As Miss March bent over the locket she uttered an exclamation of wonder and delight.
The portrait revealed was that of a singularly handsome man in the prime of life. The calm, thoughtful eyes and the sensitive mouth were those of the young actress herself; the likeness was not only unmistakable, but remarkable.
"Is it possible that this picture has been here all these years, and I have never known it?" the girl exclaimed.
"You might never have discovered it," replied Al. "I should not have known but for the fact that I have a locket precisely like it, which opens in the same way."
"Then there can be no doubt——"
"That you are my sister."
"Brother!"
The next moment the singularly united couple were folded in each other's arms.
It was a moment that in all their after lives neither of them ever forgot, a joy that no future sorrow had the power to efface from their memories.
When the first transports of emotion were over, the young girl said, tremulously:
"My mother—when shall I see her? Oh, I must go to her at once! I must, I must!"
"Of course, Mr. Wattles will give you leave of absence as soon as we tell him what we have discovered."
"I do not see how he can."
"Why can't he?"
"I have no understudy. No, I must remain; he has been very kind to me, and I could not ask a favor that I knew it would be so very difficult for him to grant."
"That is right, sister. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll telegraph to mother to come on here at once. She will arrive before the evening performance."
"Do so, brother—— Oh, how strange, yet how delightful, it is to utter that sacred name! But do not tell her the truth until she comes."
"No, indeed. Why, I think the shock would almost kill her. We must break it to her gently."
At this moment Mr. Wattles came bustling into the room.
"The advance sale," he began, "is something unheard of in Rockton. Why—— But what's the matter? Nothing wrong, is there?"
"No, indeed," Al replied. "Everything is all right."
And he proceeded to acquaint the manager in a few words with what had happened.
"Well," said Mr. Wattles, when he had finished, "you beat the deck, young man. I'm going to write a romance about you when the season is over. You're no sooner done with one startling adventure than you're right in the midst of another. Why, you're almost equal to oneof Dumas' heroes! Well, I sincerely congratulate you both."
After a hearty handshake the manager added:
"And now I must be off to give this story to the papers."
"No, no!" cried Miss March.
"Not by any means," added Al.
Mr. Wattles stared at them.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"We mean," said Al, "that this is a private affair with which the papers have nothing to do."
"But, my dear boy, think—only think—what a grand ad. it would make for the show!"
"No matter; we don't want a word printed about it."
"Of course not," said the actress. "I should think you would understand our feelings in the matter, Mr. Wattles."
"Well, I don't," returned the manager, evidently chagrined. "I cannot, to save my life, see why you are willing to throw away such a chance for a stunning free ad. Nor"—addressing Al—"can I understand your scruples. By Jove! you are the queerest combination of impudence and modesty that I ever met. But have it your own way, my children; throw away the chance if you want to."
As he was about to leave the room the old gentleman turned again, saying:
"I almost forgot that I had a letter for you, Miss March. Here it is, and I think I know the handwriting."
As the actress glanced at the superscription on the envelope she changed color.
"It is from that wretch, Farley!" she exclaimed.
"So I thought," said Mr. Wattles. "You had better look out for that man, my dear. He is, or thinks he is, desperately in love with you, and he may give you some trouble yet. If you don't mind, I should like to know the contents of that letter. Believe me, it is not from mere idle curiosity that I ask you to let me read it."
"I know that, Mr. Wattles," said Miss March. "Ever since I have been in your company you have been like a father to me. You shall open the letter yourself if you will."
She handed the epistle to the manager, who tore it open. As he glanced at its contents a frown appeared upon his usually cheerful countenance.
"The scoundrel!" he muttered, crushing the letter in his hand; "if I ever meet him again I will thrash him within an inch of his life—I will, by Jove!"
"What does he say?" the girl asked, anxiously.
"It will do you no good to know the contents of this precious epistle," replied Mr. Wattles. "You had better let me destroy it."
But Miss March's feminine curiosity was now aroused, and she insisted upon knowing what was in the letter.
"Well, if you will have it," said the manager, resignedly, "I'll read it to you. But if you don't sleep nights for the next week or two you mustn't blame me."
"Go on, go on!"
The old gentleman read as follows:
"Gladys: This is to remind you that, although we are separated, I am near you. Do you remember what I told you the last time we met, that no power on earth could make me give you up? I meant what I said, I mean it still. I am not far away; you will see me sooner than you think."
"Gladys: This is to remind you that, although we are separated, I am near you. Do you remember what I told you the last time we met, that no power on earth could make me give you up? I meant what I said, I mean it still. I am not far away; you will see me sooner than you think."
"Is there no signature?" asked Miss March.
"None, but there can be no doubt as to the identity of the writer."
"Of course not."
"I don't want to alarm you, my dear, but you ought to be very careful."
"I shall be."
Al laughed.
"I don't think there is much danger," he said. "That letter sounds like an extract from a sensational novel. A barking dog never bites, you know."
"I don't know anything of the sort," returned Mr. Wattles. "Some barking dogs do bite; and this one, as you have reason to know yourself, has sharp teeth. Well, just let me lay my hands on him and I'll settle him in short order."
"What will you do?" smiled Al.
"First, as I said before, I'll give him a sound thrashing. Oh, you may laugh, but I can do it, if I am not a boy. And then I'll hand him over to the authorities. By Jove! I had no idea that the fellow was such a scoundrelwhen he was in my employ, or I wouldn't have kept him an hour. But now I really must be off. Do your best to-night, Miss March; you'll have one of the biggest houses of the season—thanks to the exertions of that sharp young brother of yours."
And the manager rushed out of the room.
"Brother!" the girl said, softly. "How sweet the name sounds. To think that I have a brother! And a mother!"
"Don't cry—please don't!" entreated Al, with a boy's horror of feminine tears.
"They are tears of joy, brother. And now you must go and send the telegram."
A telegram, carefully worded so that Mrs. Allston's maternal alarms might not be aroused, was sent. In it Al requested her to come to Rockton by a certain train, and promised to be at the depot to meet her.
A reply came within an hour:
"Yours received. Shall be there. Hope nothing has happened."
"I should say something had happened," laughed Al, when he and his new-found sister had read the message.
"Poor mother!" sighed the girl. "She fears that you have met with some accident."
"In a very few hours that fear will be dispelled. What will she say when she learns the truth?"
"Ah, what?" responded Miss March. "I dread almost as much as I long for the meeting."
The anxious mother arrived on time. It is not our purpose to chronicle the first meeting between the long-separated couple. Such scenes defy the skill of the storyteller's pen or the artist's brush. Suffice it to say that the proofs of her identity presented by the young girl were perfectly satisfactory to Mrs. Allston, and that the reunion of mother and daughter was all that the fancy of either had ever pictured it.
True, the somewhat Puritanical old lady was a littleshocked at finding her daughter a member of the theatrical profession; she had always regarded player folk as far beneath herself, both socially and morally, and her own daughter was probably the first actress she had ever seen off the stage.
"I wish, my dear," she said, "that you would give up this dreadful business and go home with me. To think of my child, my daughter, a play actress! It is dreadful!"
"Not quite as dreadful as you think, mother," the girl replied, quietly. "I could not conscientiously leave Mr. Wattles until he had secured some one else to play the part. Then, however, if you wish me to give up the stage, I shall do so. We will talk it all over after the performance to-night."
"Yes, we will talk it over after the performance," echoed the mother.
The house was crowded to the doors that night. Not a seat was to be had at eight o'clock; even standing room was at a premium.
Again Al had demonstrated his ability as a hustler.
Everyone in town had read and re-read his strange advertisement; many eyes were bent on the third row of the orchestra, in search of the "queer old man." And Mr. Marmaduke Merry was there, too, not a whit abashed, a huge bouquet in his withered hand.
A good many people had heard of his attempt to have Al arrested in the morning—such news travels fast—and he was the unconscious butt of many a covert jest.
Some one—it will never be known who, though theremay be reason to suspect Mr. Augustus Wattles—had caused the report to be spread that the pretty actress, Miss Gladys March, was the long-lost sister of the young press agent, Al Allston, and that they had been reunited through the article in theBanner. That more than one person knew about it was evident when Al made his appearance in a box, with his mother on his arm; the applause that greeted him was as unexpected as it was embarrassing.
At first the boy did not realize that he was the object of these unusual demonstrations.
"What are they making all that noise about?" he said.
"Why, they are applauding you," his mother said.
"Nonsense!"
"Don't you see that every eye is fixed on this box?"
"I don't know but you are right," gasped Al, feeling symptoms of a return of the "stage fright" with which he had been seized on the occasion of the first performance in Boomville.
"Of course I am."
"Of course she is," added Mr. Wattles, suddenly appearing upon the scene. "Bow, my boy, bow! And couldn't you make a little impromptu speech?"
"Not much!" replied Al, very emphatically. "I tell you, Mr. Wattles, if I had had any idea that the duties of a press agent included so many public appearances, I should not have gone into the business."
He bowed; then some one—probably under the manager's direction—called out:
"Speech! speech!"
But Al shook his head so emphatically that the audience saw he meant his refusal, and the applause soon subsided.
A few moments later the curtain rose.
There was very little applause until Miss March made her entrance; her appearance was the signal for another demonstration of enthusiasm. Probably seven-eighths of the audience did not know why they were applauding, but the other eighth did, and its enthusiasm was, as a matter of course, contagious. The applause was literally deafening. In its midst Mr. Merry hurled his bouquet upon the stage. It fell at the feet of the young actress, who picked it up, smiling and blushing, to the evident delight of the elderly "masher."
Mrs. Allston shuddered.
"This life of feverish excitement will kill my child," she said. "She must abandon it."
"Wait till you see her play, mother," said Al.
"That will not alter my determination."
"Wait," added the boy, quietly.
He was not wrong in the conclusion he had reached. Miss March's part was small, but it was a strong one. It was that of a persecuted young girl who had been driven from home because of a misunderstanding. It was a pathetic rôle, and before the actress had been on the stage five minutes the entire female portion of the audience were in tears, and there was a suspicious moisture in the eyes of more than one of the sterner sex.
"Isn't she fine?" whispered Al in his mother's ear, as the girl left the stage, after her first scene.
"It is wonderful! I am amazed."
"You did not think there was so much talent in the family, did you? Now, wouldn't it be a pity to rob the stage of such an ornament?"
"Yes."
"I thought you would say so. I believe she has a great future. But let us leave the decision to her."
"We will do so, my boy."
At this moment there came a shrill cry from the gallery.
"Fire!"
For one instant there was a dead silence; then three-quarters of the audience sprang to their feet.
Then came a mad rush for the exits.
It was a scene of indescribable confusion. Women and children were trampled beneath the feet of those who should have been their protectors, but whose only thought now was to save their cowardly selves.
The shrieks of the terrified women, the groans of the injured, the curses of the rougher element, who, though face to face with death, did not fear to blaspheme—these added to the horror of the scene.
It was evident that the alarm had not been a false one, for the house was rapidly filling with smoke, and the crackling of flames could be plainly heard.
The doors soon became blocked. It seemed certain that many must perish in the flames.
Al quickly led his mother through the door that connected the box with the stage, and conducted her in safety out of the building through the stage entrance.
As he passed Mr. Wattles at the door he uttered one word:
"Gladys?"
"She is safe," the manager replied. "She went out but a moment ago."
"Thank Heaven! Mother, are you afraid to go back to the hotel alone?"
"No, no; it is but a very short distance. But what are you going to do, my boy?"
"I think I can be of some assistance in getting the people out. Good-by! I shall be with you again soon."
And he rushed around to the front of the house, where the confusion was greater than ever.
The Rockton police force were evidently not equal to the emergency—two or three Hibernians in blue uniform were rushing wildly about, issuing orders to which no one paid the slightest attention.
Meanwhile nearly a thousand people were confined within the burning building, most of them apparently doomed to a horrible death.
At the doors—of which there were only two—men were fighting like maniacs to escape, and actually retarding their own progress in their mad excitement.
What could one boy hope to do against this panic-stricken throng?
This is the question that Al Allston asked himself.
"I'm afraid I shan't accomplish much," he said to himself; "but I'm going to try, anyhow."
Assuming as cool an air as he could, he ran up to the entrance.
"Gentlemen," he said, "there is no danger. Take it easy; walk out just as you would at any other time, and everything will be all right. Keep cool."
Probably not more than half a dozen persons heard the words, but the few who did hear them were impressed by the calm, fearless demeanor of the boy, which was in such striking contrast to that of everyone else in the crowd.
An example of this sort is contagious; word was passed from one man to another that the danger was not as great as had been supposed. The conduct of the throng changed almost immediately.
"Walk out quietly," went on Al, who was now able to make himself heard. "Those on the right-hand side go in the direction of Grand Street, and those on the left in the direction of Market Street. Don't block the sidewalk. Keep cool, and everyone will get out all right. There is nothing to get excited about."
These words had almost a magical effect. In reality, there was quite enough in the situation to excite anyone, but Al's apparent calmness and his assertion that the danger did not amount to anything produced just the result he desired.
The crowd became more rational, and to make a long story short, within three minutes the building was emptied, even of the women and children who had fainted or been injured.
Five minutes later the roof of the building fell in, but there was every reason to believe that not a single human life had been sacrificed.
Al started for his hotel as quietly as if nothing unusual had happened. But he had gone only a few steps when he was overtaken by Mr. Wattles.
To his astonishment, the manager folded him in his arms, exclaiming:
"By Jove! I wish you were my son!"
"What's the matter now?" asked the boy, disengaging himself.
"Matter? Why, the matter is that you have in all probability saved the lives of several hundred people."
"Nonsense!"
"That's just what you have done, all the same. You have a cool head for such a young fellow—I can tell you that. If it hadn't been for you—I shudder to think of what might have happened. You are, as I have had occasion to remark before, a wonder."
"Nonsense, Mr. Wattles! But I must go now; mother is sure to be worrying about me."
"But there are a score of people waiting to be introduced to you, and I have promised to bring you back with me."
"I can't go, Mr. Wattles."
"But——"
"Tell them that I—— Oh, just tell them the plain truth."
"That you have a morbid horror of being lionized?"
"If you want to put it in that way; and that my mother is waiting for me."
"Well, well, I won't urge you—particularly as I know that you generally mean what you say and stick to it. But, let me tell you, young man, you will have to stand considerable lionizing before you leave this town, whether you like it or not."
"I don't think so," smiled Al. "There is an early train in the morning, if I am not mistaken."
"But you won't take it."
"You will see. Well, good-night, Mr. Wattles. Oh, wait a moment!"
"What is it?"
"You are sure my sister got out all right?"
"Oh, yes; everyone on the stage escaped within two minutes after the first alarm. Don't you know I told you that I saw her go out? You will find her with your mother when you get back to the hotel."
Al said good-night once more, and walked away.
"Well," muttered the manager, as he stood and watched the lad's slim figure until it was lost to view, "that boy is a corker. I don't believe he is afraid of anything on earth—except speech-making. I should like to see him really agitated for once."
Mr. Wattles had his wish in less than fifteen minutes.
He had just lighted the gas in his hotel room when there was a quick knock upon the door.
Before he could say "Come in!" Al rushed into the room.
One glance at his face showed the manager that something unusual must have happened. Never before had he seen the boy so intensely excited; he was panting for breath, and his face was ghastly pale.
"What is the matter?" the old gentleman gasped.
"Gladys—my sister——" the boy began.
"Has anything happened to her?"
"We cannot find her."
"She has not returned to the hotel?"
"No."
"Oh, there can be no occasion for alarm. I told you she got out of the theater all right."
"But she may have returned."
"What should she return for? But she did not; that I am sure of."
"Where is she, then?"
"Oh, don't worry, my boy; she will turn up all right. Perhaps she has gone to visit friends."
"Would she be likely to visit friends under such circumstances?" said the boy, almost angrily. "She has no acquaintances in this place—she told me so only this afternoon; and if she had, this is not the time she would choose for making a social call."
"No, of course not, my boy. Well, what do you think has become of her?"
"I believe that she has been the victim of foul play. Have you forgotten Farley's letter?"
Mr. Wattles started.
"It may be so."
"I am sure it is."
"But I have seen nothing of Farley."
"He would not be likely to let you see anything of him if he could help it."
"True. Well, what shall we do? Command me, my boy; I am at your service."
Before Al could reply the door, which the boy had only partially closed, was opened, and a man entered.
Both our hero and the manager recognized him as one of the stage hands in the Rockton Theater.
When he saw Al he started, then he said:
"Mr. Wattles, I came here on purpose to get this here young gentleman's address."
"My address?" cried Al. "What do you want that for?"
"Is it true, sir," the man asked, "that the young lady as was on the bills as Miss Gladys March is your sister?"
"Yes."
"Then, sir, I have some information for you."
"Do you know where she is?" demanded the boy, breathlessly.
"No, sir; but I know that she is in a trap, and that if you want to save her you must act quick. I've come here, sir, to make a clean breast of my part in the affair."
Overcome by excitement, Al seized the fellow by the throat and forced him to his knees.
"Speak!" he hissed. "Tell the truth, or I will strangle you!"
Mr. Wattles stepped forward and gently forced Al to relax his hold on the man's throat.
"Don't get excited, my boy," he said. "This is just the time when you need a cool head."
"That's so, sir," added the visitor. "I don't blame the young gent for the way he feels, but if he expects to get the best of that villain, Jack Farley, he has got to keep his wits about him."
"Then," gasped Al, "it was Farley that enticed her away?"
"It was him, sir."
"And what had you to do with it?"
"More than I wish I had. The truth is, sir, I did not realize what I was doing at the time. I was not onto his game until it was too late, and then I——"
"Don't beat about the bush any longer," interrupted Mr. Wattles, impatiently. "What was Farley's game?"
"Where is my sister?" added Al, in an agony of suspense.
"It's like this, gents," replied the man. "Just before the alarm of fire was given a man came to the stage door, where I happened to be standing at the time. His collar was turned up, and his hat was pulled down, and at first I did not recognize him. 'I want you to do me a favor,'he says. 'What is it?' says I, 'and who are you?' 'Don't you know me?' he asks me. 'No, I don't,' I tells him, 'and I ain't got no time to stand here fooling with you.' You see, I thought maybe he was a stage-door masher, though he didn't look much like one, to tell the truth, for he was dressed in a way that——"
"Never mind all that," interrupted Mr. Wattles again. "Get to the point. The man told you he was Farley?"
"He did, sir."
"Why were you any more willing to talk to him then? Had you ever met him before?"
"Oh, yes."
"By your own admission you knew he was a villain. Why, then, were you willing to do him a favor?"
"He did me a great service once, sir, and I was glad of a chance to repay him."
"Even at the risk of a young girl's life happiness, perhaps her life itself?"
"I did not think it was as serious as all that then, sir. You see, all he asked me was to tell Miss March that a friend bearing important news was waiting just outside the stage door to see her, and that he would not detain her more than a minute. He also told me not to say that it was him if she should ask."
"And you did this?"
"I took the message to Miss March, and, as she had at least half an hour's time before she had to go on again, she went with me to the door without any hesitation."
"And then?" cried Al, breathlessly.
"There was no one else around at the moment. Miss March stepped out. I was surprised to see that there was a carriage waiting in the alley. He said something to her that I could not hear, and led her to the door of the carriage. The next moment, to my surprise, he lifted her in his arms and put her into the carriage. She didn't have time to make any resistance at all. I am not sure, but I think there was another person in the carriage."
"And you made no attempt to interfere?" cried Mr. Wattles.
"What could I do, sir?"
"I am pretty sure that if I had been in your place I should have done something," said the old gentleman, warmly.
"The carriage drove off like mad as soon as the young lady was put into it, sir."
"Didn't Farley enter it, too?"
"Oh, yes, he jumped right in after her. The driver seemed to know what to do; anyway, he received no directions from Mr. Farley in my hearing. I suppose it had all been arranged between them beforehand."
"Of course. You might have given the alarm at once; why didn't you?" demanded Al.
"By that time, sir, the alarm of fire had been given, and there was a terrible commotion in the theater. In the confusion I did not know what to do."
"Well," said Mr. Wattles, "better late than never. But what put it into your head to come here at all?"
"I don't know that I should have come, sir, but when I heard of the heroic way in which this young gent behaved, and how he saved the lives of maybe half the audience—when I heard all this, and was told that the young lady, Miss March, was his sister, I made up my mind that I would come here and make a clean breast of my part of the affair."
"And you have really told us all you know?"
"All, sir, so help me Heaven!"
"I believe you, my man," said Mr. Wattles.
"And so do I," added Al. "But we must not spend any more time in talk; we have got to do something at once."
"I will do anything in my power to help you, sir," said the man.
"I don't see that you can do much more than you have done," said Al. "You can give me a description of the carriage and the horse, though."
"The carriage was an ordinary livery coach. There were two horses, both of them gray. It was a livery turn-out—there can't be any doubt about that—and not a first-class one, either."
"You don't know what stable it came from?"
"No, sir; but it won't be a very hard job to find that out, for there are only three stables in town. Two of them are quite swell, but the other isn't, and I guess it was from that one that the coach came."
"Well," said Mr. Wattles, springing to his feet, "we can get to work now. Come, my boy, this man shalltake us to the stable at once, and we will see what they have to tell us there."
"I don't want to drag you out, Mr. Wattles," said Al. "I can manage this business alone."
"You can, eh?" said the manager, almost indignantly. "Well, maybe you could, but you won't get the chance. I am going to be right in it with you. Why, do you suppose I could sleep a wink to-night with this thing on my mind? I tell you, my boy, I thought more of that girl than you imagine, and if anything should happen to her——"
Mr. Wattles choked and turned away his head. Al was surprised at this exhibition of emotion; he had not given his employer credit for the possession of so much feeling.
He extended his hand.
"Mr. Wattles," he said, "you are a good friend of mine and hers. Have it your own way, then. Come!"
The manager pressed the boy's hand.
"I don't like scenes—off the stage," he said, rather shamefacedly. "I dislike emotion, and am seldom betrayed into it. But—but—— Oh, well, we mustn't stand here talking all night. Lead the way to the stable you spoke of, my man."
Ten minutes later the trio reached the stable. Here several delays awaited them. In the first place, the man who had been on duty in the office at the time the coach must have been hired, was asleep in a room above the stable, and when awakened refused to get up. Aftersome persuasion, he agreed to do so, and came downstairs half dressed. He was also half asleep, and for several minutes could not recall the event about which his visitors were so anxious to be informed. It had been an unusually busy evening, and he was not sure whether the coach had come from that stable or not.
At last, however, his memory having been stimulated by a five-dollar bill, which Mr. Wattles slipped into his hands, he remembered having rented the team to a man who answered Farley's description.
"There was a lady with him, too," the man added.
"What sort of a looking woman?" asked the manager.
"Tall, dark, with very black eyes."
"Miss Hollingsworth!" exclaimed Mr. Wattles.
"Just the idea that occurred to me," added Al.
"It was she, beyond the shadow of a doubt. She is in the scheme, too, then. That woman is capable of anything. At last we have a clew, and a strong one."
"But why," questioned Al, "should Miss Hollingsworth lend herself to such a scheme?"
"For several reasons," Mr. Wattles replied. "In the first place, she is a woman who likes mischief for its own sake—there are such people, you know. Then, she is under the influence of Farley; that is a fact that I have known for a long time. That man can make her do almost anything he wishes."
"Is she in love with him?"
"Sometimes I have thought so, and sometimes I have thought she almost hated him. He seems to exercise a sort of hypnotic influence over her; that is the only way in which I can explain it."
"If she is in love with him," suggested Al, "it is rather strange, isn't it, that she should help him to abduct a rival?"
"Not when you consider everything. Remember that the woman has a grudge against you. You haven't forgotten that episode at the Boomville Opera House, have you? You were the indirect means of throwing her out of an engagement."
"That is so."
"You can depend upon it," went on the manager, "that the woman in the case—and in the carriage—was MissOlga Hollingsworth. But we mustn't stand talking here any longer."
Mr. Wattles had observed that the stableman was listening to the dialogue with considerable interest.
"Where did the couple say they were going?" he added.
"They said," was the reply, "that they wanted to catch a train, but that they had to make a call first."
"Did they say where they were going to call?"
"They did not."
"Did they say what train they wanted to catch?"
"No, sir."
"Where is the driver that took them out? Has he returned yet?"
"He came back long ago, and has gone home."
"Did he say where he took them?" questioned Al.
"No, sir, he said nothing about the matter; all we were talking about was the theater fire."
"Well," said Mr. Wattles, with a wink at Al, "we are much obliged for your information. Good-night."
And he took the boy's arm and walked him rather unceremoniously out of the place.
"I wanted to ask a few more questions," said Al, when they were outside.
"It wouldn't have done any good, my boy. The man told us all he knew about the case."
"I'm not so sure about that," demurred Al. "It seems rather queer to me that the driver should say nothing at all about such a peculiar case when he got back to the stable. According to the report of the stage hand hemust have been posted about Farley's intention. He was really a party to the crime."
"Exactly; and that, of course, is just the reason he said nothing when he got back. But we can find out all that later on. Now, in my opinion, they—Farley, Hollingsworth and their victim—did really take a train. The question now is, what train?"
"Perhaps we can learn that at the railway station."
"Just what I was going to say. We will go to the station now and find out what trains leave at about the time that our friends would have been likely to reach the place."
"Rockton is not a very big place; there are not many trains a day."
"No; we shan't have any trouble in getting the information we want."
They found the station agent at the depot. He was a small, shriveled-up old man, and he glared suspiciously at them when they questioned him.
It took them some minutes to elicit the information that two trains left the station at nine-ten—about the hour that the carriage would have reached the place if it had gone there direct from the theater.
"And where do these two trains go?" asked Mr. Wattles.
"One goes to New York."
"And the other?"
"The other is the Boston express."
The manager then described the occupants of the carriage.
"I remember them; what of it?" said the station agent, crustily.
"What do you remember about them?"
"I remember that one of the ladies—the smaller one—seemed to be sick; at any rate, she had to be helped into the waiting room, where they all three stayed till the train arrived."
"Which of the two trains did they take?" cried Al.
"That I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"That's what I said. Do you suppose I keep tabs on everyone that comes into this place? Hardly."
"The New York train and the Boston train were here at the same time?"
"Yes."
"And they might have taken either?"
"They might."
"It is of a good deal of importance to us," said Al, "to learn which of those two trains they took."
"I can't help that," was the reply. "I'm no clairvoyant or fortune-teller."
"Isn't there some one about the station who could give us some information?"
"I don't think there is. The ticket-seller that they bought their tickets from might tell you something, but he's off now; there is another man in his place."
Al and Mr. Wattles stared at each other in perplexity.
Just then a hang-dog looking young fellow of about Al's age came slouching up.
"Here, Smith," called out the station agent, "these folks want some information; perhaps you can give it to 'em. Tell this chap what you want, gents, and maybe he can help you out."
Al explained the situation to the fellow, who said, readily enough:
"Oh, yes; I remember that party."
"And which of the two trains did they take?"
"The one goin' to Boston."
"At last," exclaimed Mr. Wattles, "we have a little information. Now, then, my boy, what shall we do?"
"I shall follow them," replied Al, promptly.
"I wish I could go with you, but——"
"I know it would be impossible, Mr. Wattles; and probably I shall get along just as well alone."
"Maybe; but I'd like to be with you to witness the discomfiture of that arch-villain. Well, come along and get your ticket for Boston."
They were now walking in the direction of the ticket office.
"No," said Al, "I shall get a ticket for New York."
"Eh?"
The boy repeated the statement.
"But that fellow said they went to Boston; you must have misunderstood him."
"Oh, no, I didn't."
"He certainly said Boston."
"I know he did."
"And yet you are going to get a ticket for New York?"
"I am."
"I don't understand you."
"I'll explain. You didn't see the wink he gave the station agent when he told us the Boston train yarn, did you?"
"No."
"I did."
"You think he was lying to us?"
"I am sure of it. Farley probably paid him to put us off the track."
"Allston, you are a smart young fellow, but there is such a thing as being too smart. It may be that by going to New York you will lose them."
"I don't think so, Mr. Wattles; I am sure I am right. At any rate, I will take the chances."
Twenty minutes later Al was on his way to the metropolis.
As may be imagined, Al was very tired when he boarded the train for New York. It had been a hard day for him; yet, though physically fatigued, he was mentally alert.
Next him sat a clerical-looking man of about fifty, who presently remarked:
"You got on at Rockton, young gentleman, did you not?"
Al, glad of the chance to speak to anyone, replied in the affirmative.
"I once had a charge there," went on the old man.
Al did not understand him.
"A charge?" he said, interrogatively.
"Yes; I am a minister of the Gospel."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes; I was pastor of the wealthiest church in Rockton. I left it to accept a call to New York."
As this statement possessed no especial interest to the boy, he made no reply.
There was a silence of some minutes' duration. Then the old gentleman broke out with:
"May I offer you my card?"
At the same time he thrust a bit of pasteboard into Al's hand.
Upon it was inscribed the name, David Ferguson, D. D.
"I haven't a card with me, Dr. Ferguson," said the boy; "but my name is Allen Allston."
His traveling companion grasped his hand, and shook it with a remarkable exhibition of warmth, considering their short acquaintance.
"I am delighted to meet you, my young friend," he said. "Are you going far?"
"To New York, sir."
"Indeed! Then we shall be traveling companions for nearly three hours. How delightful!"
The prospect did not seem quite so delightful to Al; for, although he was glad to have some one to talk to, he began to fear that the Rev. Dr. Ferguson might not prove a wholly congenial companion.
"Are you a resident of Rockton?" went on the doctor.
"No, sir."
"Only a visitor there?"
"That's all."
"Rockton is a beautiful place."
Al acquiesced.
"And you don't live there?" continued Dr. Ferguson.
"I do not."
"You were visiting friends?" questioned the old man, whose bump of curiosity seemed to be well developed.
"I was not, sir; I was there on business."
"On business! Really? You are quite young to be actively engaged in business."
As this was a point upon which Al was a little sore,he made no reply. He was now quite willing to let the conversation end right there and then.
But Dr. Ferguson would not have it so.
"What was the nature of your business, if I may ask?" he resumed. "Pardon me, if I seem inquisitive."
"Well," said Al, with a sigh, "I don't know that I have any reason to be ashamed of my business."
"I trust not, my dear young friend—I most sincerely trust that you have not."
"I am connected with Wattles' New York Comedy Company."
Dr. Ferguson gasped for breath.
"You are an actor—at your age?" he cried.
Al laughed, a little sarcastically, it is to be feared.
"It isn't quite as bad as that," he said.
"Ah!"
"I am only the advance agent."
"And what, may I ask, is an advance agent?"
Al explained.
"It is not, then, quite as bad as I thought," said his companion.
"It might be a heap worse," responded the boy, laconically.
"But still," went on the reverend gentleman, "a position such as that you hold may lead to something worse. You may in time—pardon me, if I hurt your feelings—you may in time become an actor."
"I guess not," said Al, who had some difficulty in repressing a smile.
"You cannot tell, my dear young friend; one wrong step leads to another, and once on the road to destruction, there is no knowing where or when the end will come."
"I hope I am not on the road to destruction yet," said Al, "and I feel pretty sure that I am not."
"Pride cometh before a fall, my dear young friend," said the doctor, impressively. "The moment you begin to be too sure of yourself, you have taken the first downward step. You may not be conscious of it, but it is taken."
Al began to shift about uneasily in his seat.
"I know that what I say is not pleasant for you to hear," continued the old gentleman, "but I speak for your own good."
He then went on to deliver a long homily on the evils of theatrical life, and actually succeeded in tiring Al to such an extent that he fell asleep.
He was awakened by a voice shouting in his ear:
"This ain't a sleeping car, young man. All off!"
Al leaped to his feet, only half awake. The car was empty of everyone except himself and a brakeman.
"Where are we?" he cried.
"In New York," was the reply. "Say, young fellow, you are a pretty sound sleeper."
"Well, I'm awake now," said the boy. "I'm sorry to have given you any trouble."
"Oh, that's all right. But you haven't lost anything, have you?"
"No. Why?"
"I don't see your baggage anywhere?"
"I didn't bring anything with me."
"That's all right, then. I was afraid that duck in the seat with you might have got away with your stuff."
Al laughed.
"That was a clergyman," he said—"the Rev. Dr. Ferguson."
"Reverend nothing," grinned the brakeman. "Say, young man, you must be from 'way back."
"Why?"
"Why, that fellow is one of the cleverest confidence men in the country."
"Do you know what you are talking about?" asked the boy, in amazement.
"You can bet I do. Oh, he has fooled sharper ones than you or I. You didn't lend him anything, did you?"
"I did not."
"Nor invest in green goods or anything of that sort?"
"No."
"Well, you are one of the lucky ones, then. When I saw him giving you so much chin music I thought he had you sure."
"Well, he didn't."
And Al left the car on very good terms with himself.
"Now, then," he mused, "I'll start in on the business that brought me here. I'll go to the nearest police station first. I don't know where it is, so to save time I'll take a cab."
As he thus ruminated, he mechanically felt in his pocket.
The next moment he uttered an involuntary exclamation.
His money was gone, and so were his watch, and the ring that had been presented to him in Boomville.
He had not, after all, escaped scot-free from the "Reverend David Ferguson."
Al's self-esteem had suffered a severe shock.
He had considered himself quite competent to look out for "Number One," but this plausible swindler, the very first person he had met on the train, had easily succeeded in swindling him out of all the valuables he had about him.
He had lost about a hundred and fifty dollars in cash, his watch, which was worth at least another hundred, and the valuable diamond ring that had been presented to him on the stage of the Boomville Opera House.
He was alone and penniless in a great city at two o'clock in the morning, with a mission to perform that would almost necessarily involve the outlay of money.
While he stood at the entrance of the Grand Central Depot the brakeman who had addressed him on the car came along. Noticing the look of dismay on the boy's face, he said:
"There's nothing the matter, is there?"
"I should say there was."
"What is it? That bunco man didn't get the best of you, after all, did he?"
"Rather."
And Al proceeded to inform the man of his loss.
His companion uttered a low whistle.
"Well, he did soak it to you, for fair," he said. "He don't generally play that game; as a rule he works the thing in a more artistic way than that. Well, he got the money, all the same. It was a pretty good haul, too."
"I don't see how he got that ring off my finger without waking me up," said Al, ruefully.
"Oh, he can do more than that," grinned the brakeman. "He'd manage to rob you of your eyeteeth if he happened to take a fancy to them. He's a daisy!"
"I wish you had warned me when you saw him talking to me on the train."
"I couldn't very well do that; but I kept an eye on you both, and if I had seen him up to any funny business, I should have spoken. Hasn't he left you any money at all?"
"Not a cent."
"Well, see here, I'll let you have a few dollars if you'll promise to return 'em as soon as you get funds."
"Of course I will, and I am very much obliged to you," said Al, surprised at this unexpected offer.
"Here you are, then."
And the man handed him a small roll of bills.
"Give me your address," said Al, "and I'll return this to you within a day or two, with something to boot."
"I don't want anything to boot. I'll write down my address, if you'll lend me a pencil a minute."
Al handed him a pencil. The man was about to write the address on the back of an envelope, when, to his amazement, his companion made a rush for a cab thatstood at the curbstone, gave the driver a few hasty directions in a low tone, and then leaped into the vehicle, which immediately started off at a rapid pace. Before the brakeman could recover from his astonishment, the cab had turned a corner and disappeared.
"Well," gasped the man, "if I haven't been buncoed myself, and by a kid at that. I'll bet he and the other fellow were pals. And I never suspected it! Well, I'll get my ten dollars back if it costs me a hundred to do it. This is the last time I'll ever lend money to a stranger. I wish I could hire some one to kick me round the block."
The brakeman could scarcely be blamed for forming this opinion of Al, erroneous though it was. Appearances were certainly against the boy, and the reader is, perhaps, wondering if he had suddenly become insane or developed into a kleptomaniac.
The reason for our hero's strange action was this: Just as he handed the brakeman the pencil a carriage was passing the depot, from the window of which peered the face of the very man for whom Al was seeking—Jack Farley.
There was no time for explanations; the carriage was going at a rapid rate. Al rushed out to the cab that stood at the entrance and said to the driver:
"Do you see that carriage yonder?—the one that is just about to turn the corner? Follow it wherever it goes and I'll pay you well."
"Enough said!" the man responded.
As we have seen, the boy entered the cab, and was driven away.
"That brakeman will think that I am a thief, too, I'm afraid," Al mused. "Well, I can't help it; it will be all right to-morrow. But he is a good fellow, and I don't like the idea of being misunderstood in that way by him even for a few hours. There's no help for it, though; I couldn't afford to let Farley get away from me!"
The two vehicles kept at an even distance from each other until Tenth Street was reached. At the corner of that thoroughfare and Fifth Avenue the carriage in advance came to a sudden halt.
Al's driver stopped almost at the same moment.
"What shall I do now, sir?" he called out to his passenger.
"Go right ahead," the boy directed. "When you get to the spot, stop, if the other coach has not started again in the meantime; if it has, go on as long as it does."
In less than a minute later Al's carriage once more come to a standstill.
At the same moment a man leaped from the other carriage, advanced to the cab and threw open the door.
"What do you mean," he demanded, "by following my carriage? I have been onto you ever since you started. Who are you, and what do you want?"
The man was not Jack Farley; he did not resemble him in any way.
He was an elderly man, fashionably dressed, and had the appearance of one who was on his way home after aball, or some other social function, with just enough wine on board to make him quarrelsome.
"What is your little game?" continued the man. "Come, out with it; I am going to know."
Al was decidedly embarrassed.
"It is all a mistake," he stammered.
"That's too thin," said the stranger. "I'm onto you; you are a detective! Now, what are you shadowing me for?"
Al could not help laughing.
"I am no more a detective than you, sir," he said. "I told my driver to follow a certain carriage, and he has made a mistake; that's all there is to it."
"I made no mistake," interposed the driver, surlily. "This is the carriage you told me to follow."
"You are wrong; the man in that carriage was not this gentleman. Remember, it turned the corner before we left the depot, so you lost sight of it for half a minute or so."
"That's so," admitted cabby.
"It had probably turned out of the street before we turned into it, and you, seeing this gentleman's carriage, supposed it to be the same, and followed it."
"I guess that explains it."
"Well, it doesn't explain it to me," said the aggrieved stranger. "I consider this affair an outrage, and I am going to have it investigated."
"Go ahead and investigate, then," said Al, losing his patience. "You are making a mountain of a mole hill."
"I am, eh? Well, you'll see whether I am or not. Cabman, I have your number."
"That's all right; keep it," growled the jehu.
"I shall keep it, and make good use of it, too. You will hear from me again."
And the man climbed back into his carriage, flushed almost as much with anger as with wine.