's feet, the very image of terrified misery, limp and unresisting.

"That's a pretty thing to keep hid away!" snarled the now thoroughly angry detective. "I've heard of skeletons in closets, but this thing looks more like a monkey."

"More like a sneak thief, I should say," remarks Alan, with aggravating coolness. "And a very cowardly one at that."

An Armistice

If Van Vernet had been thwarted, in a measure, Richard Stanhope had been no less baffled.

Each had succeeded partially, and each had beaten a too hasty and altogether unsatisfactory retreat.

Van Vernet had planned well. By keeping himself informed as to the doings at police headquarters, he had been aware of all the efforts there being made in the search for the missing child. He found it quite easy to possess himself of a sheet and envelope bearing the official stamp; and by writing his spurious letter in a most unreadable scrawl, and ending with a signature positively undecipherable, he had guarded himself against dangerous consequences should a charge of forgery, by any mischance, be preferred against him. The disguise was a mere bit of child's play to Van Vernet, and the rest "went by itself".

His object in thus entering the Warburton house was, first, to see Alan Warburton; study his face and hear his voice; to satisfy himself, as far as possible, as to the feud, or seeming feud, between Alan and his brother's wife--for since the day on which he had discovered, and he had taken pains since to confirm this discovery, that the six-foot masker who had personated Archibald Warburton was not Archibald Warburton, but his brother Alan, Van Vernet had harbored many vague suspicions concerning the family and its mysteries. He had also hoped to see Leslie, and to surprise from one or both of them some word, or look, or tone, that would furnish him with a clue, if ever so slight.

Well, he had surprised several things, so he assured himself, but he had not seen Leslie. And the denouement of his visit had rendered it impossible for him ever to reenter that house, in the character of Mr. Augustus Grip.

True, he had learned something. He had heard Winnie's words: "Leslie is not a child; and you must have said bitterly cruel words before you left her in a dead faint on that library floor last night." And he had coupled these with those other words uttered by Winnie as she confronted Alan, with that farewell note in her hand: "Read that; see what your cruelty has done."

Was this girl a plotter, too? If he could have seen that note! And then the organ-grinder--. On the whole, he was not even half satisfied with the result of his expedition, especially when he remembered that organ-grinder, and how he had let his temper escape its leash and rage itself into that cold white heat, his most intense expression of wrath, in which he had openly defied Alan Warburton, and flung his own colors boldly forth.

Another thing puzzled Vernet exceedingly. He had discovered Richard Stanhope at the Warburton masquerade, and had bestowed upon him the character of lover. Was he there in that character? Was he, in any way, mixed up with their family secrets? Where had he spent the remainder of that eventful night? Since the morning when Stanhope had reported to his Chief, after his night of adventure beginning with the masquerade, Vernet had heard no word from that Chief concerning Stanhope's unaccountable conduct, or the abandoned Raid.

The whole affair was to Vernet, vague, unsatisfactory, mysterious. But the more unsatisfactory, the more mysterious it became, the more doggedly determined became he.

He had not forgotten, nor was he neglecting, the Arthur Pearson murder. He was pursuing that investigation after a manner quite satisfactory--to himself at least.

There are in most cities, and connected with many detective forces, and more individual members of forces, a class of men, mongrels, we might say,--a cross between the lawyer and the detective but actually neither, and sometimes fitted for both. They are called, by those initiated, "private enquirers," "trackers," "bloodhounds."

These gentry are often employed by lawyers, as well as by detectives and the police. They trace out titles, run down witnesses, hunt up pedigrees, unearth long-forgotten family secrets. They are searchers of records, burrowers into the past. Their work is slow, laborious, pains-taking, tedious. But it is not dangerous; the unsafe tracks are left to the detective proper.

Into the careful hands of some of these gentry, Van Vernet had entrusted certain threads from the woof of the "Arthur Pearson murder case," as they styled it. And these tireless searchers were burrowing away while Vernet was busying himself with other matters, waiting for the time when the "tracker" should find his occupation gone, and the detective's efforts be called in play.

Vernet had not been aware of the close proximity of his sometime friend and present rival. He had felt sure, from the first, that the pretended mute was other than he seemed; that he was a spy and marplot. But Richard Stanhope's disguise was perfect, and Vernet had not scrutinized him closely, being in such haste to dispose of him, and expecting to investigate his case later. Then, too, Richard Stanhope was absent; he had not been seen, or heard of, at the Agency for many days.

As for Stanhope, he had not been slow to recognize Van Vernet, and if he had not succeeded in all that he had hoped to accomplish, he had at least discovered Vernet's exact position. And he had left a slip of paper where, he felt very sure, it would fall into the right hands. For the rest, he came and went like a comet, and was seen no more for many weeks.

Meanwhile, quiet had been restored in Alan Warburton's study, and Alan himself now sat with a crumpled bit of paper in his hand.

This bit of paper had been given him by Millie, who, acting upon Winnie's advice, had made to Alan a very meek confession of the part she had unwittingly played in the drama just enacted.

"Of course, sir, he came in when I went to call Miss Winnie," she had said contritely. "But oh, he did look so sorrowful, and then that curl of hair! I was so sure it was something about Miss Daisy."

Alan had listened gravely, had glanced at the bit of paper, and then dismissed her with a kind word and a smile, and without a reprimand.

When this unexpected escape had been joyfully reported to Winnie French, that stony-hearted damsel elevated her nose and said:

"Umph! so the man has a grain of something besides pride in him somewhere. Well, I'm glad to hear it."

To which Millie had replied, warmly:

"Why, Miss Winnie! Think how he fought to protect that poor organ man, who had come to rob him, maybe, though I can't think it. That was splendid in him, anyhow."

And this had reminded Winnie that she was not indulging in a soliloquy. So, having charged Millie to say nothing about the events of the afternoon, she dismissed her, and sat sadly down to peruse Leslie's farewell note once more.

DEAREST WINNIE.

I am going away to-night; I must go. Yesterday I was about to tell you my story; if you had heard it then, you would understand now why I go. Since yesterday, I have decided to keep my burden still strapped to my own shoulders.

In fact, to make you my confidante now would look to others, perhaps to you, like an attempt to justify my acts. One favor I ask, Winnie; when I return, if I do return, let me find you here. Continue to call my house, for it is my house, your home. I have asked your mother to share it with you, and to be in every sense of the word its mistress, until Daisy is found, or I return. Mr. Follingsbee will regulate all business matters. Trust me still, and don't desert me. Winnie, for time or for eternity, farewell.

LESLIE

Filled with wonder and sorrow, Winnie sat musing over this strange note, when she received a message from Alan: would she come to him in the library; it was a matter of importance.

Rightly guessing that he wished to talk of Leslie, Winnie arose and went slowly down to the library, a gleam of resentment shining through the tears that would fill her eyes.

Not long before she had refused to talk or to listen. But now she must know why Leslie had gone. She was anxious to face Alan Warburton.

His manner, as he came forward to receive her, had undergone a change, and his first words were so startlingly like those last words of Leslie's, that Winnie's tongue failed to furnish the prompt sarcasm usually ready to meet whatever he might choose to utter.

He was standing by a large chair as she entered the library, and moving this a trifle forward, he said simply, and with just such a gravely courteous tone as he might use in addressing a stranger:

"Be seated, Miss French."

Winnie sank into the proffered chair, and he draws back a few paces, and standing thus before her, began:

"Not long since I asked you to listen to me, and then to decide between another and myself. I do not repeat this request, for I cannot stand before you and accuse a woman who is not here to speak in her own defence. Although I did not read that note you proffered me, I have satisfied myself that Mrs. Warburton has gone."

"Yes," sighed Winnie.

"She planned her flight, if flight it can be called, very skilfully. Everything in her apartments indicates deliberate preparation. She took no baggage; no one knows how or when she quitted the house. But she left two letters--two besides that written to you. One is addressed to Mr. Follingsbee; the other is for your mother."

"Yes," sighed Winnie once more.

"These letters," continued Alan, "must be delivered at once, and they should not be entrusted to the hands of servants. And now, Miss French, that letter, your letter, which you proffered me in a moment of excitement, I will not ask to see. But tell me, does it give you any idea of her destination? Does it contain anything that I may know?"

A leaden weight seemed fastened upon Winnie's facile tongue. Something in her throat threatened to choke her. She put her hand in her pocket, slowly drew out Leslie's letter, and silently proffered it to Alan.

"Do you wish me to read it?"

She nodded, and lifted her hand to brush two big tears from her cheeks with a petulant motion.

A moment he stood looking at her intently, an expression of tenderness creeping into his face. Then he drew back a pace, and his lips settled again into firm lines as he began the perusal of Leslie's letter.

Having read the missive slowly through for the second time, Alan refolded it and gravely returned it to Winnie.

"Thank you," he said, in a subdued tone. "I am quite well aware, Miss French, that no word of mine can influence you in the slightest degree. Were this not so, I would beg most earnestly that you would comply, in every respect, with the wishes Mrs. Warburton has expressed."

While he perused the letter, Winnie had somewhat recovered herself, and she now looked up quickly.

"In every respect? Mr. Warburton, that note says--'trust me; do not desert me.'"

"And I say the same. To-day Leslie Warburton needs a true friend as much--as much as ever woman did."

He was about to say, "as much as I do," but pride stepped in and stopped the words ere they could pass his lips.

There was silence for a moment, and then he said:

"We must find Leslie if possible, of course, but not until we have seen her lawyer and consulted him. It is growing late, but time is precious. Will you let me take you to your mother's at once? You can give her Leslie's letter, and consult together. Meantime, I will drive to see Follingsbee, and call for you on my return. Of course your mother will accompany you; at least I trust so. And, Miss French, let me assure you, here and now, that should you continue to honor this house with your presence, you will not be further annoyed by my importunities. To-night, for the first time, I fully realize that I have no right to ask any woman to share a fate that is, to say the least, under a cloud; or to take upon herself a name that may be at any moment dishonored before the world. Shall I order the carriage? Will you go, Miss French?"

There was something masterful in his stern self-command his ability to think and act with such promptitude and forethought, and it had its effect upon Winnie.

"I will go," she said, rising and turning toward the door.

"Thank you," he said, then hastened to open it.

When she had passed out, he returned to his old position, and once more glanced down at the piece of paper which all the while he had retained in his hand. It was the note flung at Millie's feet by the fleeing organ-grinder, and it contained these words:

If Alan Warburton will call on Mr. Follingsbee as soon as possible, he will find there a communication from a friend. It is important that he should receive this at once.

No name, no date, no signature, but it explains why Millie escaped without a reprimand.

An Affectionate Family

A sudden silence has fallen upon the group, and as Leslie's clear, sad eyes rest upon first one face and then the other, Papa begins to fidget nervously.

"Oh, yes," he sighs, "we heard about that."

And then Mamma comes nearer, saying in a cat-like, purring tone: "The poor little dear! And you can't find her?"

As she speaks, Franz Francoise shifts his position carelessly, placing himself where he can note the expressions of the two old faces.

But Leslie's enforced calmness is fast deserting her.

"Woman!" she cries passionately, "drop your mask of hypocrisy! Let us understand each other. I believe that you were in my house on the night of that wretched masquerade. I have reasons for so believing. Ah, I recall many words that have fallen from your lips, now that it is too late; words that condemn you. You believed that with Daisy removed, I would become my husband's sole heiress; and you knew that at best his life would be short. The more the money in my possession, the more you could extort from me. But I can thwart you here, and I will. You never reckoned upon my throwing away my claim to wealth, for you were never human; you never loved anything but money, or you would have pity on that poor little child. Give me back little Daisy, and every dollar I can claim shall become yours!"

Oh, the greed, the avarice, that shines from Mamma's eyes! But Papa makes her a sign, and she remains silent, while he says, with his best imitation of gentleness:

"But, my child; but, Leschen, how can we find the little girl?"

Leslie turns upon him a look of contempt, and then a swift spasm of fear crosses her face.

"Oh," she cries, clasping her hands wildly, "surely, surely you have not killed her!"

And now Mamma has resumed her mask. "My child," she says, coming close to Leslie, "you're excited. We don't know where to find that child. What can we do?"

Back to Leslie's face comes that look of set calm, and she sinks upon the chair she had lately occupied.

"Do your worst!" she says between tightly clenched teeth. "You know that I do not, that I never shall, believe you. You say you are my mother," flashing two blazing eyes upon Mamma, "take care of your child, then. Make of me a rag-picker, if you like. Henceforth I am nothing, nobody, save the daughter of the Francoises!"

Again, for a moment, the faces that regard her present a study. And this time it is Franz who is the first to speak, Coming forward somewhat unsteadily, he doffs his ragged old cap, and extends to her a hand not overclean.

"Partner, shake!" he says in tones of marked admiration. "Ye're clean grit! If ye're my sister, I'm proud of ye. If ye ain't, and ye 'pear to think ye ain't, then it's my loss, an'," with a leer at the old pair, "yer gain. Anyhow, I'm yer second in this young-un business. Ye kin stay right here, ef ye want ter, and, by thunder, ef the old uns have got yer little gal, ye shall have her back agin--ye hear me! Ain't ye goin' ter shake? I wish yer would. I'm a rough feller, Missy; I've allers been a hard case, and I've just got over a penitentiary stretch--ye'll hear o' that soon enough, ef ye stay here. The old un likes to remind me of it when she ain't amiable. Never mind that; maybe I ain't all bad. Anyway, I'm goin' to stand by ye, and don't ye feel oneasy."

Again he extends his hand, and Leslie looks at it, and then up into his face.

"Oh, if I could trust you!" she murmurs. "If you would help me!"

"I kin;" says Franz promptly, "an' I will;"

Again she hesitates, looking upon the uncouth figure and the unwashed hand. Then she lifts her eyes to his face.

Two eyes are looking into her own, eagerly, intently, full of pitying anxiety.

She rises slowly, looks again into the eager eyes, and extends her hand.

"Gracious!" he exclaims, as he releases it, "how nervous yer are: must be awful tired."

"Tired, yes. I have walked all the way."

"An' say, no jokin' now, have ye come ter live with us?"

"Partner, shake. Ye're clean grit!"

"I have," she replies firmly; "unless," turning a contemptuous glance toward Mamma and Papa, "my parents refuse me a shelter."

It is probable that these overtures from Franz would have been promptly interrupted, had not Papa and Mamma, seeing the necessity of exchanging a few words, improved this opportunity to understand each other, and as they exchanged hasty whispers, any vagueness or hiatus in their speech was fully supplied by meaning glances. And now quite up in her role, Mamma again advances.

"My child," she begins, in a dolorous voice, "when ye know us better, ye'll think better of yer poor old folks. As fer Franz here, he's been drinkin' a little to-night, but he's a good-hearted boy; don't mind him."

"No," interrupts Franz, with a maudlin chuckle; "don't mind me."

"It's a poor home yer come to, Leschen," continues Mamma, "and a poor bed I can give ye. But we want to be good to ye, dear, an' if ye're really goin' to stay with us, we'll try an' make ye as comfortable as we can."

Leslie's head droops lower and lower; she pays no heed to the old woman's words.

"Poor child, she is tired out."

Saying this, Mamma takes the candle from the table, and goes from the room quickly, thus leaving the three in darkness.

In another moment, the voice of Franz breaks out:

"Ain't there another glim somewhere?"

By the time Mamma returns, a feeble light is sputtering upon the table, and Franz is awkwardly trying to force upon Leslie some refreshments from the choice supply left from their late repast. But she refuses all, and wearily follows Mamma from the room.

"Git yer rest now," says Franz as she goes; "to-morrow we'll talk over this young-un business."

But when the morrow comes, and for many days after, Leslie Warburton is oblivious to all things earthly.

Mr Follingsbee's Victory

When Alan Warburton reached the residence of Mr. Follingsbee, he found that legal gentleman sitting alone in his cosy library, very much, so Alan thought, as if expecting him. And the first words that the lawyer uttered confirmed this opinion.

Rising quickly, Mr. Follingsbee came forward to meet his guest, saying briskly:

"Ah, Warburton, good evening. I've been expecting you; sit down, sit down."

As Alan placed his hat upon the table beside him, and took the seat indicated, he said, with a well-bred stare of surprise:

"You expected me, Mr. Follingsbee? Then possibly you know my errand?"

"Well, yes; in part, at least." The lawyer took up a folded note, and passed it across the table to his visitor, saying: "It was left in my care about two hours ago."

Alan glanced up at him quickly, and then turned his attention to the perusal of the note. It ran thus:

ALAN WARBURTON:

The time has come, or will soon come, when Mrs. W--will find it necessary to confide her troubles to Mr. Follingsbee. The time is also near when you will have to fight Van Vernet face to face. You will do well to trust your case to Mr. Follingsbee, relying upon him in every particular. You will have to meet strategy with strategy, if you would outwit Vernet.

A FRIEND.

Alan perused this slowly, noting that the handwriting was identical with that of the scrap left by the "organ-grinder," and then he refolded it, saying:

"I am the bearer of a missive for you, Mr. Follingsbee; but first, let me ask if I may know who sent me this message?"

"It was left in my hands," replied the lawyer, smiling slightly, "by--by a person with ragged garments, and a dirty face. He appeared to be a deaf mute, and looked like--"

"Like an organ-grinder minus his organ?" finished Alan.

"Just so."

"I trust that this will explain itself," said Alan, drawing forth from an inner pocket Leslie's letter, and giving it into the lawyer's hand. "Read it, Mr. Follingsbee. This day has been steeped in mystery; let us clear away such clouds as we can."

"From Leslie!" Mr. Follingsbee said, elevating his eyebrows. "This is an unexpected part of the programme."

"Indeed? And yet this,--" and Alan tapped the note he had just received, with one long, white forefinger,--"this foretells it."

"Ah!" Only this monosyllable; then Mr. Follingsbee broke the seal of Leslie's letter and began its perusal, his face growing graver and more troubled as he read.

It was a long letter, and he read it slowly, turning back a page sometimes to re-read a certain passage. Finally he laid the letter upon his knee, and sat quite still, with his hands working together nervously and his brow wrinkled in thought. At last he lifted his eyes toward Alan.

"Do you know what this letter contains?" he asked slowly.

"I know that my sister-in-law has left her home," Alan replied gravely; "nothing more."

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing; really. She left three letters: one for Mrs. French, another for Miss French, and the third for yourself."

"And you.... She left you some message?"

"Not a word, verbal or written."

"Strange," mused the lawyer, taking up his letter and again glancing through its pages. "I can't understand it. Mr. Warburton--pardon the question--was there any difference, any misunderstanding, between you and Leslie?"

"Does not the letter itself explain?"

"That is what puzzles me. The letter tells her own story--a story that I knew before, in part at least; a sad story, proving to me that the girl has been made to suffer bitterly; but it does not, from first to last, mention your name."

Alan sat silent for a moment. Then he turned his face toward the lawyer, as if acting upon some resolve.

"Yesterday," he began quietly, "I held an interview with my sister-in-law. It was not an amicable interview; we have been on unfriendly terms since--since the night of the masquerade."

"Since the masquerade?"

"During that interview," continued Alan, "Mrs. Warburton gave me the brief outline of what seemed to me a very improbable story."

"Ah!" There was a new shade in the lawyer's voice.

"And I am wondering," Alan goes on, "if your letter contains that same story."

"Possibly," said Mr. Follingsbee dryly.

"This note which you have given me, and which bears no signature, seems to indicate as much. Are you acquainted with its contents, sir?"

"I am not." There is a growing crispness in the lawyer's tone, which Alan is not slow to note.

"Then oblige me by reading it."

Mr. Follingsbee took the note and read it slowly.

"Don't you think," he said, looking up from its perusal, "that we had better begin by understanding each other?"

"I do."

"Very good: this note was left with me by--by such a man as I described to you."

"By a man in disguise?"

"Just so. This--this man in disguise, came to me in your behalf."

"In my behalf!" exclaimed Alan, in amazement.

"In your behalf. He told me you were in danger, and that the man you had most cause to fear was a certain detective: Van Vernet."

Alan Warburton stirred uneasily in his chair, and the old haughty look came slowly into his face.

"He said," went on the lawyer slowly, "that because of your pride, and your obstinacy, you were involving not only yourself but others, in a net that might, if your present course continued, ruin you utterly, and bring upon your cherished family honor a disagreeable blot, if not absolute disgrace. He did not give me an idea of the nature of the difference between yourself and this Vernet, but he laid out a very pretty plan by which to baffle him. And he said, as he went away: 'If Alan Warburton, under all his pride and obstinate clinging to a wrong idea, possesses the sound judgment that I believe him to have--and it's a pity he has not made better use of it,--he will confide in you, and act upon your advice, if not upon mine. Let him do this and we will baffle Vernet, and his precious secret will not be dragged to the light. Let him continue in his present course, and Van Vernet will have his hand upon him within a week; the affair of this afternoon should convince him of this.'"

During this remarkable speech, Alan's face had taken on a variety of expressions. At the closing sentence he gave a quick start, and then sat perfectly still, with his profile toward his companion. After a time he turned his face toward the lawyer; and that personage, looking anxiously for a reply or comment, could read upon the handsome countenance only calm resolve and perfect self-control.

"Mr. Follingsbee," he began gravely, "do you understand this allusion to the events of the afternoon?"

"I do not."

"And yet you have confidence in this disguised stranger?"

"Have I alluded to him as a stranger, sir?"

Alan passed his hand across his brow, and said slowly:

"He is not a stranger to you and, evidently, he knows me remarkably well; I might say too well."

"Ahem! You would be likely to recall your words, if you did."

"Mr. Follingsbee, who is this man?"

"I am not at liberty to speak his name."

"What is he, then?"

"First of all, a gentleman; a man whose championship does you honor, for it proves that he believes in you, in spite of this Van Vernet."

"Was it not a strange freak for this gentleman, disguised just as he afterward came to you, to enter my study window, and conceal himself in my cabinet?"

Mr. Follingsbee looked up with lively interest. "Did he do that?" he asked quickly.

"He did that."

"Well," said Mr. Follingsbee slowly, "I should say that it was quite like him. He did not talk of his own exploits when he came to me; I fancy his time was limited."

"Probably; now, Mr. Follingsbee, I think I see things, some things, in a clearer light. This organ-grinder of mine, this gentleman of yours, this anonymous friend, is a detective;"

"Umph!" mutters the lawyer, half to himself, "we are beginning to use our wits." Then in a louder tone: "Ah, so we are no longer lawyer and witness?"

"No," with a quiet smile; "we are two lawyers. Let us remain such."

"With all my heart," cries Mr. Follingsbee, extending his hand; "let us remain such."

Alan takes the proffered hand, and begins again.

"This champion of mine, then, is a detective; you admit that?"

"Well--yes."

"In espousing my cause, he is making active war upon Van Vernet?"

"So it appears."

"Then it is safe to say that aside from the interest he has seen fit to take in--in my family and family affairs, he has some personal issue with Mr. Vernet."

"Possibly."

"Then,--how fast we progress--our detective friend must be a remarkably clever fellow, or our chances are very slender. Mr. Vernet is called one of the ablest detectives on the city force."

"True."

"Mr. Follingsbee, have you faith in the ability of this champion-detective to cope with such a man as Vernet?"

"Well," says the elder gentleman slowly, "if you play your part, I'll vouch for my friend. He is at least a match for Vernet."

"Then I think it would not be a difficult matter to identify him."

"Don't waste your time," interrupts Mr. Follingsbee quickly; "I have told you all that I am at liberty to tell."

"As you please; but before I begin my story, I must be sure that it is the story. Yesterday, as I told you, I had an interview with my sister-in-law."

"Yes."

"I had observed some things that puzzled me, and--does that letter of Leslie's contain any statements concerning her early life?" He breaks off abruptly.

"It does; many statements."

"Do you know anything of her early history?"

"Yes."

"Is she the daughter of Thomas Uliman?"

"His adopted daughter; yes."

"And are her parents living?"

"Two people who claim to be her parents are in this city. I may as well say to you now, Mr. Warburton, that Leslie never knew herself to be an adopted child until shortly before her marriage; that she discovered it by accident, and came straight to me with the news, which I had known all along. Then she told the truth to your brother, and knowing the height, depth, and absurdity of the Warburton pride, offered to release him from his engagement. He refused this release and bade her never mention the subject again."

He paused a moment, and seeing that Alan was regarding him with steadfast earnestness, resumed:

"I supposed that the end of the affair, and from that day to this have never heard a word on the subject from Leslie, or from any one, until you brought me this letter. And now, as I have gone thus far into the matter, let me tell you what I have learned from this letter--not as Leslie has written it, but briefly as possible. Shortly before her marriage, two people, asserting themselves to be the two who gave Leslie to the Ulimans, came and claimed her as their child. They were so repulsive, clamorous, and so evidently greedy for money, that Leslie could not, would not, credit their story. Here she made her first mistake. She bribed these old wretches with a good slice of her little fortune, instead of turning them and their claim over to me. They promised to go away, of course, and never trouble her again, and also of course, they did not keep their word. As soon as she was married to your brother, they became bolder; and she was more than ever in their power. She dared not confide in her husband; first, because of his pride, which was only a little less than yours, and next, because she feared the effect of such a revelation upon a constitution so frail, and a mind so sensitive. It was too late, she thought, to come to me; and so it went on. They drained her private purse to the last dollar; they compelled her to come at their summons at any time, and she had to creep from her home like a guilty thing to carry hush-money to these wretches. And so things continued until, in order to satisfy their greed, she must begin to fee them with her husband's money. Think of that, sir," casting an ironical glance at his vis-a-vis; "feeing those common clods with the Warburton gold."

But Alan never noted this home-thrust. He sat quite still, with a troubled look upon his face; seeing which, Mr. Follingsbee continued:

"This she firmly resolved that she would never do; and then came that masquerade."

"Ah!" Alan starts as he involuntarily utters the ejaculation, but controls himself instantly, and says: "Go on, please."

"That night they sent her a note," continues Mr. Follingsbee. "It came when she was in the midst of her guests; and it was so urgent in its demands that she grew desperate, threw off her festive garments, and went, alone, in the night, to the hovel where these old impostors lived. She went to defy them, and she found herself entrapped."

"Entrapped?"

"Yes; while she talked, she was seized by two persons who crept upon her from behind. She does not understand their actual object; they seemed trying to secure the jewels which she had forgotten to remove from her ears. Just here she is not very definite; I will read the passage to you."

He takes up the letter, searches out the lines referred to, and reads:

I can scarcely describe the rest. It is sufficient that a brave man rescued me--at what a fearful cost to himself, I only learned afterward. I escaped from the hovel, and reached my home. You know the rest: how Daisy vanished, and all the sorrow since. And now I tell you that I believe these two have stolen Daisy.

Here he breaks off abruptly. "The rest is a mixture of business affairs and hurried directions how to dispose of her property should she be long absent, or should she never return, etc. At the close she says, that on the night of her adventure at the hovel, and during the affray, a man was killed; and that either herself or her brave rescuer, she is informed, is likely to be arrested for that crime; and in case of the arrest of either, the other will be compelled to testify for or against."

"And her motive for now quitting her home so suddenly?"

"Of that she says very little; merely that she is leaving, and that she hopes I will continue my confidence in her."

"Which you do?"

"Which I do."

For many moments Alan Warburton sat with his head bowed, and his face pale and troubled, saying nothing. Then he roused himself, and turned towards his companion.

"Mr. Follingsbee," he said, very gravely, "if this story--a part of which you have told me, the rest being contained in that letter--is true; if Leslie Warburton has been a martyr throughout this affair, then I am a most contemptible scoundrel!"

"You!" ejaculated the old gentleman testily; "you a scoundrel! Good heavens, has everybody gone into high dramatics? What have you done?"

"I have accused Leslie of receiving a lover in her own house; of going from her home to meet him; I have heaped upon her insult after insult; I have driven her from her home by my cruel accusations!"

A moment Mr. Follingsbee sat looking as if about to pour forth a volume of wrath, upon the head of his self-accusing visitor; then he said, as if controlling himself by an effort:

"You had better tell the whole story, young man, having begun it."

And Alan did tell the whole story; honestly, frankly and without sparing himself. He began at the beginning, telling how, at the first, Leslie's youth, beauty and vivacity, together with a certain disparity of years between herself and husband, had caused him to doubt her affection for his brother, and to suspect a mercenary marriage; how he had discovered her sending away notes by stealth; how his suspicions had grown and strengthened until, on the night of the masquerade, he had set Van Vernet to watch her movements; and how Vernet had discovered, or claimed to discover, a lover in the person of a certain Goddess of Liberty.

At this point in his narrative, Alan was surprised to note certain unmistakable signs of levity in the face and manner of Mr. Follingsbee; and presently that gentleman broke in:

"Wait; just wait. Let's clear up that point, once and for all. That 'Goddess' was introduced into your house by me, and for a purpose which, to me, seemed good. Until that night he had never seen Leslie Warburton."

"He! then it was a man?"

"It was; and Van Vernet, as I have since learned, knew him and laid a trap for him. Their feud dates from that night."

"Ah, then our detective and the 'Goddess of Liberty'--"

"Are the same. Now resume, please."

Going back to his story, Alan tells how he had followed Leslie; how he had rushed in, in answer to her cry for aid; how he had rescued her, and had himself been rescued in turn by a pretended idiot. He told of his return home; his interview with Leslie after the masquerade, and their last interview; ending with the scene with Vernet and the organ-grinder.

"That fellow is the mischief!" said Mr. Follingsbee, rubbing his palms softly together. "He's the very mischief!"

"By which I infer that my 'Organ-grinder,' my 'Idiot,' and the 'Goddess of Liberty,' are one and the same?"

"Precisely; I haven't a doubt of it."

"And that the three are identical with this 'gentleman detective,' who, in making war upon Van Vernet, has espoused my cause, or rather that of my sister-in-law."

"Just so."

Alan leans back in his chair, and clutches his two hands upon its either arm, fixing his eyes on vacancy. Seeming to forget the presence of his vis-a-vis, he loses himself in a maze of thoughts. Evidently they are not pleasant thoughts, for his face expresses much of perplexity, doubt and disgust, finally settling into a look of stern resolve.

He is silent so long that Mr. Follingsbee grows impatient, and by and by this uneasiness manifests itself in a series of restless movements. At last Alan turns his face toward the lawyer, and then that gentleman bursts out:

"Well, are you going to sit there all night? What shall you do next?"

Alan Warburton rises from his chair and faces his questioner. "First," he says slowly, "I am going to find Leslie, and bring her back."

"Oh!"

"You look incredulous; very well. Still, I intend, from this moment, to take an active part in this mysterious complication which has woven itself about me."

"Have you forgotten Vernet?"

"Not at all; yet it is my duty to make active search for Leslie. Be the consequences to myself what they may, I can remain passive no longer."

"Alan, you are talking nonsense. Do you suppose Vernet will let you slip now? Don't you realize that if you are to be found twenty-four hours from this moment, you will be under arrest."

"Nevertheless--"

"Nevertheless, you will persist in being a fool! Sit down there, young man, and tell me, haven't you been playing that role long enough?"

A hot flush rises to Alan's brow, and an angry light leaps for a moment to his eyes; but he resumes his seat in silence, and turns an expectant gaze upon Mr. Follingsbee.

"Now, Warburton," resumes the little lawyer in a more kindly tone, "listen to reason. I had a long talk with our unknown friend to-day; not so long as I could have wished, but enough to convince me that he knows what he is about, and that if you follow his advice, he will pull you through. Twice he has saved you from the clutches of this Vernet; leave all to him, and he will rescue you again, and finally."

"He has, then, mapped out my course for me?" queries Alan haughtily.

"He has, if it suits you to put it so. Good heavens! man, it needed somebody to plan for you. You have done nothing but blunder, blunder, blunder. And your stupid mistakes have recoiled upon others. I tell you, sir--" bringing his fist down upon the table with noisy emphasis--"that unless you accept the advice and assistance of this man, whom you seem to dislike without cause, you are lost, ruined, at least in your own estimation. Confound your Warburton pride! It has brought you into a pretty scrape; and all your Warburton wit won't extricate you from it. Confound you; I'm sick of you, sir! If it were not for Leslie, and little Daisy, Van Vernet might have you, and the Warburton honor might go to the dogs, for all my interference!"

The mention of little Daisy had its effect upon Alan. As his companion waxed wrathful, his own mind became calmer; for a moment he seemed to see himself through Mr. Follingsbee's spectacles. And then he said:

"I accept your rebuke, for I may have deserved it; certainly I have sufficient reason to feel humble. My unknown champion took pains to inform me that he did not serve me for my own sake; and now you proffer me the same assurance. I have blundered fearfully, but I fail to see what influence my conduct could have upon poor Daisy's fate."

"Oh, you do!" Mr. Follingsbee is not quite mollified. "Then you don't see that Leslie was sorely in need of a friend in whom she could confide--just such a friend as she might have found in you, had you been, or tried to be, a brother to her, instead of a suspicious, egotistical enemy. She could not take her troubles to Archibald, but she might have trusted you--she would have trusted you, had your conduct been what it should."

"I had not thought of that." Alan becomes more humble as his accuser continues to ply the lash. "What you say may be true. Be sure, sir, if we ever find Daisy and Leslie, I shall try to make amends."

"Umph! Then you had better begin now, by taking good advice when it is offered."

"What do you advise, then?"

"I? nothing, except at second hand. It is this champion of yours who advises."

"Then what is his advice?"

"He says that you must quit the country at once."

"Impossible!"

"Nothing of the sort. The Clytie sails for Liverpool to-morrow. You and Leslie have taken passage--"

"Taken passage! Leslie!"

"Just so; everything has been arranged by--" He pauses, then says: "The 'Organ-grinder.'"

"I repeat, it is impossible. Do you think I will leave the country while little Daisy's fate remains--"

"Oh, stop! stop! STOP! Man, are you determined to be an idiot? Will you hold your tongue and listen?"

"I will listen, yes; but--"

"But--bosh! Listen, then, and don't interrupt."

He lowers his voice, not from fear of an eavesdropper but because, having gained this point, his impatience begins to subside. And Alan listens, while for more than an hour the little lawyer talks and gesticulates, smiles and frowns. He listens intently, with growing interest, until at last Mr. Follingsbee leans back in his chair, seeming to relax every muscle in so doing, and says:

"Well, what do you think of it?"

Then Alan Warburton rises and extends his hand impulsively.

"I thank you with all my heart, sir, and I will be guided by you, and by our unknown friend. From this moment, I am at your disposal."

"Umph!" grunts the lawyer, as he grasps the proffered hand, "I thought your senses would come back."

Dr Bayless

All the long night that followed Leslie's appearance among the Francoises, Mamma was alert and watchful.

Often she crept to the door of the inner room, where Leslie slumbered heavily. Often she glanced, with a grin of satisfaction, toward the couch where Franz lay breathing regularly, and scarcely stirring the whole night through. Often she turned her face, with varying expressions, toward the corner where Papa slumbered uneasily, muttering vaguely from time to time. But never once did her eyes close. All the night she watched and listened, pondered and planned.

As morning dawned, the stillness of the inner room was pierced by a burst of shrill laughter, followed by words swiftly uttered but indistinct. Mamma hastened at once to the bedside of her new charge.

Leslie had broken her heavy slumber, but the fire of fever burned in her cheeks, the light of insanity blazed from her eyes; and for many days it mattered little to her that she was a fugitive from home, a woman under suspicion, and helpless in the hands of her enemies. Nature, indulging in a kindly freak, had taken her back to her girlhood's days, before her first trouble came. She was Leslie Uliman again; watched over by loving parents, care-free and happy.

It was a crushing blow to Mamma's hopes and ambitions, and she faced a difficult problem, there by that couch in the grey of morning. Leslie was very ill. This she saw at a glance, and then came the thought: What if she were to die, and just at a time when so much depended upon her? It roused Mamma to instant action. Leslie must not die--not yet.

Papa and Franz were at once awakened, and the situation made known to them. Whereupon Papa fell into a state of helpless, hopeless dejection, and Franz flew into a fury.

"It's all up with us now," moaned Papa. "Luck's turned aginst us."

"It's up, sure enough, with your fine plans," sneered Franz. "I'm goin' ter take myself out of yer muddle, while my way's clear."

"If I wasn't dealin' with a pair of fools," snapped Mamma, "I'd come out all right. The gal ain't dead yet, is she?"

And then, while Leslie laughed and chattered, alone in the inner room, the three resolved themselves into a council, wrangled and disputed, and at last compromised and settled upon a plan--Papa yielding sullenly, Franz protesting to the last and making sundry reservations, and Mamma carrying the day.

Leslie must have a physician; it would never do to trust her fever to unskilled hands; she must have a physician, and a good one. So said Mamma.

"It ain't so risky as you might think," she argued. "A good doctor's what we want--one whose time's valuable. Then he won't be running here when he ain't wanted. He'll come an' see the gal, an' then he'll be satisfied to take my reports and send her the medicine. Oh, I know these city doctors. They come every day if you've got a marble door-step, but they won't be any too anxious about poor folks. A doctor can't make nothin' out of the kind of talk she is at now, and by the time she gits her senses, we'll hit on somethin' new."

This plan was opposed stoutly by Franz, feebly by Papa; but the old woman carried the point at last.

"I know who we want," said Mamma confidently. "It's Doctor Bayless. He's a good doctor, an' he don't live any too near."

At the mention of Doctor Bayless, Papa's countenance took on an expression of relief, which was noted by Franz, who turned away, saying:

"Wal, git your doctor, then, an' the quicker the better. But mind this: I don't appear till I'm sure it's safe. Ye kin git yer doctor, but when he's here, I'll happen ter be out."

It was Mamma who summoned Doctor Bayless, and he came once, twice, and again.

His patient passed, under his care, from delirium to stupor, from fever to coolness and calm, and then to returning consciousness. As he turned from her bedside, at the termination of his third visit, he said:

"I think she will get on, now. Keep her quiet, avoid excitement, and if she does not improve steadily, let me know."

He had verified Mamma's good opinion of him by manifesting not the slightest concern in the personality of his patient. If he were, for the moment, interested in Leslie, it was as a fever patient, not as a woman strangely superior to her surroundings. And on this occasion he dropped his interest in her case at the very door of the sick-room.

At the corner of the dingy street, a voice close behind him arrested his footsteps: "Doctor Bayless."

The man of medicine turned quickly to face the speaker.

"This is Doctor Bayless?" the owner of the intrusive voice queried.

Doctor Bayless bowed stiffly.

"Bayless, formerly of the R---- street Insane Asylum?" persisted the questioner.

The doctor reddened and a startled look crossed his face, but he said, after a moment's silence: "The same."

"I want a few words with you, sir."

"Excuse me;"--the doctor was growing haughty;--"my time is not my own."

"Neither is mine, sir. I am a public benefactor, same as yourself."

"Ah, a physician?"

"Oh, not at all; a detective."

"A detective!" Doctor Bayless did not look reassured. He glanced at the detective, and then up and down the street, his uneasiness evident.

"I am a detective; yes, sir," said the stranger cheerily, "and you are in a position to do me a favor without in any way discommoding yourself. Don't be alarmed, sir; its nothing that affects you or touches upon that asylum business. You are safe with me, my word for it, and here's my card. Now, sir, just take my arm and come this way."

Doctor Bayless glanced down at the card, and then up at the speaker; and a look of relief crossed his face as he accepted the proffered arm, and walked slowly along at the side of his new acquaintance.

A Promise Retracted

Left alone, Leslie Warburton faced her problem, and found herself mastered by it. She had believed herself already overwhelmed with misery--had fancied that in coming among these people who claimed her, she had taken the last step down into the valley of humiliation, of shame, of utter wretchedness. But they had shown her a lower depth still, and bidden her descend into it.

Should she obey them? Her pulses were throbbing violently, a fierce flame burned in either cheek, a shade of the old delirium lurked in her eye. Should she crown her list of miseries with this culminating horror? Why should she not? What had she to lose? She, who had already lost husband, home and happiness; she, who was already an outcast, accused of treachery, of child-stealing, of murder; she, who was only a waif at best, and who could claim no kindred unless she accepted those whose roof then sheltered her? What had she to lose? Only her life, and that must end soon. Why not make this last sacrifice, then let it end.

Her calmness, that before had been at best but the calmness of despair, had forsaken her; had changed to the recklessness of desperation. Faster and faster throbbed her pulses, hotter surged the blood through her fevered veins, wilder gleamed the light of her eyes.

Born of her weakness, her misery, her growing delirium, came a fierce, unreasoning rebellion; a longing to thrust upon the shoulders of Alan Warburton, who, more than any other, had been the cause of her present woe, a portion of this weight that dragged her down. Had she not suffered enough for the "Warburton honor?" Why not force him to tread with her this valley of humiliation?

Then followed other thoughts--better thoughts, humbler thoughts, but all morbid, all tinged by her half delirious fancy, all reckless of self.

And now every moment adds to her torture, increases the fever in her blood, the frenzy of her brain.

"I must end it!" she cries wildly. "I must save Daisy! And after that what matter how my day goes out?"

She walks swiftly to the door and attempts to open it. Useless; it is fastened from the outer side. She seizes the handle and shakes it fiercely. It seems an hour, it is really a moment, when Mamma unlocks the door and appears before her.

"You--"

"I have decided," breaks in Leslie. "I shall make the sacrifice."

"You will marry this worthy man?"

"I will save Daisy from your clutches, and his."

"In his own way?"

"In his own way, and yours. Let it be over as soon as possible. Where is this man?"

"Gently, gently; he is not far away."

"So much the better. I cannot rest now till all is done. I must take Daisy back to her home; the rest is nothing."

Mamma looks at her craftily.

"You agree to all the terms?" she asks. "Will you swear to keep your word?"

"I will do anything, when I am assured that I shall have Daisy safely back."

"Ah!" ejaculates Mamma, indulging in a long sigh of relieved anxiety, "I will go tell Franz. He is as anxious to have the business settled as you are."

"Franz!"

"Yes; it is Franz that you will marry."

"Franz!" the word comes in a breathless whisper. "Your son--the convict?"

"You needn't put so much force upon that. Yes; Franzy's the man."

A new look dawns upon Leslie's face. A new light gleams from her eyes. She presses her palms to her forehead, then slowly approaches Mamma, with the uncertain movements of one groping in the dark.

"You told--" she articulates, as if struggling for self-mastery. "Woman, you told me that Franz Francoise was your son."

"So he is. I ain't ashamed of him," Mamma answers sullenly.

"Then,"--Leslie clutches at the nearest support and fairly gasps the words--"then--who am I?"

"Well, it can't be kept back any longer, it seems. You are--"

"Not your child?" cries Leslie. "Not yours?"

"No; you ain't ours by birth, but you're ours by adoption. We've reared ye, and we've made ye what ye are."

But Leslie pays no heed to this latter statement. She has fallen upon her knees with hands uplifted, and streaming eyes.

"Not her child; not hers! Oh, God, I thank thee! Oh, God, forgive me for what I was about to do!"

Long, shivering sighs follow this outburst; then moments of silence, during which Mamma stands irresolute, puzzled as to Leslie's manner, uncertain how to act.

A sound behind her breaks the uncomfortable stillness, and Mamma turns quickly, to see Franz standing in the open doorway.

"Franz,--" begins the old woman.

The word arouses Leslie, she rises to her feet so swiftly, with such sudden strength of movement, and such a new light upon her face, that Mamma breaks off abruptly and stands staring from one to the other.

"Woman," says Leslie slowly and with strange calm, "those are the first welcome words you ever uttered for my hearing. Say them again. Say that I am not your child."

"I don't see what it matters," mutters Mamma sullenly. "You will be our'n fast enough when you're married to Franz."

"Eh!" Franz utters only this syllable, and advances step by step into the room.

A moment Leslie stands gazing from one to the other. Then her form grows more erect, the new hope brighter in her eyes, she seems growing stronger each moment.

"Half an hour ago," she says, "I had not one thing to hope for, or to live for, save the restoration of Daisy Warburton, for I believed myself accursed. Rebel as my soul would, while your lips repeated your claim upon me I could not escape you. While you persisted in your lies, I was helpless. Now--"

Mamma's hands work convulsively; her eyes glitter dangerously; she looks like a cat about to spring upon its prey. As Leslie pauses thus abruptly, her lips emit a sharp hiss, but before words can follow, a heavy hand grasps her arm.

"Go on," says Franz coolly; "now?"

"Do you know the proposition that woman has just made me?" asks Leslie abruptly.

"'Twon't be good for her, if she has made ye a proposition I don't know on," says Franz grimly, and tightening his clutch upon Mamma's arm. "An' fer fear of any hocus-pocus, suppose you jest go over it fer my benefit."

"She has told me that you can, if you will, restore Daisy Warburton to her home."

"No? has she?"

"That you, and you only, know where to look for the child."

"Umph!"

"And that you will restore the child only on one condition."

"And wot's that?"

"That I consent to marry you."

"Wal," says Franz, turning a facetious look upon Mamma, and giving her arm a gentle shake; "the old un may have trifled with the truth, here and there, but she's right in the main. How did the proposition strike ye?"

Leslie turns from him and fixes her gaze upon the old woman.

"And this," she says, "is the man you would mate me with! Woman, you have overreached yourself. Believing, or fearing, myself to be your child, I might have been driven to any act of desperation. You have lifted that burden of horror from off my heart. I am not your child! No blood of yours poisons my veins! Do you think in the moment when I find the taint removed, I would doubly defile myself by taking the step you have proposed? Never! Your power over me is gone!"

"Do ye mean," queries Franz quite coolly, "that you won't take up with the old woman's bargain?"

"She has done it!" cries Mamma fiercely. "She's given her promise!"

"And I now retract it!"

"What!" Mamma suddenly wrenches herself free and springs toward Leslie. "You won't marry Franz?"

"Never! The fear which has made me a coward is gone. I shall go back to my own. I will tell my story far and wide. I feared nothing so much as the shame of being pointed out as the child of such parents. You will not dare repeat that imposture; I defy you. As for little Daisy, I will find her; I will punish you--"

"You will find her!" Mamma's voice is horrible in its hoarse rage. "Now mark my words: You will never find her. She will never see daylight again. As for you, you will marry Franz Francoise to-morrow, or you will go out of this place between two officers, arrested as the murderess of Josef Siebel!"

It is more than she can bear. The strength born of her strong excitement deserts her. Mamma's eyes burn into her own; she feels her hot, baleful breath upon her cheek; hears the horrible words hissed so close to her ear; and with a low moan falls forward, to be caught in the arms of Franz Francoise, where she lies pallid and senseless.

"Git out!" says Franz, as he lifts her and turns toward Mamma. "You've done it now, you old cat. Let me lay her down."

He carries Leslie to the bed, and places her upon it so gently that Mamma sneers and glares upon him scornfully.

"Ye're a fool, Franz Francoise."

"Now mark my words: You will never find her. She will never see daylight again."

"Shet up, you! Ye've got somethin' to do besides talk. D'ye mean to have her die on our hands?"

"'Twon't matter much, it seems."

"I tell ye 'twill matter. Do ye think this thing's settled? Not much. We're goin' ter bring her to terms yet, but she's got ter be alive first."

She turns upon him a look in which anger and admiration are curiously mingled.

"'Tain't no use, Franzy; that gal won't give in now."

"I tell ye she will. You've tried your hand; now I'll try mine. Bring the girl out o' this faint, an' I'll manage her. Do what ye can, then git yer doctor. Ye'd better not have him come here ef ye kin manage without him; but go see him, git what she needs, an'," with a significant wink, "ye might say that she don't rest well and git a few sleepin' powders."

"Franz," chuckles Mamma, beginning her work of restoration with bustling activity, "ye ought to be a general. I'm proud of ye."

Mr Follingsbee's Social Call

"Holding this card so Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face."

Five weeks have passed since the fateful masquerade. Five weeks since Vernet and Stanhope entered, in rivalry, the service of Walter Parks, the bearded Englishman. Five weeks since that last named and eccentric individual set sail for far-off Australia.

Matters are moving slowly at the Agency. Van Vernet is seldom seen there now, and Stanhope is not seen at all.

In his private office the Chief of the detectives sits musing; not placidly, as is usual with him, but with a growing restlessness, and a dark frown upon his broad, high brow.

The thing which has caused the disquiet and the frown, lies upon the desk beside him, just under his uneasy right hand. A letter; a letter from California, from Walter Parks.

It was brief and business-like; it explained nothing; and it puzzled the astute Chief not a little. John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine, and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the Arthur Pearson mystery.

Walter Parks had set out for Australia, drawn thither by an advertisement mentioning the name of Arthur Pearson. It had also contained the name of John Ainsworth; but this had seemed of secondary interest to the queer Englishman. He had distinctly stated that he knew nothing of John Ainsworth; had never seen him.

And yet here he was, if this letter were not a hoax, journeying eastward at that very moment, in company with this then unknown man.

Evidently, he had not visited Australia; that he could have done so was scarcely possible. And he was coming back with this John Ainsworth to urge on the search for the murderer of Arthur Pearson.

They would hope much, expect much, from Vernet and Stanhope. And what had been done?

Since the day when Stanhope had suddenly appeared in his presence, to announce his readiness to begin work upon the Arthur Pearson case, nothing had been heard from him.

"You will not see me again," he had said, "until I can tell who killed Arthur Pearson." And he was keeping his word.

Four weeks had passed since Stanhope had made his farewell announcement, and nothing was known of his whereabouts. Where was he? What was he doing? What had he done?

It was not like Stanhope to make sweeping statements. In proffering his services to Walter Parks, he had said: "I'll do my level best for you." But he had not promised to succeed. Why, then, had he said, scarce five days later: "I shall not return until I have found the criminal."

What had he done, or discovered, or guessed at, during those intervening days?

Something, it must have been, or else--perhaps, after all, it was a mere defiance to Van Vernet; his way of announcing a reckless resolve to succeed or never return to own his failure. Dick Stanhope was a queer fellow, and he had been sadly cut up by Vernet's falling off.

The Chief gave up the riddle, and turned to his desk.

"I may as well leave Dick to his own devices," he muttered, "but I'll send for Vernet. He has kept shy enough of the office of late, but I know where to put my hand on him."

As he reached out to touch the bell, some one tapped upon the door.

"Come in," he called, somewhat impatiently.

It was the office-boy who entered and presented a card to the Chief. "The gentleman is waiting?" queried the Chief, glancing at the name upon the bit of pasteboard.

"Yes, sir."

"Admit him."

Then he rose and stood to receive his visitor.

"Ah, Follingsbee, I'm glad it's you," extending his hand cordially. "Sit down, sit down."

And he pushed his guest toward a big easy chair just opposite his own.

The little lawyer responded warmly to his friendly greeting, established himself comfortably in the chair indicated, and resting a hand upon either knee, smiled as he glanced about him.

"You seem pretty comfortable here," he said, as his eye roved about the well-equipped private office. "Are you particularly busy just now?"

"I can be quite idle," smiling slightly, "if you want a little of my leisure."

The attorney gave a short, dry laugh.

"Do you talk at everybody over the top rail of a fence?" he asked. "I thought that belonged to us lawyers. The fact is that although this is not strictly a social call, it's a call of minor importance. If you have business on hand, I can wait your leisure."

The Chief leaned back in his chair and smiled across at his visitor.

"I don't suppose you or I can ever be said to be free from business," he responded. "I was just growing weary of my bit of mental labor; your interruption is quite welcome, even if it is not 'strictly social.' You are anxious to make an informal inquiry about the search for the lost child, I presume?"

"I should be glad to hear anything upon that subject, but that is not my errand."

"Ah!" The Chief rested his head upon his hand, and looked inquiringly at his vis-a-vis.

"I wanted," said Mr. Follingsbee, taking out a huge pocket-book and deftly abstracting from it a folded envelope, "to show you a document, and ask you a question. This," unfolding the envelope, "is the document."

He smoothed it carefully and handed it to the other, who glanced over it blankly at first, then looked closer and with an expression of surprise.

"Did you write that letter?" queried Mr. Follingsbee.

"N-no." He said it hesitatingly, and with the surprise fast turning to perplexity.

"Did you cause it to be written?"

The Chief spread the letter out before him on the desk, and slowly deciphered it.

"It's my paper, and my envelope," he said at last; "but it was never sent from this office."

"Then you disown it?"

"Entirely. I hope you intend to tell me how it came into your possession."

"It is written, as you see, to Mr. Warburton--"

"To Mr. Alan Warburton; yes."

"Introducing one Mr. Grip, late of Scotland Yards."

"I see."

"Well, sir, Mr. Warburton received this note the day on which it was dated."

The Chief glanced sharply at the date.

"And on that same day, Mr. Augustus Grip presented himself, stating that he was sent from this Agency, with full authority to take such measures as he saw fit in prosecuting the search for the lost child."

"Well?"

"The fellow began by being impertinent, ended by being insulting--and made his exit through the study window, his case closed."

The Chief smiled slightly, then relapsed into meditation. After a brief silence, he said:

"Mr. Follingsbee, can't you give me a fuller account of that interview between Mr. Warburton and this--this Mr. Grip?"

"No," returns the lawyer, "no; I can't--at present. There were some things said that made the visit a purely personal affair. The fellow gained access to the house through making use of your name, rather by seeming to. You see by that scrawl he was too clever to actually commit forgery."

The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature and said:

"I see; sharp rascal."

"I thought," pursued the lawyer, "that it might interest you to hear of this affair. The fellow may try the trick again, and--"

"It does interest me, sir," interrupts the other. "It interests me very much. May I keep this letter?"

"For the present, yes."

"Thanks. I'll undertake to find out who wrote it--very soon. And, having identified this impostor, I shall hope to hear more of his doings at Warburton Place."

"For further information," said Mr. Follingsbee, rising and taking up his hat, "I must refer you to Mr. Grip, or Mr. Warburton."

"The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature, and said: "I see; sharp rascal."

And having finished his errand, Mr. Follingsbee made his adieu and withdrew.

When he was gone, the Chief sat gazing at the chair just vacated, and a curious smile crossed his lips.

"Follingsbee's a clever lawyer," he muttered; "maybe that's why he is so poor a witness. There's a stronger motive behind his friendly desire to warn me of poachers abroad. He was in a greater hurry to finish his errand than to begin it, and he was relieved when it was done. I wonder, now, why he didn't ask me if there really was such a person as Augustus Grip;"

The Verdict Of An Expert

Late in the afternoon of the day following that on which Carnegie the Expert had received his commission from the Chief of the detectives, he appeared again in the presence of that personage.

He carried his "documents" in a small packet, which he laid upon the desk, and he turned upon the Chief a face as cheerful and as full of suppressed activity as usual.

"Well?" queried the Chief, glancing down at the packet, "have you done?"

"Yes;" beginning to open the packet with quick, nervous fingers.

"And you found--" He paused and looked up at the Expert.

Carnegie took from the packet the letter addressed to Alan Warburton, and written in the scrawling, unreadable hand. This he spread open upon the desk. Then he took another letter, written in an elegant hand, and with various vigorous ornamental flourishes. This he laid beside the first, pushing the remaining letters carelessly aside as if they were of no importance.

"I find--" he said, looking hard at the Chief, and putting one forefinger upon the elegant bit of penmanship, the other upon the unreadable scrawl;--"I find that these two were written by the same hand."

The Chief leaned forward; he had not been able to see the writing from the place in which he sat. He leaned closer and fixed his eyes upon the two signatures. The one he had seen before; the other was signed--Vernet.

Slowly he withdrew his eyes from the signature, and turned them upon the face of the Expert.

"Carnegie," he asked, "do you ever make a mistake?"

"I?" Carnegie's look said the rest. "Because," went on the Chief, scarcely noticing Carnegie's indignant exclamation, "if you ever made a mistake, I should say, I should wish to believe, that this was one."

"It's no mistake," replied the Expert grimly. "I never saw a clearer case."

"Carnegie, do you ever make a mistake?"

The Chief passed his hand across his brow, and seemed to meditate, while the Expert gathered up the heap of letters and arranged them once more into a neat packet.

"If you are still in doubt," he said tartly, "you might try--somebody else."

"No, no, Carnegie," replied the Chief, rousing himself, "you are right, no doubt. You must be right."

Carnegie snapped a rubber band about the newly-arranged packet, and tossed it down beside the two letters.

"Then," he said, taking up his hat, "I suppose you have no further use for me?"

"Not at present, Carnegie."

The Expert turned sharply, and without further ceremony whisked out of the room.

For some moments the Chief sat wrinkling his brow and gazing upon the two letters outspread before him.

Then he took up the elegantly-written epistle, folded it carefully, and thrust it in among those in the rubber-bound packet. This done he rang his bell, and called for Sanford.

The latter came promptly, and stood mutely before his Chief.

"Sanford," said that gentleman, pointing to the packet upon the table, "you may try your hand as an Expert."

"How, sir?"

"Take those letters, and this," pushing forward the outspread scrawl, "and see if you can figure out who wrote it."

Sanford took up the packet, looked earnestly at his superior, and hesitated.

"Carnegie has given his opinion," said the Chief, in answer to this look. "I want to see how you agree."

Sanford took up the scrawl, scanned it slowly, folded it and slipped it underneath the rubber of the packet.

"Is that all, sir?" he asked quietly.

"That is all. Take your time, Sanford; take your time."

Sanford bowed and went slowly from the room. A few moments longer the Chief sat thinking, a look of annoyance upon his face. Then he slowly arose, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a small, thick diary, reseated himself.

"I must review this business," he muttered. "There's something about it that I don't--quite--understand."

He turned the leaves of the diary quickly, running the pages backward, until he reached those containing an account of the events of one or two days five weeks old upon the calendar. Here he singled out the notes concerning the Raid and its results, following which were the outlines of the accounts of that night as given him by Vernet and Stanhope.

Now, in giving his account of that night, Van Vernet had said little of his experience with Alan Warburton, and at the masquerade. And in giving his account of the Raid and its failure, he had omitted the fact that he had accepted and used "Silly Charlie" as a guide, speaking of him only as a spy and rescuer. Hence the Chief had gained anything but a correct idea of the part actually played by this bogus idiot.

On the other hand, Stanhope had described at length the events of the masquerade, as they related to himself, but had said little concerning Leslie and the nature of the service she required of him, referring to her only as Mr. Follingsbee's client. He had related his misadventures with the Troubadour and the Chinaman, leaving upon their shoulders the entire blame of his failure and non-appearance at the Raid. And he had never once mentioned Vernet's presence, nor the part the latter had played to gain the precedence with his Chief.

In thus omitting important facts, each had his motive; and the omissions had not, at the time, been noted by the Chief. Now, however, as he read and re-read his memoranda--recalling to mind how he had shared with Vernet his chagrin at the failure of the Raid, and laughed with Stanhope over his comical mishaps--he seemed to read something between the lines, and his face grew more and more perplexed as he closed the diary, and sat intently thinking.

"There's a mystery here that courts investigation," he muttered, as he arose at last and put away the diary. "I'd give something, now, for twenty minutes' talk with Dick Stanhope."

Early on the following morning, Sanford presented himself before his Chief, the bundle of letters in his hand, and a troubled look upon his face.

"Well, Sanford, is it done?"

"I wish," said Sanford, as he placed the packet upon the table, "I wish it had never been begun--at least by me."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to believe the evidence of my senses."

"There's a sentiment for a detective! Out with it man; what have you found?"

Sanford took two papers from his pocket and held them in his hand irresolutely.

"I hope I am wrong," he said; "if I am--"

"If you are, it will rest between us two. Out with it, now."

"There's only one man among us that I can trace this letter to," beginning to unfold the troublesome scrawl, "and he--" He opened the second paper and laid it before his Chief.

The latter dropped his eyes to the vexatious paper and said, mechanically: "Vernet!"

"I'm sorry," began Sanford, regretfully. "I tried--"

"You need not be," interrupted the Chief. "It's Carnegie's verdict too."

Sanford sat down in the nearest seat, and looked earnestly at his Chief, saying nothing.

After a moment of silence, the latter said:

"Sanford, I want Vernet shadowed."

Sanford started and looked as if he doubted his own ears.

"I don't want him interfered with," went on the Chief slowly, "and watching him will be a delicate job; but I wish it done. I want to be informed of every move he makes. You must manage this business. I shall depend upon you."

A Chief's Perplexities

On Wednesday, the day following that which witnessed the arrival of Walter Parks and John Ainsworth, Mr. Follingsbee, seated at a late breakfast, perused a letter, which, judging from the manner of its reception, must have contained something unusual and interesting.

He read it, re-read it, and read it again. Then pushing back his chair, and leaving his repast half finished, he hurried from the breakfast-room, and up stairs, straight to that cosey room which, for many days, had been occupied by a guest never visible below. This guest had also recently turned away from a dainty breakfast, the fragments of which yet remained upon the small table at his elbow, and he was now perusing the morning paper with the bored look of a man who reads only to kill time.

He glanced up as the lawyer entered, but did not rise.

"Well," began his visitor, "at last I have something to wake you up with: orders to march."

He held in his hand the open letter, and standing directly in front of the other, read out its contents with the tone and manner of a man pronouncing his own vindication after a long-suffering silence: DEAR SIR:

At last you may release your voluntary prisoner. It is best that he return at once to W---- place. Let him go quietly and without fear. By afternoon there may be other arrivals, whom he will be glad to welcome. For yourself, be at the Chief's office this day at 4. P.M.

STANHOPE.

The reader paused and looked triumphantly at his audience of one.

"So," commented this audience, "his name is Stanhope."

Mr. Follingsbee started and then laughed.

"I don't think he cared to keep his identity from you longer," he said, "otherwise he would not have signed his name. I think this means that the play is about to end"--tapping the letter lightly with his two fingers. "You have heard of Dick Stanhope, I take it?"

"Stanhope, the detective? Yes; and I am somewhat puzzled. I have always heard of Stanhope in connection with Van Vernet."

"Umph! so has everybody. They're on opposite sides of this case, however. Well, shall you follow Mr. Stanhope's advice?"

"I shall, although his advice reads much like a command. I shall take him at his word, and go at once."

"Now?"

"This very hour, if your carriage is at my disposal."

"That, of course."

"I feel like a puppet in invisible hands"--rising and moving nervously about--"but, having pledged myself to accept the guidance of this eccentric detective, I will do my part."

"Well," said the lawyer dryly, "you seem in a desperate hurry. Be sure you don't overdo it."

"I won't; I'll go home and wait for what is to happen in the afternoon."

Half an hour thereafter, a carriage drew up at the side entrance of the Warburton mansion, and a gentleman leaped out, ran lightly up the steps, opened the door with a latch-key held ready in his hand, and disappeared within. The carriage rolled away the moment its occupant had alighted.

In another moment, a man, who had been lounging on the opposite side of the street, faced about slowly, and sauntered along until he reached the street corner. Turning here he quickened his pace, increasing his speed as he went, until his rapid walk became a swift run just as he turned the second corner.

At ten o'clock of this same morning, the Chief of the detectives is sitting again in his sanctum, his brow knit and frowning, his hands tapping nervously upon the arms of his easy chair, his whole mind absorbed in intensest thought. Usually he meets the problems that come to him with imperturbable calm, and looks them down and through; but to-day the thought that he faces is so disagreeable, so perplexing, so baffling,--and it will not be looked down, nor thought down.

Up to the date of this present perplexity, he has found himself equal to all the emergencies of his profession. Living in a domain of Mysteries, he has been himself King of them all; has held in his hand the clue to each. His men may have worked in the dark, or with only a fragment of light, a glimmer of the truth, to guide them. But he, their Chief, has overlooked their work, seeing beyond their range of vision, and through it, to the end.

Always this had been the case until--yes, he would acknowledge the truth--until this all-demanding Englishman had swooped down upon him with his old, old mystery, and taken from the Agency, for his own eccentric uses, its two best men. Always, until Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope had arrayed themselves as antagonists, in seeking a solution of the same problem.

Following up the train of thought suggested by the re-reading of his diary, the Chief has been suddenly confronted with some unpleasant suspicions and possibilities.

He has pondered everything pertaining to the mystery surrounding Vernet's improper use of his business letter-heads, and his visit to the Warburton mansion in the guise of Augustus Grip. And he has vainly tried to trace the connection between these man[oe]uvres and some of Stanhope's inconsistencies.

In the search, he has made a discovery: Alan Warburton, the uncle of the lost child for whom his men have been vainly searching, and Leslie Warburton, the widow of the late Archibald Warburton, have both sailed for Europe. Business connected with the search has been transacted through Mr. Follingsbee; and this voyage across the sea, at so inopportune a time, has been treated by the lawyer with singular reticence, not to say secrecy.

What could have caused these two to make such a journey at such a time? Why did Van Vernet enter their house in disguise? Who were the two that had sailed to Europe by proxy? What was this mystery which, he instinctively felt, had taken root on the night of the fruitless Raid?

"It was young Warburton who had secured Vernet's services, and afterwards dismissed him in such summary fashion. It was Mr. Follingsbee who had engaged Stanhope, for that self-same night, for a masquerade. If I could question Stanhope," he muttered. "Oh! I need not wait for that; I'll interview Follingsbee."

He dashed off a note, asking the lawyer to wait upon him that afternoon, and having dispatched it, was about to resume the study of his new problem, when Sanford entered with a memorandum in his hand.

"Beale has come in," he said in a low tone. "He has been the rounds, and gives a full report of Vernet's movements."

"Has Beale been out alone?"

"Not since the first two hours; he has three men out now."

"Phew! Well, read your minutes, Sanford; I see you have taken them down from word of mouth."

"Yes, it was the shortest way. Vernet is watching three localities."

"Oh!"

"Beale shadowed him, first, to the residence of Mr. Follingsbee, the lawyer."

"Umph!" The Chief started, then checked himself, and sank back in his chair.

"Here," continued Sanford, "he had a man on guard. They exchanged a few words, and Vernet went away, the shadower staying near the lawyer's house. From there Vernet went direct to Warburton Place."

The Chief bit his lips and stirred uneasily.

"Here he had another shadower. They also conferred together. Then Vernet took a carriage and went East to the suburbs; out to the very edge of the city, where the houses are scattering and inhabited by poor laborers. At the end of K. street, he left his carriage, and went on foot to a little saloon, the farthest out of any in that vicinity. There he had a long talk with a fellow who seemed to be personating a bricklayer. He left the saloon and went back to his carriage, seemingly in high spirits, and the bricklayer departed in the opposite direction."

"Away from the city?"

"Yes; toward the furthermost houses."

The Chief bent his head and meditated.

"This happened, when?" he asked.

"Yesterday."

"And Beale; what did he do?"

"Set three men to watch three men. One at Follingsbee's, one at Warburton Place, and one at the foot of K. street."

"Good; and these shadowers of Vernet's--could Beale identify either of them?"

"No; he is sure they do not belong to us, and were never among our men."

"Very well. Beale has done famously. Let him keep a strict watch until further orders."

Once more the Chief knits his brow and ponders. The mystery grows deeper, and he finds in it ample food for meditation.

But he is doomed to interruption. This time it is Vernet's report.

He eyes it askance, and lays it upon the desk beside him. Just now it is less interesting, less important, than his own thoughts.

But again his door opens. He lifts his head with a trace of annoyance. It is George, the office boy. He comes forward and proffers a note to his Chief.

The latter takes it slowly, looks languidly at the superscription, then breaks the seal.

One glance, and the expression of annoyance and languor is gone; the eyes brighten, and the whole man is alive with interest.

And yet the note contains only these two lines: Send three good men, in plain clothes, to the last saloon at the foot of K. street, 2 P. M. sharp.

DICK S.

"Oh!" ejaculates the Chief, "Dick at last! Something is going to happen."

And then he calls the office boy back.

"Go to this address," he says, hastily writing upon a card; "ask for Mr. Parks, and say to him that I am obliged to beg himself and friend to put off their interview with me until this afternoon, say three o'clock."

When the boy had departed, he turned to the desk and took up Vernet's report. As he opened it, he frowned and muttered:

"Vernet's doing some queer work. If it were any one else, I should say he was in a muddle. As it is, I shall not feel sure that all is right until I know what his man[oe]uvres mean. I'll have no more interviews until I have seen Follingsbee, and studied this matter out."

At The Right Time

"Ye see," explains Franz, glancing toward Leslie, "the lady's kind o' hesitatin'. We'll give her a minute or two ter make up her mind." And he goes over and takes his stand beside her.

In the moment of silence that follows, Leslie can hear her heart beat, then--

What is it that breaks that strange stillness, that startles so differently every occupant of that dingy room?

Only a voice, sweet, clear, pitiful; a child's voice, uplifted in prayer:

"Dear God, please take care of a little girl whose Mamma has gone to Heaven--"

The rest is drowned in the shriek which bursts from Leslie's lips; in the sudden bound made by Mamma; and the quick counter movement of Franz.

Then Leslie's hands are beating wildly against the closet-door. Mamma, forcibly hurled back by Franz, is sprawling upon the floor, and the escaped convict is pressing against the rickety timbers.

As they yield to his onslaught, he stoops down, catches up the little crouching figure within, and turns to Leslie, who receives it with outstretched arms.

"Oh, Daisy! Daisy! DAISY!"

Sobbing wildly, she is down upon her knees, the little one tightly clasped to her bosom.

"Oh, Daisy, my darling!"

"Git out!" commands Franz, as Mamma, scrambling up, approaches with glaring eyes. "Stand back, old un. This is a new deal."

And he places himself as a barricade before Leslie and the child, waving back the infuriated old woman with a gesture of menace.

And then heavy feet come trampling across the threshold. Men in police uniform fill up the doorway, and the foremost of them says, as he approaches the Prodigal:

"Franz Francoise, I arrest you in the name of the law!"

The priest and his two witnesses start perceptibly, and turn their faces toward Franz. Papa and Mamma slink back toward the inner room. Leslie lifts her head and looks wonderingly at the new-comers.

Only Franz remains undisturbed. With a swift movement, he whisks out a pair of revolvers and presents them, muzzle foremost, to the speaker.

"Not just yet!" he says coolly; "I ain't quite ready. Ye've interrupted me, and ye'll have to wait."

One of his hands is slightly uplifted and, for just an instant, his head turns toward the inner room.

The two witnesses, making way for the police, lounge nearer to Papa and Mamma.

"You had better not resist, Franz Francoise," says the leader once more. "You can't escape us now."

"No; I s'pose not," assents Franz. "Oh, I know I'm cornered, but wait."

He moves aside and looks down upon Leslie.

"This lady," he says quietly, "and her little gal, are here by accident, and they ain't to be mixed up in this business o' mine. Look here, Mr. Preach--"

The Priest comes forward, and glances at him inquiringly.

"Ye can't afford to lose yer time altogether, I s'pose, and I'll give ye a new contract. Ye see this lady and the little gal are being scared by these cops. I want you to take 'em away. The lady'll tell ye where to go, and don't ye leave 'em till ye've seen 'em safe home."

Without a word of comment, the Priest moves toward Leslie.

At the same instant, and with a howl of rage, Mamma rushes forward.

"Stop her!" says Franz; and one of the two witnesses lays a strong hand upon Mamma's shoulder.

"Not just yet; I ain't quite ready!"

Then the Prodigal turns to Leslie, who, with the child in her arms, has risen to her feet.

"Go," he says gently; "you are free and safe. Go at once. That old woman will harm you if she can."

With a start and a sudden bounding of her pulses, Leslie looks into the face of the Prodigal, only an instant, for he turns it away. And all bewildered, pallid and trembling, she yields to the gentle force by which the Priest compels her to move, mechanically, almost blindly, from the room.

The officers step back to let her pass. And as she reaches the outer air, she has a shadowy vision of Franz Francoise, with pistols in hand, standing at bay; of Mamma struggling in the grasp of the humble citizen, and uttering yells of impotent rage.

She feels the cool air upon her brow, and clasps the child closer in her arms, believing herself to be moving in a dream. Then the voice of the Priest assures her.

"Give me the child, Mrs. Warburton," he says respectfully, "and lean on my arm. We have a carriage near."

When Leslie had disappeared beyond the doorway, Franz Francoise throws down his pistols.

"Now then, boys," he says quietly, "you can come and take me."

With a yell of rage, Mamma hurls herself upon her captor.

"Let me go!" she shrieks. "Ah, ye brute, let me get at him! Let me kill the sneakin' coward! Ah," kicking viciously, and gnashing her teeth as she struggles to reach the Prodigal, "that I should have to own such a chicken-hearted son!"

The leader of the officers, handcuffs in hand, has approached Franz, and the others are closing about him.

As Mamma utters her fierce anathema, he turns upon her suddenly, making at the same time a swift gesture of impatience.

"Gray," he says sternly, "bring out that old man."

It is not the voice of Franz Francoise; it is not his manner. And as the man addressed as Gray lays a hand upon Papa Francoise, the old woman catches her breath with a hissing sound, and stares blankly.

Struggling and whimpering, Papa is dragged from the inner room, and when he stands before the group, the Prodigal says:

"Now, Harvey, make the proper use of your handcuffs. Put them on this precious pair."

"What!"

The leader of the arresting party starts forward, and stares at the speaker, who makes a sudden movement and then faces the officers, holding in his hand a carroty wig and moustache!

Papa's face is ashen. Mamma writhes and gurgles, staring wildly at this sudden transformation. The officers instinctively group themselves together, and the handcuffs fall from the leader's grasp, clanking dolefully as they strike the bare floor.

"Stanhope!" gasps the officer, starting forward, and then drawing back.

And the two aids instinctively echo the word:

"Stanhope!"

"Stanhope!"

Then the man who has so long masqueraded as Franz Francoise flings aside the carroty wig and fixes a stern eye upon Mamma Francoise.

"Woman," he says slowly; "let me set your mind at rest. You need never again call me your son. Franz Francoise is dead, and before he died he told me his story, and yours, as he knew it. If for weeks I have lived among you in his likeness, you know now why it was necessary. Oh, you are a clever pair! Almost too clever, but you are outwitted. Harvey," turning once more to the officer, "you shall not go back without a prisoner; you shall have two. Put your bracelets on this rascally pair; and see them safely in separate cells. Holt and Drake will go with you."

The two humble citizens glance up, and confirm by a look their leader's assurance.

"Drake! Holt!" The man addressed as Harvey utters the names mechanically. Drake and Holt are two efficient detectives, and Harvey knows them as such. "Mr. Stanhope, I--I cannot understand."

"And I cannot explain now." He is actively assisting Drake to put the manacles on Mamma's wrists. "Old woman, it will be policy for you to keep quiet; or do you want me to gag you?"

Then turning:

"One thing, Harvey; you were sent here by Van Vernet. I know that much. Now, tell me why did not Van make this attempt himself? Don't hesitate. Van has well-nigh led you and these fellows into a scrape; he has certainly made trouble for himself. Where is he now?"

A moment Harvey hesitates. Then he says:

"I don't know where he is, but he has gone to make another arrest."

"Another! who?"

"A sailor; the fellow who killed the Jew, Siebel."

Richard Stanhope swings himself around and points to Papa Francoise, as with the finger of fate.

"Stanhope!" gasps the officer, starting forward.

"The man who killed the Jew, Siebel, is there;" he says sternly.

Then snatching up the wig, he readjusts it upon his head, saying, as he does it:

"Drake, Holt, look after these people; and Harvey, you may do well to ignore Vernet's instructions for the present. He has done mischief enough already. I must prevent this last blunder."

The carroty moustache has once more resumed its place. "Holt, you understand?"

"Perfectly, sir."

As the detective is once more transformed into Franz Francoise, Mamma becomes fairly livid. She makes a final frantic effort to free herself and howls out:

"Let me go; what have I done? for what am I arrested? Let me go, you impostor!"

"You will learn in good time, woman," retorts Stanhope. "You may have to answer to several small charges: blackmail, abduction, theft, murder."

He goes to the door; then turns and looks back at the handcuffed pair:

"Holt," he says impressively, "watch that woman closely, and search them both at the Jail. You will find upon the woman a belt, which you will take charge of until I come."

Mamma Francoise yells with rage. She writhes, she curses; her fear and fury are horrible to behold. As Richard Stanhope crosses the threshold, her curses are shrieked after him, and her captors shudder as they listen.

Papa is abject enough. He has been shivering, quaking, cowardly, from the first; but Stanhope's last words have crushed him utterly. His knees refuse to support him, his eyes stare glassily, his jaw drops weakly.

And as they bear them away, the one helpless from fear, the other resisting with tiger-like fierceness, a distant clock strikes one, two, three!