Mr. Marcus' words haunted Al for some time after their parting.
"I don't know but there is something in that," the boy said to himself: "I'll look out for the lucky accidents after this."
But the full-page advertisement had to be prepared in less than an hour, and Al had to turn his attention to its preparation.
When he went to his room he had not the slightest idea what sort of an advertisement he was going to write; he only knew that it must be something taking and brief.
"Brevity is the soul of wit, anyhow," he reflected, "so I don't believe I shall make any mistake on that point. But what shall I say in the ad.? I wonder if I haven't bitten off a little more than I can chew?"
In half an hour he had the advertisement ready, and a few minutes later he presented himself with it at the office of theBugle.
Here everything was in confusion, but he found the foreman of the composing room ready and waiting for him.
"Have you got your copy all ready?" asked the man, nervously. "There is no time to spare."
"Here it is," said Al, producing a slip of paper from his vest pocket.
"I thought you were to have a full page?" said the foreman.
"So I am, according to contract," smiled the boy.
"But there are only half a dozen lines here."
"That's all."
"Oh, you want a display ad.?"
"No—at least not the kind you mean. I want those few lines repeated over and over again until the entire space contracted for is filled."
"You want it printed solid?" gasped the foreman.
"That's it."
"But I could give you a much more attractive ad. We can get up a full-page display ad. that would be simply out of sight."
"I don't doubt it, but I want another kind."
"All right," said the foreman, with a pitying sigh; "you pay your money and you take your choice."
"That's the idea."
The foreman carefully perused the advertisement. This is what he read:
"See the New York Comedy Company, Augustus Wattles, Manager.
"See this great company in 'Loved and Lost.'
"See the real locomotive, under a full head of steam.
"See the real steam yacht.
"See all this.
"But——
"Please don't look at the queer old man in the third row of the orchestra."
The foreman stared at Al as if he thought him an escaped lunatic.
"That's a strange ad.," he said.
"Is it?" laughed the boy.
"I never saw anything like it before."
"Well?"
"Well, do you want it to go in just as you have written it?"
"I do."
"Without any attempt at display?"
"Without the slightest attempt at display."
"That goes, then. Good-night; I must get the men at work on this at once."
"I've done all this on my own responsibility," reflected Al, as he left the place. "If it turns out a fizzle, Mr. Wattles won't have so much confidence in me in the future. Well, there's no use fretting now; the thing is done. If it doesn't work I shall know enough not to repeat the experiment."
Still Al did fret a little after he got to his room. The apartment that had been assigned to him was a large, gloomy room on one of the upper floors of the building. It was about half filled with paintings not hung, but standing against the wall. These, the hotel clerk had explained, were the property of an impecunious artist who had formerly boarded in the house, and were being held until his bill was paid.
"We left them right there," explained the clerk, "not thinking that we would need to put anyone in the roomfor some time. But on account of the rush to the circus the house is full, and we must put you there."
It made very little difference to Al where he slept, and he said so. He was only going to spend one night in the house, and the room was comfortable, if it was rather gloomy.
Entering it after his visit to theBugleoffice, he threw himself into a chair and fixed his eyes on a full-length picture of a man in modern dress. He did not even take the trouble to light the gas.
The rays of the moon dimly illumined the room and lighted up the picture. The boy sat for nearly half an hour staring absently at the portrait, thinking nothing about it, but trying to plan his work for the next day or two.
But soon he began to realize that he was very tired. He found himself yawning, and his eyelids drooped in spite of himself.
"It's no use," he said to himself, "I'll have to leave business until to-morrow. I'll go to bed."
But just as he rose from his chair—could he believe the evidence of his senses?—the figure of the man stepped from the canvas and approached him.
It was no dream, for in an instant the boy was as wide awake as he had ever been.
Apparently the picture had come to life!
In a few seconds Al perceived that the picture had not been endowed with life; the painted figure remained in its place; it was a being of flesh and blood that was approaching him.
The intruder had been standing in front of the picture; the dim light and Al's preoccupation had conspired to render the boy unconscious of his presence.
"Who are you?" our hero exclaimed, as the man approached him.
The next moment he recognized the fellow, and added in a startled voice:
"Farley!"
"Yes," said the ex-advance agent, "it's Farley, the man you knocked out. You're a little surprised to see me, aren't you?"
"What do you want?" demanded the boy.
"I'll show you what I want."
And he darted between Al and the door.
"Get out of my way!" the lad exclaimed, attempting to push him aside.
But Farley seized him by the throat and forced him to the floor.
"You won't escape me this time," he hissed.
Al struggled to release himself, but the grasp of the drink-maddened brute was not to be shaken off.
"No, you don't!" he said, in a fierce whisper. "I warned you that you had not heard the last of me."
Al tried to cry for help, but could only make an inarticulate sound.
Farley dragged him in the direction of the window, saying:
"You got away from me last night, but you won't this time."
"So," Al managed to gasp, "you were the masked man who accused me of being a horse thief?"
"I was the man. You nearly turned the tables on me that time, but you won't have the same luck twice in succession."
As he spoke Farley relaxed his grasp on the boy's throat.
"Youngster," he went on, "if it hadn't been for you I shouldn't have lost my job with Gus Wattles. Its loss, under the circumstances, means ruin for me. I can't catch up again, unless——"
"Is that my fault?" interrupted Al, seeing that the man was crazed with drink, and that the wisest policy was to attempt to conciliate him. "I didn't take the position until Mr. Wattles had decided to discharge you."
"It's a lie!"
"It's the truth."
"If you had not been available he would have taken me back."
"I don't know anything about that. Of course, I hadno feeling against you in the matter. I wanted the place, but I could not have obtained it if your work had been satisfactory."
"You used some underhanded method to oust me."
"I did not."
"You did. If you had not, how could you have gotten the place? There are dozens—hundreds—of experienced men, who would have been glad to take the position at half my salary. No, you did it for private reasons of your own. You were hired to do it to separate me from her."
"From whom?"
"You know well enough who I mean."
"I have not the slightest idea," replied Al.
By this time Farley had permitted him to rise to his feet, but still kept between him and the door.
"I mean Gladys—as you know," said the drink-maddened man; "Gladys, for whom I would give my very life."
"Miss March?"
It was with genuine surprise that Al asked this question.
"Yes."
"You think that I am in a conspiracy to separate you from her?"
"I know it."
"You are entirely mistaken. I know nothing at all about Miss March's affairs; in fact, I have never even spoken to her."
"It is a lie. But come, I have no more time to waste. This job must be done."
He again seized the boy by the throat, and dragged him toward the window. Al was by no means a weakling, but he was absolutely powerless in the grasp of his frenzied assailant.
With one hand Farley held his intended victim, while with the other he threw up the window sash.
"No one in the street below," he hissed, "is looking, and if they were they could not see us. When your body is found, your death will be considered an accident."
Al now lay on his back upon the sill; half his body was out of the window. Apparently the villain's object was almost accomplished, and in a few seconds the boy's mutilated body would be lying upon the pavement below.
"I never knew before," said Farley, "how sweet revenge was."
"You won't know just yet," said Al, "if I can help it."
As he spoke, realizing his extreme peril, he made one last, desperate effort, exerting all his strength, and succeeded in regaining his footing.
The struggle was renewed, but it seemed certain that it must result in the boy's defeat.
Suddenly, however, Farley released his hold on Al and rushed to the opposite side of the room, crying:
"Interfere, will you?"
At first our hero could not understand this action, but in a moment he comprehended it.
The villain had actually been frightened by his ownshadow, which was strongly outlined on the wall opposite. It might have been mistaken even by a sober man for an intruder; and in his excited condition Farley was certain that some one had come to the rescue of his intended victim.
Of course, he quickly discovered his mistake, but Al had now time to rush to the door, fling it open, and make his escape from the room.
Outside the door stood one of the hotel clerks, who had evidently just arrived upon the scene, and who demanded:
"What's going on in there?"
Before Al could reply Farley rushed out of the room and started for the staircase. In a moment he had disappeared.
Al started to follow him, but the clerk seized him by the collar, shouting:
"You won't get away quite as easily as all that, my fine fellow! Now, what's your little game?"
"Don't keep me standing here," cried the boy, trying to shake off the man's detaining grasp.
"That's all right," was the response of the zealous employee, who was under the impression that he had captured a hotel thief. "You just keep quiet. I've got you all right, and your pal won't get out of the house as easily as he thinks."
By the time Al had explained the situation so that the clerk understood it, Farley had had ample time to make his escape.
The man was somewhat crestfallen when he realized that he had made a mistake.
"No matter," he said, "the ruffian can't have gotten out. They'd be sure to detain him downstairs."
But, as they learned when they reached the office, Farley had eluded them. He had walked leisurely out, lighting a cigar, apparently in a perfectly easy, unconcerned frame of mind.
Having notified the police of what had occurred, Al returned to his room, and in a few minutes had retired for the night, having first assured himself that there were no other unbidden guests in the apartment.
The next morning he found a note awaiting him in the office. It read as follows:
"You are a lucky youth, but your luck won't last forever. You don't lead a charmed life. I am on my mettle now, and I am going to settle you if I swing for it."
"You are a lucky youth, but your luck won't last forever. You don't lead a charmed life. I am on my mettle now, and I am going to settle you if I swing for it."
There was no signature, but of course Al knew well enough who the writer of the precious communication was.
He did not feel particularly worried; in fact, he had no time to worry just then, for, as he put the note in his pocket, the morning papers were placed in his hand by the clerk, with the remark:
"Well, young man, you are a corker and no mistake."
Al laughed.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked.
"Read that interview with you in theBanner, and you'll find out. If you've been through half the startling adventures that the reporter says you have it is a wonder you are alive now."
Our hero opened the paper with a feeling of apprehension which proved to be well grounded.
Undoubtedly the interview would prove a good advertisement for the show, but it embarrassed Al greatly; he would gladly have given a hundred dollars to have been able to withdraw it. But it was too late for that now; already it had, doubtless, been read by half Rockton.
The reporter had not kept faith with him.
"If I say anything about your sister," he had told him, "it will only be a passing reference, couched in the most delicate terms."
But instead of that he had headed the article:
A BOY WONDER!AN EXTRAORDINARY CAREER! A LONG-LOST SISTER!
A BOY WONDER!
AN EXTRAORDINARY CAREER! A LONG-LOST SISTER!
And there were other headlines that startled and dismayed Al.
According to them he had been a lion hunter, a champion football and baseball player, an exceptional sprinter, and the greatest boxer of his age that the world had ever known.
"You must have made yourself mighty solid with theBannerman to get an ad. like that," remarked the clerk. "It's simply great."
"I wish I hadn't succeeded in making myself quite so solid," groaned Al.
The clerk stared at him, asking in surprise:
"Don't you like the notice?"
"Hardly."
"What's the matter with it?"
"I'm not here to advertise myself but the New York Comedy Company."
"You're the first advance agent I ever saw who wasn't trying to advertise himself at the expense, if necessary, of his show."
"That isn't my way of doing business."
"Well, this article will boom the show, and don't you forget it. But if you don't like the headlines what will you think of the interview?"
Al sank into a chair and began a hasty perusal of the article.
He was dismayed at the reporter's audacity; the information he had given the man had been so altered and distorted that he could only dimly recognize himself in the hero of the newspaper man's weird fancy.
The interview was in the highest degree complimentary—at least from its writer's standpoint; it was evident that the reporter had written it in a friendly spirit, and with the intention of giving its subject a good "send off."
The portion that referred to his sister annoyed Al the most. It was near the end of the two-column article, and read as follows:
"But the life of the hero of this strange, though strictly authentic, tale has not been entirely one of adventurous pleasure. Deep in his heart he carries a sorrow about which he was extremely reticent to speak to theBannerreporter. In referring to it this lad, who has faced dangers from which many a stalwart man would shrink appalled, wept like a child. Years ago he lost an idolized sister. She was taken from the home of which she was the pride, not by the hand of death, but by that of a kidnaper. The story is a most romantic one. The little child was playing one morning on the sloping lawn in front of her father's palatial country seat in Tarrytown, adjoining that of the late Jay Gould. Her nurse was called away for a few moments. During the woman's absence the child disappeared. What became of it? Alas! to this day no one save the ruthless destroyer of the happiness of this once peaceful home knows. It was rumored that a rejected suitor of the little girl's mother was the villain, but nothing was ever proven against him. The father of the child died of a broken heart, and his wife would, without doubt, have soon followed him to the grave had it not been for her boy—the subject of this necessarily incomplete article. For his sake she resolved to live. When he was but four years of age she made him promise her that he would devote his life to solving the mystery of his sister's fate."
"But the life of the hero of this strange, though strictly authentic, tale has not been entirely one of adventurous pleasure. Deep in his heart he carries a sorrow about which he was extremely reticent to speak to theBannerreporter. In referring to it this lad, who has faced dangers from which many a stalwart man would shrink appalled, wept like a child. Years ago he lost an idolized sister. She was taken from the home of which she was the pride, not by the hand of death, but by that of a kidnaper. The story is a most romantic one. The little child was playing one morning on the sloping lawn in front of her father's palatial country seat in Tarrytown, adjoining that of the late Jay Gould. Her nurse was called away for a few moments. During the woman's absence the child disappeared. What became of it? Alas! to this day no one save the ruthless destroyer of the happiness of this once peaceful home knows. It was rumored that a rejected suitor of the little girl's mother was the villain, but nothing was ever proven against him. The father of the child died of a broken heart, and his wife would, without doubt, have soon followed him to the grave had it not been for her boy—the subject of this necessarily incomplete article. For his sake she resolved to live. When he was but four years of age she made him promise her that he would devote his life to solving the mystery of his sister's fate."
Al looked up from the paper, his face white with anger.
"The villain!" he exclaimed.
The clerk looked up in surprise.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Have you read this thing?" Al demanded.
"Why, yes."
"The part that speaks of my long-lost sister?"
"All of it. Of course, it's a fake, but nine people in ten will swallow it whole."
"I don't want anyone to believe it."
"You don't?"
"Of course I don't."
"Then why did you grant him the interview?"
"Because he insisted, and because he promised me that everything should be printed just as I gave it to him."
The clerk laughed.
"It's evident," he said, "that you have not enjoyed a very extensive acquaintance with reporters."
"I've known several, but none like this fellow."
"He's considered one of the smartest men in his line in the State."
"Well, I'd like to interview him just now."
"What would you say?"
"I'd at least give him my opinion of his methods."
"You wouldn't have a chance."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"You have met him once, and you ought to know. Why, he wouldn't give you an opportunity to get in aword edgewise. Anyhow, I don't see what you are kicking about; you've got the best ad. of the season free of cost. Hello! here comes your reporter now. If you want to go for him you have your chance."
While the clerk was speaking the little reporter of theBannerwho had interviewed Al only a few hours before entered.
The boy strode toward him.
"You're just the man I want to see," he began.
The scribe pretended not to notice the look of anger in his face. Seizing his hand and holding it tightly, he said:
"And you're just the person I want to see. There are one or two little mistakes in that interview of ours, and I was looking for you to find out whether the fault lies with you or me. But the article shows up well, doesn't it?"
"I——"
"Don't say another word."
"But——"
"I know exactly what you are going to say, but it will be all right next time. It was the fault of the compositor that your name was spelled wrong."
"I wasn't——"
"I was going to ask you whether it was three men or only two that you knocked out at that scrap referred to in the second column; I'm afraid I got that wrong. But never mind, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, anyhow. He! he! he!"
"No such incident ever occurred, and I——"
"Tut! tut!" interrupted the reporter, with a shocked look. "What made you tell me the yarn, then?"
"I——"
"Never mind, we'll have to let it go now; and, after all, it doesn't make much difference. But you ought to be more particular in talking to reporters in the future, my dear young friend."
"If I——"
"Oh, that's all right—— No thanks. Hello! there goes a man I've got to see right now. S'long!"
And the scribe rushed out, leaving Al staring helplessly after him.
"Isn't he a dandy?" said the hotel clerk, admiringly. "You'll never catch him. The traditional Frenchman's flea was a graven image compared with that fellow. In your line of business you can profit by the lesson he has just given you. He is an artist in 'bluffing.'"
Before Al could reply Mr. Wattles entered the office and approached him with outstretched hand.
"I thought I should find you here," the manager said. "I want to offer you my congratulations before I say another word."
"Your congratulations upon what, Mr. Wattles?" asked Al.
"Why, upon the way you have worked things here, of course. I heard about it before I left Boomville this morning. That interview is out of sight."
"I wish it was," groaned Al.
"Eh?"
The boy expressed his opinion of the interview in very emphatic terms.
"Well," said Mr. Wattles, when he had finished, "you're 'way off in your ideas on that point. Why, the interview is great. I supposed you had taken the reporter out and got him full."
"The interview didn't cost me a cent."
"That's so much the better. I'm mighty glad it appeared, and you ought to be, too. It'll help biz; and how do you know but that through it you may find your sister?"
"That's not possible," said Al. "Why, the facts are all distorted. My father never had any palatial country seatin Tarrytown; there was never any talk of a rejected suitor of my mother's; there——"
"Never mind," interrupted Mr. Wattles; "it's a good ad., anyway, and we got it for nothing. You mustn't be so thin-skinned, my boy. You see here"—in a changed tone—"that ad. of yours in theBuglemust have cost a young fortune. You ought to have consulted me by wire before you did that. The idea is a good one, and everyone is talking about it, but it will not be worth to us what it cost."
"How much do you suppose I paid for it, sir?"
"Oh, I don't know; three hundred at least, probably more."
"It cost just fifty dollars; and if it is not worth that to you, I'll pay it out of my own pocket."
"Fif—— Is that straight?"
"Certainly."
"How did you do it?"
Al explained.
"Well, that was a mighty good transaction, and you deserve credit for it, as well as for writing the ad. The new paper was selling like hot cakes on the train this morning, and everyone was reading that ad. Al, my boy, you're a genius!"
"Not quite that, I guess," laughed the boy.
"You are, I tell you. But who is the queer old man in the third row of the orchestra?"
"A myth, a creation of my imagination."
"I supposed so, though I did not know but you had hired some one to play the part."
"No."
"Well, there'll be lots of people out to see the old man. How did you happen to strike the idea?"
"I don't know. I had to get the copy ready in a hurry, and I wanted something new and taking."
"Well, you got it. I believe that ad. and the interview are going to produce results."
They did; though some of the results were quite different from those Mr. Wattles and his advance agent expected.
While Al went into the restaurant for breakfast, his employer hurried to the theater to inquire about the advance sale.
He returned an hour later, flushed and excited.
"Well?" questioned the boy.
"Well, we've caught 'em again. Half the house is already sold, and that means a crowd to-night. The local manager says you're a corker."
Al laughed.
"He didn't think so yesterday."
"He does now. He's going to try to get you to stay here under his employ."
"I shall not do it."
"I told him you wouldn't, but he's going to make you an offer, anyhow. Oh, by the way!"
"What is it, sir?"
"I nearly forgot that Miss Gladys March, who, withthe rest of the company, came with me this morning, is very anxious to have a talk with you."
"With me? Aren't you mistaken, Mr. Wattles?"
"No; she asked me to tell you as soon as I saw you, but I did not think of it."
"What can she want of me?"
"I give it up."
"I don't know her; I never spoke to her in my life."
"So I thought. Well, the best way to find out what she wants is to go and ask her. You'll find her upstairs in her room."
"I'll go at once."
A few minutes later Al presented himself at the door of Miss March's room and knocked rather timidly.
"Come in," said a sweet voice, which the boy recognized as that of the young actress.
He entered the room.
Miss March, who was seated by the window, rose to meet him.
"I supposed that it was one of the servants," she said, with a sweet smile, "or I should have welcomed you at the door. Please be seated."
The young girl's perfect self-possession embarrassed Al a little. He stammered out something about its being of no consequence, and seated himself on the extreme edge of the sofa.
Certainly Miss March was a very beautiful girl; unlike many actresses, she looked prettier off the stage than on it.
"I suppose," she began, "that you wonder why I have requested the favor of this interview."
"I am a little curious to know," Al admitted.
"When I have told you, I suppose you will think me a very foolish girl; probably I am. But I cannot leave a stone unturned."
She paused, evidently agitated. What new mystery was this? Al asked himself.
"I have read the interview with you in this morning's RocktonBanner," went on the young lady.
"I'm sorry to hear that," said the boy, bluntly.
"Why?"
"Because there are scarcely ten words of truth in it."
A genuine look of disappointment appeared upon Miss March's face.
"I am very sorry to hear you say that," she said.
Al stared at her in surprise.
"You surely did not believe all that stuff, Miss March?"
"Not all of it, of course," replied the girl, with a faint smile; "but there was one part that I thought might be true."
"What part?"
"About your sister, who was stolen in infancy."
"It is true," said Al, "that my sister was stolen."
"Ah!" interrupted the young lady, with an appearance of agitation that the boy could not understand.
"But the facts were so twisted and distorted that the story is very different from the truth."
"What is the truth?"
Al hesitated.
"Believe me," said Miss March, "I do not ask from mere idle curiosity. I have a most important reason for putting the question. Will you not tell me the story?"
Her agitation communicated itself to her companion; the boy's voice trembled slightly as he replied:
"Certainly, Miss March; for I feel that you have some strong motive for desiring to hear it."
"Believe me, I have. Go on, I beg of you."
Al was about to speak when the door was thrown open and a rough-looking man strode into the room.
"I thought I should find you here," he said, addressing our hero.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" demanded the boy.
"I'm a deputy sheriff, and I want you. I have a warrant for your arrest."
"A warrant for my arrest?" gasped Al, half believing that the sudden appearance of the stranger was only a joke.
"That's what I said. Now, young fellow, don't you try to resist me, for it won't work."
"I'm not going to resist you if you really have a warrant," said Al.
"Well, I have, and here it is."
And the stranger produced a document from his pocket.
"What am I accused of?" asked the boy.
The deputy, who evidently felt the importance of his position, produced a copy of the first number of the RocktonBuglefrom his pocket.
Slowly unfolding it, he turned to Al's full-page advertisement, and said:
"You writ that, didn't you?"
"I did," admitted our hero, promptly.
"Well, that settles it. Come along."
"But hold on," laughed Al. "It isn't a crime in these parts to advertise a theatrical performance, is it?"
"Yes," replied the deputy, without hesitation, "it is—the way you advertise."
"What is the matter with my advertisement?" asked the astonished boy.
"You don't know, eh?"
"I certainly do not."
"Well, of course my business here is only to serve the warrant, but I'll read the advertisement over to you."
"Go ahead," said Al, thinking that there might be a misprint in the page.
The deputy sheriff read:
"See the New York Comedy Company, Augustus Wattles, Manager."See this great company in 'Loved and Lost.'"See the real locomotive, under a full head of steam."See the real steam yacht."See all this."But—"Please don't look at the queer old man in the third row of the orchestra."
"See the New York Comedy Company, Augustus Wattles, Manager.
"See this great company in 'Loved and Lost.'
"See the real locomotive, under a full head of steam.
"See the real steam yacht.
"See all this.
"But—
"Please don't look at the queer old man in the third row of the orchestra."
The deputy laid the paper down and glared at his prisoner with a triumphant air.
"Well?" said Al, greatly puzzled.
"Didn't you write that and cause it to be inserted in theBugle?"
"I did."
"That settles it, then."
"It may settle it for you, but it doesn't for me," said the boy. "What is the matter with the ad.?"
"You know well enough what the matter is with it."
"I do not. Is it a crime in this town to try to boom a show by any legitimate means?"
"No; but it is a crime to try to boom it the way youhave; it is a crime here and everywhere else, as you will find out if you try the same game again in another town."
Here Miss March, who had listened in silence until this moment, interposed.
"What is the matter, sir?" she cried. "I read the advertisement, and I am sure there was nothing in it that could offend anyone."
The deputy, who until now had forgotten or neglected to doff his hat, did so.
"As far as you see, miss," he said, "the ad. is all right."
"Well, what is there—what can there be—that I do not see?" the young lady cried.
"You are not acquainted in this town, are you, young lady?" the deputy asked.
"I am not."
"That accounts for it, then. But this young fellow is acquainted here, and he knew just what he was doing when he wrote that advertisement."
"Yes, I think I did," interposed Al, "But will you please tell me right now why you are here?"
"I am here in my capacity of deputy sheriff of this county," replied the official, with dignity, "and also as a personal friend of Mr. Marmaduke Merry."
"Mr. Marmaduke Merry!" exclaimed Al.
"Yes. No wonder you start and turn pale at the mere mention of that name."
"But I did not start or turn pale. Who is Mr. Marmaduke Merry?"
"You pretend not to know?"
"I pretend nothing at all; I do not know. I never heard the name of Marmaduke Merry before in my life."
"This subterfuge will avail you nothing," said the deputy, who was becoming theatrical. "We know all."
"All what?"
Al could not help laughing, and this evidently angered the overzealous deputy.
"I am not here to bandy words with you, young man," he said; "I have already spent too much time in talk."
"That's what I think," smiled Al.
"I'm glad we agree upon that point. Come along."
"I am ready."
"One moment," interposed Miss March. "Won't you please tell me, sir, of what crime Mr. Allston is accused?"
"I will," the deputy replied, with a look that was very evidently intended to be languishing. "I can refuse you nothing, miss. He is accused of holding one of Rockton's most respected citizens up to public ridicule; and Mr. Marmaduke Merry is the man."
"But," interrupted Al, more bewildered than ever, "haven't I told you that I never heard of this man, Merry, before?"
"You have told me so—yes."
"Well, I told the truth."
"You will have to convince the court of that."
"But what has my ad. to do with Mr. Merry? His name is not mentioned in it."
"Ah, that is where your cunning comes in. But doesn'teveryone in Rockton know that for years and years Mr. Merry has always occupied a seat in the third row of the orchestra at the first performance of a new play?"
At last Al grasped the situation.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "that's what you mean?"
"That is what I mean."
"And you think I meant Mr. Merry when I referred to the 'queer old man'?"
"Of course I do, and so does Mr. Merry."
"Both of you are very much mistaken."
"For your own sake, I hope you will be able to prove that statement."
"Why, I never heard of Mr. Merry until you mentioned his name."
"You have said so several times since I have been here, but I do not believe you. However, I am not your judge. But if you did not mean Mr. Merry, whom did you mean?"
"Nobody at all; the old man was only a creation of my imagination."
The deputy coughed, and had the audacity to wink knowingly at Miss March.
"This is a great tale," he said, "and will be believed, I don't think. You have got yourself and the local management into a scrape, my lad. But what could be expected?"
At this moment there was a tap upon the door. "Come in," the actress cried.
A servant entered.
"A card for you, Miss March."
The young lady took the bit of pasteboard and glanced at it; then she exclaimed:
"Mr. Marmaduke Merry!"
"Mr. Marmaduke Merry!" echoed the deputy.
"Show him up, please," the actress said.
"He is here!"
With this theatrical exclamation, a man pushed his way past the servant and entered the room.
"I am Mr. Marmaduke Merry," he announced.
Both Al and Miss March gazed with considerable curiosity and interest at the visitor.
He was at least seventy years of age, but was dressed in the most youthful fashion, and wore a light blond wig. Much below the medium height, shrunken, shriveled and weazened, he presented a decidedly ludicrous appearance as he stood, a huge bouquet in hand, bowing and smiling at the young actress.
Miss March could not help smiling herself; this evidently encouraged the old gentleman.
"You pardon the liberty I have taken, then?" he said. "I was sure you would."
"What is your business with me, sir?" the girl asked, composing her features.
"It is to offer a tribute to your art and beauty," replied Mr. Merry, with a smirk. "But"—for the first time seeing the deputy and Al—"who are these persons?"
"Don't you know me, Mr. Merry?" asked the official.
"Why, bless my soul!" ejaculated the old man, adjusting his glasses, "it's Bullfinch!"
"Yes, sir; it's me."
"What are you doing here in Miss March's apartment?"
"Attending to business, sir."
"What business?"
And the old man glared suspiciously at the cringing deputy.
"Your business, Mr. Merry."
"I didn't send you here."
"You sent me to find the writer of that infamous advertisement in theBugle, didn't you, sir?"
"Yes."
"Well, I have found him."
"Where is he? Who is he?"
"There he stands."
And Mr. Bullfinch pointed triumphantly at Al.
"That boy?" gasped the old man.
"Yes, sir."
"You must be mistaken."
"I am not. I went to the office of theBugleand asked who wrote the advertisement. They told me it was the advance agent of the company, a young man named Allston. I tracked him to this place, and was about to drag him forth when you arrived."
"You talk like a fool, Bullfinch," snapped Mr. Merry.
"Sir, I——"
"That will do. If this is the person who is responsible for that advertisement take him away."
"Yes, sir."
And the deputy laid his hand on Al's shoulder.
But Miss March interposed.
"Wait a moment, Mr. Merry."
"Certainly, my dear young lady. What is it?"
"This gentleman, Mr. Allen Allston, never saw or heard of you before he came to Rockton. It was not in a spirit of malice that he wrote that advertisement. Don't you see, Mr. Merry, that by having him arrested you will only subject yourself to ridicule? You acknowledge yourself to be a 'queer old man.' Why should you do that?"
The old gentleman coughed.
"Ahem! That aspect of the case had not occurred to me," he said. "You assure me, Miss March, that the young man did not intend to hold me up to ridicule?"
"I am absolutely certain," interrupted the deputy, "that he did."
"Shut up, Bullfinch!"
"Mr. Merry," interrupted Al, "I give you my word of honor that I should not have inserted that advertisement if I had for one moment supposed it would injure the feelings of anyone. It was only a joke on the public."
"A joke at my expense, young man!"
"I have given you my word of honor, sir, that I did not intend to hurt you or anyone else by that ad."
"Your word of honor!" sneered Mr. Merry. "What is your word of honor good for? Who are you?"
Al colored.
"You have heard my name from Miss March. I am Allen Allston."
The old man started.
"I did not catch the name before," he said. "Surely you are not Allen Allston from Boomville?"
"I am."
"The noble young fellow who saved the life of my grandchild?"
"Is Mayor Anderson's little girl your granddaughter, sir?" asked Al, a little embarrassed.
"Of course she is. My boy, I beg your pardon."
And the old man grasped Al's hand and shook it warmly, adding:
"The youth who performed such a heroic act could not be guilty of such a crime as that of which you are accused. Bullfinch"—turning fiercely upon the deputy—"you are a fool!"
"Sir——"
"What put it into your head that he could have had any malicious intent in writing that advertisement?"
"I only acted upon your instructions, sir," responded the deputy, very humbly.
"Nonsense! I thought you had a little common sense. Leave the room, sir. Your presence is an insult to me and to my friends."
"But the arrest, sir——"
"There will be no arrest to-day; I withdraw the complaint."
"But the warrant——"
"Tear it up—do anything you like with it, only don't worry me any further with your nonsensical remarks. Go, sir!"
The deputy slunk out of the room.
Mr. Merry turned to the actress.
"I am extremely pained," he began, "that such a scene should have occurred in your room. I am——"
"Will you please state your business, sir?" interrupted Miss March.
The old gentleman was a little disconcerted at first, but he quickly recovered himself and said:
"I come, as I remarked before, to pay a tribute to genius and beauty."
"Well?"
Al had not supposed the girl capable of assuming such a frigid air as that with which she now confronted her aged admirer.
"Will you accept these flowers?" stammered the old man. "They are a tribute to——"
"Thanks," interrupted the actress. "You may leave them on the table."
"You are very kind. And now——"
"And now you must excuse me; I have business of importance with Mr. Allston."
"Oh, certainly! May I call again?"
"I am too much occupied to receive callers. Good-morning."
And with perfect self-possession the young girl opened the door.
Mumbling a few inaudible words, the aged admirer of the drama left the room.
"I am sorry to say," remarked Miss March, "that Ihave seen men like him before. He means no harm, but I cannot endure such silliness. But never mind about him; let us talk about ourselves. Sit down, please, and I will try to commence where I left off. When we were interrupted I had asked you to tell me the story of your sister's disappearance——"
"And I was about to do so."
"Exactly. Go on."
Al hesitated.
"Why do you want to hear the story, Miss March?" he asked.
"Because—because——"
"Well?"
"Because I believe that I may be your sister!"
Al started. Could Miss March seriously mean what she said?
"You surely do not think," the girl said, earnestly, "that I would jest on a subject so sacred?"
"No, no," Al assured her, "but what ground have you for thinking that we may be related?"
"No logical ground, perhaps," the actress replied; "but from the moment I first saw you—and I have seen you when you were not aware of my presence—I was strangely attracted to you. You may laugh at this, you may think it only the foolish fancy of a foolish girl, but it is true."
"And I, too," said Al, thoughtfully, "have had the same feeling toward you. I remember I could think of nothing but your face all the way home on the night of your first performance in Boomville. Can it really be that you are my sister, restored to me in this strange way? If she is alive she must be about your age."
"Tell me all you know about her," entreated the girl; "the circumstances under which she was lost—all. But no"—with sudden change of manner—"I will tell you my story first, if you will listen to it."
"Go on, please, Miss March."
"My first recollections are of a miserable home on the upper floor of a tenement house in New York. I livedwith a hard-featured woman who called herself my aunt. Her name was Ann Thompson. Did you ever hear of her?"
And Miss March gazed anxiously into the boy's face.
Al shook his head.
"Never!"
"Aunt Ann, as I used to call her," went on the actress, "was always more or less under the influence of liquor. Gin was her favorite drink. She would work until she had money enough for a debauch, and then—but I cannot bear to recall my unhappy childhood."
Miss March paused and turned away her face; her trembling voice showed the emotion she felt.
"I can imagine it all," said Al, sympathetically. "Go on, please, and spare yourself unnecessary pain."
"How kind you are!" the young girl said, gratefully. "I will, then, omit many details which I am sure would be as painful for you to hear as for me to relate. When under the influence of alcohol Aunt Ann was sometimes very cruel to me. She would beat and otherwise ill-treat me; and to-day I bear scars inflicted by her. But I bore all as patiently as I could, and for what reason, do you suppose?"
"I should think you would have left her," said Al, as the actress paused.
"I should have done so but for one thing."
"And that was?"
"Sometimes while intoxicated she would hint to me that in reality we were not flesh and blood, that I was in noway akin to her, that there was a secret in my life that she could reveal if she would, a secret the publication of which would be greatly to my advantage. But she never became so intoxicated that she told me the whole truth; I could only guess it. Sometimes during her sober intervals I would tax her with what she had said; but she would always reply by telling me that I must pay no attention to anything she said when she was drunk—that she was at such times out of her mind, and did not know what she was saying. Once, when I persisted, she became greatly enraged, and gave me such a beating that I was taken to a hospital and she was arrested and sentenced to a term of imprisonment."
At this point in her story Miss March burst into tears.
"Postpone telling the rest of it until another time," said Al, to whom the recital was almost as painful as to the girl.
"No," said the actress, "I must go on. I was discharged from the hospital on the day on which Aunt Ann was released from jail, and the old life was renewed."
"You went back to live with the woman?" cried Al.
"Yes. I had no other home. Besides, I still hoped that I might be able to learn from her the secret of my birth—for that there was a secret I was now more firmly convinced than ever. At the time of which I have just been telling you, I was about twelve years of age. Three years later Aunt Ann, while under the influence of liquor, met with an accident which terminated her miserable life in two days. When she was told that she was really dying, shesent for a priest and confessed to him. When the clergyman was gone she summoned me to her bedside, and told me that at the suggestion of the good father she was about to tell me at last the secret that I had been striving so long to learn."
"And she said——" demanded the boy, breathlessly.
"She began by telling me that she was not my aunt, that we were in no way related. Years before she had been my nurse. My poor mother had in some trivial way offended her, and under the influence of her anger—and, I suppose, of alcohol—she determined to revenge herself by kidnaping me. She carried this resolution into effect, and her guilt was never proven, although it was suspected. 'My name is not Ann Thompson,' she said to me, 'but you shall know now what it really is, and who your parents are. Your father is dead, but your mother still lives. For years she has mourned you unceasingly.' The woman then bade me unlock and open a certain drawer in her bureau. I did so, and took from it at her direction a small package. 'That bundle,' she said, 'contains proof of your identity. Take it to your mother and show her what is in it. Tell her what I have said, give her my real name, and she will acknowledge you as her 'daughter.' 'What is your name?' I cried, breathlessly—'what is mine?' The woman opened her lips to reply, but not a sound escaped them. The next moment she fell back upon her pillow. I bent over her, crying in an agony of suspense: 'Speak, speak!' But she could not, she was dead!"
"What did the package contain?" asked Al.
"Only a few articles of infant's clothing and two pieces of jewelry. Some time they may be of assistance to me in finding my parents, but thus far they have proved of no value as a clew. Well, after Aunt Ann's death I was adopted by a family in moderate circumstances. They had no interest in my personal affairs, all they wanted of me was my services as housemaid, and I served in that capacity for two years. Then came an opportunity to adopt a stage career, and I eagerly seized it, against the advice of all who were in any way interested. I must say that, so far, I have had no reason to regret my decision in the matter. I find that the stories of the temptations of stage life that I had heard were gross exaggerations, and that a woman can be as good and pure on the stage as off it. And now, my friend, you have heard my story; can you help me find my mother? Do you think it possible that I am the sister for whom you have been searching?"
Al's voice trembled with emotion as he replied:
"That question can very soon be decided. Have you the package of infant's clothing that you spoke of?"
"Yes; I always have it with me wherever I go."
"May I see it?"
"I am very anxious to show it to you."
And the actress rose and opened her trunk, from which she took a small parcel.
Her face was very pale, her hands trembled as she unfastened the little package.
"Look!" she said.
Al took the garments, yellowed with time, in his hands.
"I have heard my mother describe the clothing that my little sister wore when she disappeared," he said, "a thousand times. She would be able to tell you if these are the ones, but I cannot. But the jewelry—where is that?"
"Here."
And the girl handed him a box.
The lad took from it a baby's ring and a chain, to which was attached a locket.
"My sister wore a chain and locket like these when she was lost," he said, "In a moment I will tell you if this is the locket."
"How can you?" the actress cried.
"Because the locket contains my father's picture."
"There is no picture in this," said Miss March, with a look of deep disappointment.
"You do not know whether there is or not," said Al. "There is a secret spring and I can find it. Look!"
As he spoke the locket flew open.