"How so?"
"Well, my usual interest in large gems led me to police head-quarters when that woman Rose Mitchel was killed after having been robbed. The jewels you remember had been quickly recovered and are still inthe hands of the police. I was allowed to see them, and the ruby in that lot is undoubtedly the mate to mine."
"You think that it was the presence of that stone which led to the discovery by the police of the satchel containing the jewels?"
Mr. Thauret seemed much interested, but Mr. Mitchel merely shrugged his shoulders for answer, though it seemed plain that he did hold that opinion. Mr. Barnes wondered whether Mr. Thauret's interest was due to the fact that, having stolen the jewels, he was astonished to hear of so strange an explanation of their recovery from the hotel where he had hidden them. Yet the man's next words seemed to dispel such an idea. He said:
"You may believe in that sort of thing, Mr. Mitchel, but I, who have only modern ideas, cannot accept any such theory. The fact that the stones have always been discovered when hidden has led those who know the history to mistake a chain of coincidences for evidence of supernatural power within the stones themselves. I think I can readily account for the series of hidings and findings."
"I should be pleased to have you do so," said Mr. Mitchel.
"Have you never read Edgar Poe's tale, the one where a letter is stolen and hidden? The detectives failed to find it, though it was in plain sight all the time, but another man did find it. He went upon the correct theory that the thief, knowing that a search would be made, and guessing that all obscure places would be explored first, would hide it in some commonplace manner. He visitedthe apartments, and found the letter in the letter-rack. Now this is ingenious, but Mr. Poe here gives us a bit of special pleading and a curious anomaly at the same time. He wished to show that an obscure corner would be a bad hiding-place, and so worked out his result. At the same time he draws a skilful thief who baffled expert police, and yet who hid his letter where the first man with brains easily found it. This is the anomaly. Where the article is small, as is the case with this lost ruby, there is but one safe place for the thief to hide his stolen property."
"And that place is?" asked Mr. Mitchel, himself betraying interest.
"Upon his own person, where at all times he could be on the alert to thwart the searching committee."
"Ah, you are forgetting," said Mr. Mitchel, "that idea was not overlooked by Edgar Poe. In the tale, the man was waylaid by officers in disguise, who bound him and then searched him. If the letter had been about him, it would have been found."
"Not at all. The letter was placed in an envelope, which had been turned, and then mailed so that on the reverse it received the postal imprint. This foiled the detectives when they examined the letter-rack. It would have fooled them in exploring his pockets, if found with other letters similarly addressed. On the other hand, had it been in his pocket, the man who finally obtained it could not have done so by creating a confusion in the street which attracted the man to the window. It wouldhave been difficult for him even to guess that it was in the pocket. Besides, with the ruby it would be simple, since it is an article that can be disposed of at a moment's notice."
"Very true," said Mr. Mitchel, "but——" Here he paused for a moment, and seemed abstracted. Quickly recovering, he said: "What was I saying? I have lost the thread of our conversation."
"Mr. Thauret suggested that the thief could keep the ruby about him," replied Mr. Randolph.
"Ah, exactly. Now I remember. Well, I should say that it would be a hazardous undertaking. I believe had I stolen the gem, as, by the way, Randolph, you suggested, I could do better than that."
"Ah," said Mr. Randolph, "this is getting interesting. Come, tell us; how should you hide the jewel, supposing that you had taken it?"
"That is a leading question," said Mr. Mitchel. "I prefer not to answer it. Walls have ears, you know." He said this in a significant way that made Mr. Randolph uncomfortable for a moment. Mr. Mitchel at once continued: "I will say this, however, that the thief, whoever he is, cannot profit by his theft."
"Why not?" asked Mr. Thauret.
"Because there is not another gem in existence save those two which are so absolutely perfect in color. In fact, they are the standards by which rubies are valued. It is claimed that the expression 'pigeon-blood ruby' owes its existence to the staining of one of these gems inthe manner described. Dealers sometimes cut a pigeon's throat to compare the blood with the color of a gem being appraised. The significance of this is, that the stolen gem cannot be sold as it is, because it would be recognized, and I have notified all the great dealers in the world that my 'Egyptian Gem' has been stolen. If it were attempted to have it cut up, the lapidary would at once report the matter, as the reward offered by me is greater than could be earned by recutting the stone."
"Suppose that the thief himself is a gem cutter?" asked Thauret.
"Even then the perfect color would at once tell the first dealer to whom he applied that the 'Egyptian Gem' had been recut."
"The thief might be a patient man, and all things come to him who waits," replied Mr. Thauret.
"True," said Mr. Mitchel. "But mark my words, the 'Egyptian Gem' will not be sold by the person who has it now."
"Especially if that person is yourself," said Mr. Randolph.
"Just so," answered Mr. Mitchel.
The conversation now drifted to other things, and shortly after, the dinner being over, the three men separated.
As Mr. Barnes was about to leave the main dining-room, one of the servants handed him a note. Supposing it to be from Mr. Randolph, he opened it at once, and was surprised and chagrined to read:
"When Mr. Barnes next plays the eavesdropper he should be careful to observe whether a mirror reflects both sides of aportièrewhich he might suppose would conceal him."Mitchel."
"When Mr. Barnes next plays the eavesdropper he should be careful to observe whether a mirror reflects both sides of aportièrewhich he might suppose would conceal him.
"Mitchel."
"The devil take it," muttered Mr. Barnes. "I wonder at what point he discovered my presence. Was that last part, about his having warned all the dealers, thrown in gratuitously for my benefit, and to lead me to suppose that some one else stole the stone? If so, why does he now let me know that he saw me?"
Mr. Barnes now began some researches into the past history of Mr. Alphonse Thauret. Obtaining the date of his first registry at the Hoffman House he found that to be about a month before the train robbery occurred. Finding the expressman who had brought his baggage to the hotel, it transpired that it had been taken from an English steamship, yet the name Thauret did not appear upon the list of passengers. As it was certain, however, that the man must have arrived by the ship, it was evident that "Thauret" was an alias. Mr. Barnes copied the ship's list for future reference. A search for the name Rose Mitchel was fruitless, though extended to the passenger lists of all arriving steamers for two months prior to the murder.
Believing that Mr. Thauret must have some communication with foreign friends, and hoping to obtain some clue by the post-marks of any such letters, Mr. Barnes arranged an espionage of the man's mail. But though the hotel clerk reported to him daily for several weeks, there was not one foreign letter. As to money, Mr. Thauret appeared to be well supplied, paying his board-bills promptly with checks upon a neighboring nationalbank, in which it was ascertained that he had deposited to his credit several thousand dollars.
Thus after a long investigation, Mr. Barnes was chagrined to admit that he had discovered nothing save that Mr. Thauret had come across the ocean under an assumed name, and even this meagre knowledge was a mere matter of inference.
Though baffled in this direction Mr. Barnes had been more successful in another effort which he essayed. This was a line of investigation which he inaugurated, hoping to discover the whereabouts of the child Rose Mitchel, who was so skilfully kept in hiding. He had first instructed Lucette as to the part she was to play, and that young woman, anxious once more to stand well with her employer, had exerted herself to her utmost, entirely succeeding in her mission. This was to obtain some of the writing of the child. "Go to the house again," Mr. Barnes had suggested, "and get into conversation with that same servant who met you at the door on your first visit. Then in some manner obtain a specimen of the child's writing. An old copy-book would be just the thing." Lucette carried out these instructions to the letter, and by bribing the servant girl at the school obtained exactly what the detective had suggested, a copy-book in which little Rose Mitchel had practised writing.
Armed with this, and selecting a specimen, which seemed best suited to his purpose, Mr. Barnes next bribed the mail boy at the Fifth Avenue Hotel to examine all letters addressed to Mr. Mitchel until he should find onein the same hand. It was not until early in March that this patient work resulted in success. Then one day the boy reported to Mr. Barnes that the expected letter had at length arrived. The post-mark indicated that it had been mailed at East Orange, New Jersey.
"So that is where the little bird is hidden," said Mr. Barnes to himself when this information reached him. Summoning Lucette, he sent her to East Orange with these instructions:
"Now, my girl, I'll give you another chance to redeem yourself. You are to go to East Orange and find that child. The most promising plan is through the post-office. I will give you a note to the postmaster that will aid you. Should a letter be sent to the child either by Mitchel himself or by Miss Remsen, you will learn of it through the postmaster. The rest of course will be simple."
"But suppose," said Lucette, "that the child's letters are directed under cover to the parties with whom she is living? What then?"
"Why, stupid, that is what I send you down there for. As the postmaster is an acquaintance of mine, I could get the address, should it reach him, without having you there. But that is only a faint hope. We know that the child is in East Orange. East Orange has just so many houses. You must examine every one if necessary. Now go, and if you don't find the child, I have no further need of you. I give you this commission partly as a chance to redeem your other mistake, and partly becauseyou have seen the child once and could recognize her."
"I'll find her," said Lucette, and she departed.
A week later Mr. Barnes was in New Orleans, where he devoted himself to discovering, if possible, the early histories of Mr. Mitchel and the murdered woman. Weeks passed and he made no progress.
One morning in the latter part of April he was feeling somewhat despondent over his ill success, when, as he glanced listlessly through thePicayune, the following paragraph caught his eye:
"Mr. Barnes, the celebrated New York detective, is in the city and stopping at the St. Charles Hotel. It is believed that he is in search of a desperate criminal, and probably the news-loving world will soon be treated to one of the famous detective's clever elucidations of some mysterious crime."
This both annoyed and puzzled Mr. Barnes. He had not told any one his true name, and could not guess how the reporters had found out his identity. Whilst he was thinking of it a card was brought to him which bore the name
"Richard Sefton."
He directed that the gentleman should be shown to his room, and soon after a man of about thirty-five, with dark complexion, black hair, and keen hazel eyes, entered, bowing politely and saying:
"This is Mr. Barnes, I believe."
"Be seated, Mr. Sefton," said Mr. Barnes, coldly, "and then tell me why you believe me to be Mr. Barnes when I am registered as James Morton."
"I do not believe you to be Mr. Barnes," said the other, coolly seating himself. "I was inaccurate in using that expression. I know that you are Mr. Barnes."
"Oh! You do! And how, pray, do you know that I am Mr. Barnes?"
"Because it is my business to know people. I am a detective like yourself. I have come to help you."
"You have come to help me! You are very kind I am sure. But since you are so very clever, perhaps you would not mind telling me how you know that I need help, and in what direction."
"With pleasure. You need help because, pardon my saying it, you are working on a case in which time is precious to you, and you have already wasted about six weeks. I say wasted, because you have learned nothing that will aid you in your search."
"In my search for what?"
"Mr. Barnes, you are not over-cordial. There should be some fraternal courtesy between us. I have come to you as a friend, honestly wishing to aid you. I have known that you were in the city for some time. I have heard of you of course. Who in our business has not? Therefore I have spent a great deal of spare time watching you. I did so simply to notice, and perhaps to learn something from, your methods. In this way I became acquainted with the fact, first, that you are interested inthe name Mitchel, and secondly in the name Leroy. I have simply put the two together and jumped to the conclusion that you are trying to learn something about Leroy Mitchel. Am I right?"
"Before I reply to you, Mr. Sefton, I must have more assurance of your good-will and responsibility. How do I know that you are a detective at all?"
"Quite right! Here is my badge. I am in the department here."
"Very well so far, but now how can you prove that you have any good reason for assisting me?"
"You are a hard man to help, I declare. Why, what object but a friendly one can I have?"
"I am not prepared to answer that at present. Perhaps I shall be able to do so later."
"Oh, very well! You can look me up all you want to. I can stand it, I assure you. But really I did want to help, though of course I have no right to intrude. As you say you do not need me, why I——"
"I did not say that I would not accept your aid. You must not think me ungracious. I am simply a detective, and careful from habit. I certainly should not speak confidentially to a man that I meet for the first time, and so disclose any of my own purposes. But it is different with you. You must have had a definite idea, by which you expect to give me assistance, or you would not have come here. If you are earnest and honest, I see no reason why you should not disclose the main purpose of your visit at once."
"If only to prove my honesty, I will do so. I believe you are looking for Leroy Mitchel. If so I can tell you how to find him in a few hours, or at the worst in a day or two."
"You know of a Leroy Mitchel, who is now in this city?"
"I do. He is over in Algiers, a worker in one of the car houses. He is a common drunken brute, and that is the only reason why there would be any difficulty about finding him. When he is sober he is easy to see, but as soon as he gets some money he is off on another spree."
"Do you know of a woman by the name of Rose Mitchel?"
"Certainly. That is, I did know such a woman once. But she has not been in New Orleans for years. At one time any one could have given you her address. I see now that this man is the one whom you want, for once he passed as this woman's husband."
"You are sure of this?"
"Positive."
"When and where can I see this man?"
"He works in the shops of the Louisiana and Texas Railroad over in Algiers. You can find him through the foreman."
"Mr. Sefton, it may be that you have given me information which will be of service to me. If so you will not regret it. I will myself examine into the matter. For the present, if I do not make a confident of you, you must attribute it to caution rather than to distrust."
"Oh, I am not easily offended. I would act in the same manner in your place. But you will find that I am your friend. You can count on me to aid you on demand. I won't trouble you again till you send for me. A note to head-quarters will reach me quickest. Good-morning."
"Good-morning, Mr. Sefton, and thank you." Mr. Barnes extended his hand, feeling that perhaps he had been unnecessarily discourteous.
Mr. Sefton took it with that genial smile of friendship so common to the native Southerner.
Left alone, Mr. Barnes at once prepared for a trip to Algiers, determined not to let any more time be lost. He reached the shops just after the men had knocked off for luncheon. The foreman, however, told him that Leroy Mitchel had been at work in the morning, so he waited patiently.
When the men came back to resume work, the foreman pointed out a man who he said was Leroy Mitchel. The fellow had a bad face, and if ever he was a gentleman he had sunk so low through drink that no evidence of it remained in his appearance. Mr. Barnes went up to him and asked when he could have a talk with him.
"Now, if you pay for it," replied the man insolently.
"What do you mean?" asked the detective.
"Just what I say," said the other. "We get our pay here by the hour, and if you want my time why you'll have to pay for it at union rates," and he laughed as though a good joke had been propounded.
"Then," said Mr. Barnes, taking in the kind of a man with whom he had to deal, "I'll engage you on a job that I have for you, and pay you double wages as long as I use you."
"Now you are talking," said the fellow. "Where'll we go?"
"I think I'll take you to my hotel." And thither they proceeded. Up in his own room again, Mr. Barnes felt at ease, whilst his companion certainly made himself comfortable, selecting a rocking-chair, and putting his feet up on the window-sill.
"Now then," began Mr. Barnes, "I want to ask you a few questions. Are you prepared to answer them?"
"That will depend on what they are. If you don't ask impertinent questions, or ones that I think I ought to get more than double wages for answering, why, I am with you."
"In the first place, then, are you willing to say whether you ever knew a woman who called herself Rose Mitchel?"
"Well, rather. I lived with her till she broke me."
"Do you know where she is now?"
"I don't, and I don't care to."
"Suppose I were to tell you that she is dead, and that she had left a hundred thousand dollars which is unclaimed?"
The man jumped to his feet as though shot, and stood staring at the detective. He gave a long, low whistle, and a keen, tricky gleam came into his eye, which Mr. Barnes noted. At length he spoke:
"Are you giving me this straight?"
"I am telling you the truth. The woman is dead, and that amount of property is where I can get it for the man who can prove that he is entitled to it."
"And who would that be?" He waited eagerly for the reply, and Mr. Barnes saw that he was playing trump cards.
"Why, Mr. Mitchel, that is what I am down here for. You see, I thought the party would be willing to pay me a good commission for proving him the heir, and that is why I am hunting him up. I started out with the idea that I might find her husband. He would have a claim."
"I see." Saying which, he sat down and seemed lost in thought. The detective deemed it well to wait for him to speak again, which he did.
"See here," he exclaimed; "how much do you want for getting this money for me?"
"I cannot get it at all unless you are the woman's husband," replied the detective.
"Well I am her husband. Didn't I tell you I lived with her till she broke me?"
"Yes, but are you legally married to her?"
"Why, to be sure. Don't I tell you I am her husband?"
"Then, in the name of the law, I arrest you," said Mr. Barnes, suddenly rising and standing over the man.
"Arrest me," said the fellow, jumping up, pale with fright. "What for?"
"Rose Mitchel has been murdered, and the man who killed her has confessed that he was hired to do it by you."
"He is a blasted liar."
"I hope so for your sake. But as you admit that you are her husband, you are the man we are looking for. I'll have to take you to New York."
"But, I say," said the fellow, now thoroughly alarmed, "there is a big mistake here. I've been lying to you; I'm not the woman's husband, and my name is not Mitchel."
"That won't do, my man. I had you pointed out to me by Sefton, the detective here."
"But he is the very man that hired me to pass off as Mitchel to you."
Mr. Barnes chuckled as he found his ruse successful. He had suspected all along that the New Orleans detective was trying to lead him off on a wrong scent, and now thought he saw a chance to turn the tables upon him and get some valuable information.
"That is a very thin story," said he, "but if you will tell me all you know, perhaps I may believe you."
"You bet I'll give you the whole story straight, to get out of this scrape. In the first place, my name is Arthur Chambers. I was up in the world once, had money, and was respectable. But drink changed all that. Now anybody can buy me for a few dollars, and that is what Sefton did. He came to me about a week ago, and told me that a detective was down here from up north nosing around for this Mitchel. He said it was important to an employer of his up in New York to have this detective balked; that he was hired to do it, and to make himlose time; that time, in some way, was an important item."
"You say," interrupted Mr. Barnes, "that Sefton told you he was hired by some one in New York to throw me off the scent?"
"That's what he said," replied Chambers. Mr. Barnes easily guessed who was employing Sefton, and once more he paid the tribute of admiration for the caution and ingenious scheming of Mr. Mitchel.
"Go on," said the detective.
"There an't much more to tell. Sefton hired me to play off that I was Mitchel, and he gave me a cock-and-bull yarn to feed you with about a woman named Rose Mitchel."
"What was that story?"
"Say, look here," said Chambers, his confidence and cunning returning as he felt himself out of danger of arrest, "you don't want that fairy tale. You would rather have the true story, wouldn't you?"
"Certainly."
"Well, I'm an old-timer, I am. There an't much that's happened in the Crescent that I couldn't remember, if I was paid for it."
"See here, my man, you are not dealing with Sefton now. You tell me what I want to know, and if I find it is true, I'll pay you for it. But if you play any tricks, I'll make it warm for you."
"That's all right. Suppose I begin by telling you that this Rose Mitchel, that you say was murdered, was knowndown here chiefly as Rose Montalbon. 'La Montalbon,' she was generally called."
"La Montalbon?" repeated Mr. Barnes. "Then, was she an actress?"
"Actress? Well, I guess she was, considerable. But not on the stage. No, she kept a gambling-den on Royal Street. Fitted up like a palace too, and many a young fool has lost his last dime in that house."
"But what about Mitchel? Do you know whether he was connected with her in any way?"
"I can't give you that dead straight. There was some mystery there. I used to go to the Royal Street place, and I knew Mitchel in a sort of way. He was always hanging around there. Then there was a while that he didn't show up, and then he turned up again and was introduced as La Montalbon's husband. There was a story going that he had married another girl and deserted her. A young Creole I think, though I never heard her name."
"Did you know anything about a child, a girl?"
"That was another queer part of it. There was a girl, little Rosy. Some said it was the Creole's, but La Montalbon always claimed it was hers."
"What became of Mitchel?"
"About a year after he passed as La Montalbon's husband he skipped out—vanished. Several years after that there was another sensation. The child was kidnapped. La Montalbon offered big rewards to recover her, but she never did. Then about three years ago her place beganto run down; she lost money, and finally she too disappeared."
"If this story is true it may be quite important. Do you think you could identify this man Mitchel?"
"Well, I don't know for certain. But see here, come to think of it, there were two Mitchels, and both named Leroy too."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Pretty sure. They were cousins. The other fellow was younger. I didn't know him myself. He was a Young-Men's-Christian-Association sort of a boy, and not quite in my line. But I sort of remember hearing that he was in love with the Creole girl. But say, I'll tell you who can give it to you straight as a shingle."
"Ah, who is that?"
"An old man named Neuilly. He knew all about the Creole, and so must know about the Mitchels. I think he was in La Montalbon's power. She knew something about him and blackmailed him, as she did lots of others. Now that she is dead, you might make him open his mouth."
"Very good. Get me his address, and then see what you can find out about the other Leroy Mitchel, the good boy. Discover what became of him and I'll pay you well. Meanwhile don't let Sefton know that you are not carrying out his scheme."
"Say, pard, I tumble to you now. You suspected Sefton and you played your cards to draw me out. Well, you did it neat, and now I'm with you. Good-day. When I see you again I'll have some news for you."
The following day Mr. Barnes called at the bachelor home of Mr. Neuilly. The handsome old man received him in stately fashion and courteously asked the detective to explain his mission.
For a moment Mr. Barnes did not know how to proceed; he at last said:
"Mr. Neuilly, I have come to ask your aid in the cause of justice. I have hesitated to do this, not wishing to disturb you. That I do so now is due to the fact that every other resource has been tried and has failed me."
"Proceed, sir," said the host, with a courteous bow.
"I am seeking certain information about a woman who was known as La Montalbon, and——" An instantaneous change came over the face of Mr. Neuilly. His hospitable smile of welcome vanished. He rose erect and stiffly said:
"I know nothing of that woman, and must wish you a very good morning," with which he deliberately began to walk from the room. Mr. Barnes for a moment was nonplussed, but saw that he must act quickly or lose all chance of gaining any information from this man.
"One moment, Mr. Neuilly," he said; "you certainly would not refuse to help me convict her murderer." As he expected, the last word brought him back.
"Murderer? Did you mean to intimate that she has been murdered?" Saying this he stopped for a second, and then slowly returned and sat down again.
"Rose Montalbon was murdered in New York somemonths ago. I believe that I am on the track of the guilty man. Will you aid me?"
"That depends upon circumstances. You say the woman is dead. That alters my position in this matter very much. I had reasons, good ones to me, for refusing to converse with you on this subject. But if the woman is dead, the objections vanish." Mr. Barnes thought he understood. Here was one of those who had been ruled by fear, as Chambers had said.
"What I want from you, Mr. Neuilly, is very simple. You either can or you cannot give me the information that I wish. Did you know a man named Leroy Mitchel who was at one time this woman's husband?"
"I knew him very well. He was a scoundrel of the deepest dye, for all that he had the manners of the polished gentleman."
"Do you know what became of him?"
"No; he left this city suddenly and has never returned."
"Did you know little Rose Mitchel?"
"Many a time has she sat upon my knee. This man was her father. He wronged one of the sweetest little girls that ever lived."
"You knew this girl? Knew her name?"
"I did."
"What was it?"
"That is a secret I have guarded for too many years to be willing to yield it now to a stranger. You must show me good reasons for giving it to you before I tell it."
"I will explain. This man Mitchel is now in New York. He is about to marry a sweet, good woman. Yet I think that he murdered Rose Montalbon, or Mitchel, to get her out of his way. I think that she was blackmailing him. Besides, he has his child with him."
Mr. Neuilly started up and paced the room for some time, much agitated. Finally he stopped and said:
"You say he has the child with him?"
"Yes. Here is her likeness." He handed Mr. Neuilly the photograph made by Lucette.
Mr. Neuilly looked at it, muttered "very like! very like!" then remained silent for some moments; finally he said:
"And you think he murdered this woman, Montalbon?"
"I do."
"It would be terrible to hang that child's father. What dishonor! What dishonor! But Justice is Justice!" He seemed to be talking rather to himself than to Mr. Barnes. Suddenly he turned and said:
"I cannot tell you the name for which you ask. But I will go with you to New York, and if this story of yours is true, I will move heaven and earth to see justice done. That villain must not ruin another young life."
"Good," exclaimed the detective, delighted with the result of his visit.
"One more point, Mr. Neuilly. What do you know of the existence of another Mr. Leroy Mitchel?"
"I never met him, though I knew of him. There was a mystery about that, which I never could unravel. Ithink that he loved this same girl. At any rate shortly after she died, he lost his reason, and is now in an insane asylum. Of course he cannot help us."
Mr. Barnes, after arranging where to meet Mr. Neuilly, returned to the St. Charles to make his own preparations for going north. Up in his room he found Chambers awaiting him.
"Well," said the detective, "what have you learned?"
"Nothing that will please you, I am sorry to say. Only I have found the other Mitchel. He is a lunatic, in an asylum out in the suburbs. But the fellow up north is your man sure. This one, they say, went crazy because his sweetheart gave him the mitten."
"Did you find out the woman's name?"
"I could not do that. It seems as carefully hidden as though it was a state secret. That gives you an insight into what the Creole pride is."
"Very well. I think you have worked for me faithfully. Here is a hundred dollar bill. Will that satisfy you?"
"Perfectly. I wish you luck."
An hour later a telegram was handed to Mr. Barnes, which read:
"Have found the child.(Signed) Lucette."
"Have found the child.
(Signed) Lucette."
In the afternoon Mr. Barnes started for New York accompanied by Mr. Neuilly. That same night Mr. Robert Leroy Mitchel received a telegram which read:
"Barnes off for New York. Has old Neuilly with him. If the last named knows anything, you must be careful.(Signed)Sefton."
"Barnes off for New York. Has old Neuilly with him. If the last named knows anything, you must be careful.
(Signed)Sefton."
After reading this, Mr. Mitchel completed his toilet, used the despatch to light a cigarette, and then took hisfiancéeto the opera.
During the time spent by Mr. Barnes in the South, his spies in New York discovered little, or nothing, against the persons whom they had been charged to watch. Indeed from the standpoint of a detective, the actions of all had been most uninteresting. The usual round of social affairs, the customary number of theatre or opera parties, the regular afternoon teas, in fact the ordinary routine life of the man or woman of fashion, was all that could be observed. Yet of course these weeks did not pass without any occurrence of note. The chief one perhaps, was the naming of the day, upon which the wedding of Mr. Mitchel and Miss Remsen was to occur. This was May 5th, the very day upon which Mr. Barnes would reach New York with Mr. Neuilly.
Thus, fate seemed hurrying on a climax which was to occur on the wedding day. In New Orleans a detective was seeking evidence upon which he hoped to convict a man of the heinous crime of murder, whilst in New York a beautiful woman was bestowing her faith upon this same man, and with the assistance of many fingers, preparing to bedeck herself in bridal finery for his delectation. Meanwhile, the man himself acted mostunconcernedly. He seemed to consider himself beyond the risk of danger, and he accepted his happiness as does one who had honorably earned it.
Of much interest to us, in the light of fast approaching events, was the curious conduct of Dora Remsen during this period. It will be remembered that Mr. Randolph had lost an opportunity of declaring himself, and that he warned the young lady against Mr. Thauret as one not to be trusted. This kind of advice, it is to be presumed, is offered by the one giving it, with some idea, however distant, that it may be accepted. Yet the histories of many lives would show that only a small percentage of similar advice has ever been received with acquiescence. Indeed, it might also be said that many persons have been hurried into each other's arms by the interference of wiseacres, when perhaps, if left to themselves, they would have drifted apart. At least so it seemed in this case. Mr. Thauret had become not only a constant visitor at the home of the Remsens', but he seemed a welcome one. He certainly was a most entertaining man, and his manners utterly unapproachable. He had travelled, and not only had seen the world, but had observed it, which is another thing. The result of this was that he had a fund of narrative always at his disposal, and his conversation was so attractive that he easily monopolized the attention of acoterieat any social gathering. Mr. Randolph noted with growing uneasiness that Dora was always one of the group who listened to these tales. What disturbed him most, was that after the greatest amountof time spent and wasted, in seeking some flagrant defect in the man's character, he was at last compelled to acknowledge to himself that he had nothing against Mr. Thauret, except a prejudice. But that prejudice was as great, if not greater, than ever. He determined at length to speak to Mr. Mitchel about it, and did so one afternoon when the rooms were crowded, his rival being as usual the centre of an attentive group.
"Mitchel," he began, "how the deuce did that fellow Thauret get into this family?"
"Dora met him somewhere, I believe. Why?"
"Why? Can you ask that?"
"Can I? Why certainly I can. I did ask you,—Why?"
"I declare, Mitchel, you are either as blind as a bat, or else you have eyes only for Miss Emily. Don't you see the danger that the younger sister is in, associating with that man?"
"Well now, Randolph, to be candid, I must admit I do not see the danger. What is it?"
"Why, suppose—suppose she fell in love with him? Suppose she married him!"
"Well, what then?"
"What then? You would provoke a saint. You talk as coolly about that child's throwing herself away on a—a nobody—as though we were discussing a shot at billiards."
"Randolph, my friend, let me give you a bit of advice. When a man wishes to marry a girl, there are twoimportant rules which he must observe, and both of them I believe you have neglected."
"What do you mean?"
"Before I explain, let me ask you a question. Am I right in supposing that you wish to marry Dora yourself?"
"Well, that is rather pointed. However, I will admit the truth. I would be happy to have her love."
"Very well. I will tell you those two rules. The first is, 'Never speak ill of your rival.' The second is, 'Don't be too late asking for the young lady.'"
Randolph looked at Mr. Mitchel a moment intently, then offered his hand, which was grasped warmly. He said simply "I thank you," and walked over to the group where Dora was. After awhile, taking advantage of an opportune lull, he leaned over her and said in an undertone:
"May I have a few words of conversation with you?"
She looked up at him, evidently surprised at his tone, and asked:
"Is it important?"
"Very," he replied succinctly, and excusing herself to the company she permitted him to lead her into the next room, where she sat beside him on the sofa, to which he invited her with a motion. After a brief silence, during which each thought intently, he began:
"Miss Dora, I wish you to listen to me, if you please, to the end. I think you know that I love you." He paused just a moment, whilst she trembled slightly,blushed, and drooped her head. He continued: "I have never told you this before in words, I know, but you are a woman, and must have read my heart long ago. You are all so clever at that sort of thing. I am only a man, and I have not been able to read yours at all. I really do not know whether you care for me or not. Once I thought that you did, but of late—but no matter, I will not go into that. In brief, then, I have only to say that it would make me supremely happy to know that you would some day be my wife. In exchange, I offer you a lifelong devotion. And now—I think—that is all I have to say. Dora—little sweetheart—do you, could you trust yourself to me?"
He had gently taken her hand whilst he spoke, and the fact that she had neither resisted nor withdrawn it had encouraged him to the more affectionate terms which he used at the end of his love speech. She hesitated awhile, then gently disengaging her hand, and looking at him with just a suspicion of a tear in her eye, she said almost in a whisper:
"Do you care very much?"
"Very much! I cannot tell you how much." He tried to recapture her hand, but she eluded him. Again she asked a question:
"Money is not an object to you, in this?"
"Miss Remsen, you insult me."
"No, no!" she said quickly, "you misunderstand. I did not mean my money. I can't explain, yet you must answer my question. Would you mind if—oh, how shallI say it? Suppose I did something that cost you a lot of money——"
"Oh! I see," exclaimed Mr. Randolph, brightening up. "You mean you are extravagant. Don't let that bother you a minute. You may cost me as much money as you can possibly spend. I will never complain."
She seemed much relieved, but she did not speak at once. Her eyes wandered away from him, and following her gaze he saw them reach and rest upon Mr. Thauret. A jealous pang darted through his heart. He was about to speak when she turned to him and said with suppressed emotion:
"I hope you will not be angry with me, and that you will not think evil of me. There is something I cannot explain, yet which, if I could, you would not object to. But until I can tell you about it—I cannot—I cannot—give you an answer. Would you—would you be willing to wait?" There was a tone of entreaty in her voice.
"How long?" asked Mr. Randolph, still irritated, and wondering if the something which she could not tell was in any way connected with Mr. Thauret.
"Would you mind—if I asked you to wait till—well, say the New Year?"
"That is a long time, but if it is your will, I must."
"Oh, thank you!" That was all she said; but there was a hint of rapture in her speech, there were tears in her eyes, and for one brief ecstatic moment he thought that there was love in her heart, and that that love was for him. With an impulse that he could not control, andwhich she did not check, he drew her to him, and softly touched her lips with his own. He felt satisfied, though she left him immediately and went at once to Mr. Thauret, who greeted her with evident warmth. There is something, magnetism if you please, but a something that binds two true lovers' hearts so that an impulse in the one excites an answering sensation in the other. The oddest fact in this connection is, that though one may fancy himself deeply in love, he is not, till he has received one of these instantaneous messages which Cupid ticks over Love's telegraph. After that he is enslaved. His better judgment is gone. He will argue in the lonely hours of the night that he has made a mistake, that the woman is not destined to make him happy, that she has this, that, or the other fault, but it counts for nothing, save that he suffers. That one stab has slain his manhood, and he cannot control his actions. As soon as he meets the woman again, act as she may, his love is aflame once more. She may ill-treat him, she may ignore him, it matters not; she attracts him.
Thus it was with poor Mr. Randolph. Throughout the many weeks that followed he suffered much. He called his love all the unpleasant things that jealousy could suggest. But invariably the recollection of that one moment, when she had seemed in that indistinct, indescribable way to have yielded her whole self, her whole soul to him, would flash across his mind, and at once his reason was silenced, and he would say:
"She could not have done that if she were false. She loves me, but there is something that I do not understand which makes her treat me so. She told me so, and said that when she could tell it to me, I should not mind. Well, I must be patient and wait. I must trust her; she must be, she is, true!" And then gradually all the old doubts would creep over him again, and the suffering would be as poignant as before.
It was about a month after the conversation related, when a somewhat similar one occurred between the same young lady and Mr. Thauret. He had called one afternoon, when Dora was alone, and so had the field to himself. He spoke to her of all those things which he had found most interesting to her, and she was enjoying his society very much, when suddenly, as twilight approached and the room grew slightly darkened, he began to touch upon a more tender theme. He spoke of himself, of the wandering life that he had led, of the fact that he was alone in the world, without a living relative. He mentioned, as though it were of no importance, that he was of noble blood. Then he drew a touching picture of a man who, whilst really of a most affectionate nature, was compelled to live a loveless life, because there was none to whom he could turn for that sort of comfort. Then he asked her gently, very gently, whether she had ever thought upon the subject herself, and whether she had felt a yearning for the companionship of one who would be all in all to her. His pleading was very pretty to listen to, and she heard him as though much impressedbut her reply was not exactly what he evidently hoped it would have been.
"Oh, yes," said she, "I have thought of all that in a vague sort of way. But, you see, I have been in love with my beautiful Queen, for so long that I cannot imagine a life without her. And yet"—there was a tremor in her voice—"I am going to lose her soon. She will go away for awhile, and then I fancy I shall feel that loneliness of which you speak. So, if you want to hear my real ideas upon that subject you must wait till after the wedding." She said this last with a tone of deep meaning, and Mr. Thauret seemed to accept her remark as a hint, for he changed the subject. Shortly afterwards he went away. As he walked down the avenue, there was almost a triumphant smile upon his face. This, however, was not reported to Mr. Barnes, for the spy was behind and could not see his face.
It was only a few nights after this that Mr. Mitchel was walking home from the club, accompanied by Mr. Thauret, when the latter turned the conversation upon the Miss Remsens.
"They certainly are charming girls," said he, "but one would need to be rich to afford the luxury of marrying one of them. I suppose they have nothing until the death of the mother."
Mr. Mitchel thought that he understood the object of the question, and for reasons of his own was glad to reply to it.
"O, not at all," said he. "The father left each of thema handsome sum, fifty thousand in fact, which they are to receive as soon as married. The bulk of the money, of course, went to the widow, but her interest is only for life, and then it is to be equally divided between the girls. I think it is somewhere near half a million."
"You are a fortunate fellow. I wish I had your luck."
"My dear Thauret, can a man of your intelligence believe in such a stupid thing as luck? It no more exists than its antithesis, ill luck. Every man succeeds or not, according to his own skill in guiding his life. Now you envy me my marriage to Emily, when certainly her sister Dora is just as charming, and richer, too."
"Miss Dora is charming, true; but that does not make me a successful suitor. But what do you mean by saying that she is richer?"
"Why, you see, her sister is devoted to her, and has promised her a gift of ten thousand dollars the day she marries, upon one condition."
"And that condition is?"
"That the husband shall be satisfactory to her."
There was a silence for several minutes, finally broken by Mr. Thauret:
"Well, in the light of your approaching marriage, which will make you the only man in the family, I presume your influence would count. If I should wish to marry Miss Dora, I suppose you would favor my suit?"
"That is not a new idea to me, I assure you. All I need say is that when you gain Dora's consent, you shall have mine."
"Thank you." Mr. Thauret said this with suppressed emotion, and after that neither man spoke until they said good-night at Mr. Mitchel's hotel. Mr. Thauret, upon reaching his own room, smoked a cigar, and blew little ringlets over his head, thus occupying himself till long after midnight. He seemed to be building castles, and from the satisfied expression on his face, they must have been grand ones.
Thus matters stood when the day dawned upon which the marriage was to occur. Everything was bustle and confusion at the home of the Remsens. The bridesmaids arrived early, helped to deck the bride, and then stood around in delighted admiration. Dora was in ecstasies. Two magnificent bouquets had been sent to her, one entirely of carnation pinks, from Mr. Randolph, and the other a fine assortment of cut-flowers, amongst which were three beautiful Calla lilies, tied with long white satin ribbons. These were the gift of Mr. Thauret. She stood admiring the flowers for a few moments, then tenderly untied the pinks, and, taking a few of each color, made a small bouquet, which she pinned just at the opening of her dress near the throat. Thus they were near enough to exhale a fragrance of which she would be continually conscious. Just before leaving the house, however, she took the Callas and carried them with her in her gloved hand.
Before the day was over a little tragedy occurred, of which she was not only innocent, but unconscious. In the throng entering the church her pinks were swept fromher breast, and in her excitement she did not observe her loss. Mr. Randolph, however, the groom's best man, noted carefully that she carried flowers, and that they were not his. Subsequently she, in reply to a question from him, admitted who had sent them, and though he made no remark, he slept little that night. Thus easily men suffer.
Emily was dressed—but there, why should I attempt to describe what only a Worth could have furnished, and only wealth could afford? If you can imagine the most beautiful shade and quality of pearl-colored silk, and add to that the finest of lace, and to that the most marvellous profusion of tiny ribbon bows, then, as I hinted, recall that the genius of Worth designed the garment, perhaps you will imagine all that I could tell you. At least I may say that as the bride entered the church on the arm of that magnificent man, Mr. Van Rawlston, who, as her father's dearest friend, had been invited to take his place, every woman present took one lingering look at the woman and her gown, and then turned to her neighbor to express her admiration. Moreover, I will say that the sum of all that praise was not enough fully to describe Emily Remsen, who looked every inch "a royal queen," as Dora delightedly told every one for years afterward.
But after the bridal party had passed, people naturally looked for the groom, and they wondered not to see him. Whispering occurred, and inquiries were made without satisfactory response. Some thought that there had beena mistake, and that the signal had been given to the bride and her friends too soon. It was an awkward situation, because of course, once having reached the altar, they could not turn and leave the church again. Consequently they simply stood and waited. Every one at length grew so nervous, that save for the organ, there gradually stole over the whole edifice a solemn silence. People were awed, and fearing at last as the minutes passed and still the groom did not appear, that something dreadful either had or was about to occur, they almost held their breaths. A few intimate friends went out on tip-toe, but the door leading to the vestry-room was guarded by a man in livery, who would say nothing but that no one could be admitted.
Meanwhile an exciting scene, though a brief one, was being enacted behind that door. Just as the two parties were about to start on their way to the altar, a carriage had driven up furiously, and from it had alighted Mr. Barnes. He quickly entered the building, and went straightway into the vestry-room, brushing aside the man at the door. Once in the presence of the groom and his gentlemen attendants, he astonished them by saying:
"Thank God, I am not too late."
"Are you quite sure?" said Mr. Mitchel, with provoking calmness.
"I have come here to stop this wedding," said the detective, a little excited.
"You mean, to delay it. That you are doing now, as I should be on my way to the altar to join my bride."
"I tell you, I come to stop this wedding altogether, and——"
"One moment, Mr. Barnes. There is no time to lose, and I do not wish you to speak too openly. Let me talk for you. You have reasons, which I can guess, for wishing me not to be married. Am I right?"
"I have said as much."
"If I can prove to you that you gain nothing by hindering this ceremony, will you allow it to proceed, and then act as you may please afterward, instead of now?"
"Of course, but that is impossible."
"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Barnes; read that if you please."
Taking from his pocket a folded paper, he handed it to Mr. Barnes, who took it nervously, read it, and looked up amazed.
"This is an outrage, Mr. Mitchel, and——"
"And you have given me your word not to further interfere at this time. If you will meet me at my hotel at two o'clock, I will answer whatever other demands you may have upon me. I think you know that you may trust me to keep the engagement. Now, gentlemen, we will proceed." Saying which he and his friends filed out of the room and down the aisle of the church, much to the relief of the immense throng awaiting them, leaving Mr. Barnes utterly discomfited. The ceremony then proceeded without further delay, and in half an hour Mr. and Mrs. Leroy Mitchel were taken in their carriage to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Mr. Barnes did not wait to see themleave the Cathedral, but hurried away almost immediately after having read the document which Mr. Mitchel had handed to him. This was a certificate of marriage dated the day before, and performed at the Mayor's office. Thus, whatever reason the detective had for stopping the marriage, the telegram from Sefton had enabled Mr. Mitchel to once more outwit Mr. Barnes, by simply allowing a civil contract to antedate the religious ceremony.
Immediately upon his arrival in New York, Mr. Barnes went to his office. Here he was slightly surprised to find Lucette.
"Well," said he, tersely.
"I came here," said the girl, "so that I could report to you the minute you got here. There is no time to lose."
"Why, what is up?"
"Your plan about my getting information from the East Orange post-office did not work. The man said that though he would like to serve you, he was afraid it might be construed into tampering with the mails. That you would need an order from the Postmaster-General. I went to work then on the other line, and began a systematic examination of every house in the place. It was hard work, but at last I found the child. You don't want details now, because she has been taken away again. Mitchel went down yesterday and brought her to New York."
"Why did you not follow him and see where he took her?"
"I did, and this time I am sure he did not suspect that I was after him. He took the child to the Remsens."
"To the Remsens? What can that mean?"
"I don't know. But Mitchel and Miss Remsen are to be married at St. Patrick's Cathedral at ten o'clock this morning."
"Not if I can stop it," replied the detective, and he hastened up to the church with the result told in the last chapter.
Promptly at two o'clock Mr. Barnes presented himself at the Fifth Avenue Hotel accompanied by Mr. Neuilly. They were asked to go up to Mr. Mitchel's apartments, and there they were greeted by that gentleman as affably as though they had been of his wedding party. Indeed he began the conversation in rather a jocular way, saying:
"Ah! Mr. Barnes, delighted that now I can entertain you more at my leisure. This morning you see I was in a great hurry. You called at a very inopportune time, and I am afraid that I was rather abrupt."
"Mr. Mitchel, I am not in the humor for nonsense. This is a very serious visit, I assure you. This gentleman is Mr. Neuilly, of New Orleans, and he has come all this distance to aid the cause of justice."
"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Neuilly, I am sure," said Mr. Mitchel, approaching and extending his hand so cordially that the elder man took it, though he had thought that he would rather handle hot coals than the hand of the man who he supposed was guilty of wronging the daughter of his old friend in the South. Mr. Mitchel did not seem to notice his agitation, but begging them to be seated, he himself took a comfortable chair and continued:"Now, Mr. Barnes, I am wondering if it is possible that you have traced my wife's ruby as far away as New Orleans?"
"I have not been looking for it. I suppose you know why I wished to stop your marriage?"
"Why, no; not precisely. What was your reason?"
"If you do not know it, why did you get married yesterday?"
"I might reply that it is often done, but I will be honest and tell you that such a procedure never occurred to me till I heard that you were coming home. Then, you see, I thought that you might take the idea into your head—you do get odd notions, you must admit—that I ought not to get married just now. I knew you well enough to believe that if you did harbor a thought of that nature you would not hesitate to interfere. I did you no injustice there, for that is just what you tried to do, you see. Consequently, as I had set my heart on being married in the Cathedral precisely at the time appointed, I just took the bull by the horns and persuaded my little girl to marry me yesterday. That is my story in full, I assure you. Now, what was your object?"
"You know it very well, and all this yarning is pure bluster. You know well enough that I wanted to use Miss Emily Remsen as a witness against you, and that I could not do so after she became Mrs. Mitchel."
"Oh! Well, yes; I admit that idea was in my mind, Mr. Barnes. And now—what are you going to do about it?"
"In the first place I shall arrest you for abducting the child, who was in the care of Rose Montalbon." Mr. Barnes expected some surprise from his adversary but he was disappointed.
"Yes," said he, "and then?"
"Then I shall compel you, through the court, to reveal her present hiding-place, and to produce her."
"I think you might have trouble to do that, were it not that I do not object to it. In fact we will reverse your order of things and begin with the production of the child. Emily!" In answer to his call, his wife came into the room, bringing with her a beautiful girl. Her husband arose, and taking the little one by the hand, coolly approached Mr. Neuilly, and said, "Rose, this is Mr. Neuilly. He was a dear good friend to your mother, and has come all the way from New Orleans to see you. I think he would like to kiss you, would you not, Mr. Neuilly?"
That gentleman seemed much moved. To him the vision of loveliness standing demurely before him, brought back the memory of the long ago. She reminded him of another little girl whose growth into budding womanhood he had watched tenderly, having in his youth loved her mother, the grandparent of the child before him. His suit had not been successful, and for love of that woman he had remained a bachelor all his days. Now he could see changing expressions in this young face, which reminded him of both of those women who had been dear to him. Without a word, he drew her towards him, and kissed her once. Then he arose, still holding her hand, andled her towards the door of the next room; there he kissed her once more, this time on the forehead, and then bade her wait, shutting the door after she left him. Then turning with a fury in his heart, and repressed passion in his voice, he exclaimed:
"Mr. Mitchel, either you are the most contemptible villain on the face of this earth, or else there is some hideous mistake here. Explain it, man, I must know at once!"
"Must, Mr. Neuilly, is a word that I seldom obey. But I know how you have suffered, and have no desire to prolong this interview a moment more than is absolutely necessary. First, however, I must understand the situation. What do you and Mr. Barnes here think it to be?"
"I will explain briefly," said the detective, "provided your wife will withdraw."
"My wife is now a part of myself," said Mr. Mitchel, proudly placing an arm around her as she stood beside him. "You need not hesitate to speak. She has promised to share my life with me, to take me as I am. She will begin the task at once. Go on."
"So be it. I know now that Rose Mitchel, who was murdered, was known in New Orleans as Rose Montalbon, and that she was your wife. I have also discovered that you deceived a young Creole, the mother of that child who has just left us. That when you deserted her, she died broken hearted, whilst you allowed the Montalbon woman to take the girl and pass it off as her own, though later she was kidnapped by you. Thewoman suspected that you would wish to marry again, and swore to prevent it. Her appearance upon the scene just as you were to become a husband, must have been a menace to you. Do you see the point? Murders have been committed with less motive. I think therefore that I have sufficient evidence upon which to arrest you."
"You might arrest me upon less evidence," said Mr. Mitchel. "It is done every day. But to convict me you would have to prove all this."
"How do you know that I cannot prove it?"
"For the very simple reason, that your facts are all wrong."
"Very good, Mr. Mitchel, but you will have to prove that."
"I am fully prepared to do so. To begin with, according to your story, I abducted this child. There you are only partly right. I did take her away from the Montalbon, and I did it as you might say, by stealth and force. But I had the fullest right to do so."
"You admit then that you are her father?"
"On the contrary, I deny it, and there is the weak point in your story. Your argument all depends upon my having been guilty of wronging that girl's mother, and the Montalbon's having me in her power. In point of fact, I am not her father, and the Montalbon had but a slim chance to blackmail me."
"But you admitted to me that you allowed her to do so. That you gave her a large amount, in jewels."
"That is true, yet I did not submit to blackmail."
"Mr. Mitchel I seldom forget a man's words. You told me that day in the vaults that you were in the woman's power, that she could ventilate certain scandals which might break your engagement. Yet now you say you were not in her power and that you did not submit to blackmail. How can you explain such conflicting statements?"
"Two conflicting statements may both be true, provided a lapse of time occurs between them. When I admitted that I had been in the power of that woman, I thought so, therefore I spoke the truth. When I say now that I was not, I also speak truly. In the interval, I have learned to appreciate the character of the woman who is now my wife. That is all. I know now that the Montalbon's story blazoned forth to the world, would not have affected her faith in me, if I had told her my own version."
"For heaven's sake, gentlemen," interrupted Mr. Neuilly, "stop this argument, and get down to the facts. I am impatient to know the truth."
"Yes, Roy," said Emily, "why not simply tell the story as a narrative, and let the whole truth be known?"
"That is what I mean to do. I have only been enjoying a little sparring with Mr. Barnes. But it is cruel to Mr. Neuilly, who I hope will pardon me. To begin at the beginning, I must go back to my youth in New Orleans. I was in love with a beautiful young girl." Here he pressed his wife's hand, and she returned it, as though to say that she understood. "I think I need not mentionthe name of Rose's mother, Mr. Neuilly, unless you have already done so."
"Heaven forbid that I should have betrayed the secret," said the old man.
"I did not suppose that you had, for I know you to be a true man, though I have never met you before. This statement may surprise you, but it is true. I am not the man for whom you take me. He is now in a lunatic asylum, whilst I am his cousin. I know it is supposed that I am the crazy man, but that is an error, promulgated by the Montalbon to serve her own ends. The facts then are thus: Whilst a boy at school I loved my girl companion, little Rose's mother. Just before I left the South to enter Harvard, I told my little girl sweetheart—she was then but fifteen—that I would marry her upon my return. This was my first love, and hers. I had a cousin, older than myself by ten years, handsome and wealthy, but a gambler, and addicted to heavy drinking. This woman Montalbon, as you know, kept a gambling den and naturally my unfortunate cousin was a constant visitor at the house. One night whilst intoxicated with wine, she persuaded him to marry her, a clergyman being called in and a ceremony privately performed. He became entirely sober only after several days had passed, and then had entirely forgotten about the marriage. The scheming devil, Montalbon, did not remind him of it, but by patient work insidiously persuaded him that he should be a married man. She even suggested a bride, none other than my little sweetheart. Her object in this was twofold,money and revenge. By leading my cousin into a bigamous alliance, with her own marriage certificate as a weapon, she could readily extort money from him. Her revenge was to be against the family of my little sweetheart, against whom she thought she had a grievance. Her plotting was entirely successful. My cousin was handsome, I was away, and once he had become thoroughly acquainted with the young Creole's charms, he became so ardent a suitor, that at length she listened to his pleading and married him. Then he was in the power of the Montalbon, and she bled him for five years, by which time little Rose had been born.