Fatal pause!
In that instant of hesitation the eyes of the boy met his own.
Seizing his companion by the arm, he turned and sped along the icy walk like a deer.
"Stop there!" cried Hook, springing forward with a bound. "Halt! you young rascal!" and he reached forth his hand to catch the flying boy by the tails of his coat, now almost within his grasp.
But a sudden obstacle intervened.
At this identical moment a roughly dressed individual emerged hastily from the Donegal Shades, carrying upon his arm a large open basket loaded with fish, thrusting himself inadvertently directly in the detective's path.
It all happened in an instant, and indeed, it is difficult to explain how it happened at all.
But the foot of the detective slipping beneath him, he came in sudden and violent contact with the basket of fish, throwing the owner backward in the snow, falling himself at full length by his side, while Frank Mansfield and his newsboy companion sped up the street with the speed of the wind.
In an instant they had turned the corner of Cherry street and were lost to view.
The owner of the basket leaped to his feet, and sprang away up the street with a bound.
He paid not the slightest heed to the fish scattered around him—stopped for nothing at all.
"Confound the luck," muttered Detective Hook, scrambling up as best he could. "If I ain't a clumsy ass, there never was one! Where's the——"
He paused suddenly, and stood staring down at the wreck of the fish-basket beneath his feet.
There, mingled with the fish upon the surface of the snow, lay a heap of bright silver dollars—not one, but ten, twenty—a hundred or more, with three or four bags beside the pile, evidently filled with the same sort of coin.
A STILL GREATER CRIME UNEARTHED.
Detective Hook stared at the strange sight before him in dumb amazement.
There could be no question concerning the genuineness of the coins displayed before him among the masses of frozen fish scattered over the snow-covered walk.
They were silver dollars, and bran new ones at that, as fresh as on the day which they left the coiner's hands.
Meanwhile, the man who had borne this most singular variety of fish had disappeared around the corner of Cherry street with all possible speed, as had the two boys but a moment before, never pausing even to look behind him, to all appearance utterly heedless of the loss of his coin.
"Well, upon my word, this is a night of adventures for a positive fact," muttered Hook, stooping down and examining this singular find. "There's something crooked here, or I'm no judge; and as I could not catch those boys if I tried, I had best——"
"Hello! What's this?" he added, half aloud, examining each of the unbroken bags of dollars in turn. "Webster National Bank, as I'm a sinner, stamped on the bottom of each of these bags. Here's some of the plunder now—there can be no mistake about that."
It was even as he said.
Upon each bag, in plain black letters, the name of the Webster Bank was plainly stamped.
Without a word he seized the basket and emptied out the remainder of the fish on the snow.
Two other bags of smaller size appeared, one evidently containing gold.
Meanwhile several persons, early purchasers in the Catherine Market, had stopped to gaze upon the strange sight of a well-dressed man picking dollars out of the snow, for the detective was now tossing into the basket the contents of the broken bag, placing the others upon the top of the shining heap thus formed.
"Here, officer," he exclaimed, beckoning to a policeman who now suddenly appeared, bustling out of the side door of the market opposite with an air of authority, which suddenly changed into one of meekness as he recognized in the man before him one of the most noted detectives on the New York force.
"I want you to take charge of these. Take them to the Oak street station. They are part of the haul made in a down-town bank last night."
The words were spoken in a tone calculated to reach the officer's ears alone, while the little crowd which had now gathered around stood staring wonderingly on.
"Very good, Mr. Hook," replied the policeman, nervously. "I just went inside the market for a moment to——"
"Never mind that," returned the detective, quickly. "I have no interest in your private affairs, and you need have no fear of me. Now, tell me quick, what sort of a place is that saloon before us—the Donegal Shades? Who is this Slattery? What sort of shop does he keep?"
Evidently a most law-abiding establishment, so far as all outward appearance was concerned, for the interior of the saloon, a moment ago ablaze with light behind the curtains, was now totally dark, showing no signs of life within at all.
"Bad lot in there," replied the officer, briefly.
"Do you know them?"
"Some of them."
"Anything going on outside of regular business?"
"I think so, but I never could get a charge agin 'em. There's a mighty crooked lot goes in there, Mr. Hook; river thieves and confidence men, to say nothing of a whole lot of dirty loafers always hanging round inside."
"Just so," answered the detective, coolly. "Now go on with your basket. Tell the captain I'll be around in a little while."
He had kept his gaze fixed upon the darkened windows of the worthy Mr. Slattery's establishment during this brief conversation, and though he felt that he might be mistaken, it certainly seemed to him that he saw an eye appear at the open space at the edge of the curtain, and as suddenly disappear within.
He stepped to the door and tried the knob.
The door was locked, as he had supposed.
He raised his fist and struck blow after blow upon it, with an evident intention of making himself heard.
To attempt to conceal his identity he knew perfectly well would be a simple impossibility.
He had been observed by entirely too many persons for that.
Presently the door was noisily unlocked from within, and a head covered with a fiery red shock of tousled hair thrust outside.
"Well, an' what d'ye want?"
"To come in," replied the detective, sternly, throwing the weight of his body against the door. "I have a few questions for you, my man, and don't propose to ask them here on the street."
"An' who are yez, entering the house of an honest man on the Sabbath morn? This place is closed, I'd have ye know."
"Nonsense!" cried Hook, pushing his way boldly in. "I'm a detective officer, and have no time to waste in idle words. Your place was running full blast a moment ago, and but for what has just occurred would be running now. Shut that door."
The man obeyed.
Caleb Hook stood alone in the darkened saloon with its ruffianly-looking proprietor by his side.
Few men would have cared to place themselves in such a position, but his was a nature which knew not the meaning of the word fear.
Coolly striking a match upon the bar, he touched the gas burner above his head, and in the light which followed glanced around him.
He stood within a low groggery of the ordinary type found in this part of the city—there was nothing singular in its appearance at all.
He and the red-headed individual occupied the place alone.
"What's your name, my man?" he asked, at the same time carelessly showing his shield.
"Slattery," was the gruff reply, "and I'll bet it's good for more money nor yours."
"Very likely, but it may be good for less if you should happen to lose your license. Who was that old man with the basket of fish that just went out of here?"
"No one went out of here. The place is closed. I'm just after getting up out of me bed."
"You lie, Slattery, and you know it!" exclaimed the detective, sternly. "Now, answer my questions, and I promise that you shall not be interfered with in any way; refuse, and I shall make it warm for you, now you may depend."
"Well, then, I don't know him from a crow. He just stopped in here for a sup of beer."
"You saw what happened to him outside?"
"Suppose I did?"
"How long before was it that he entered your place?"
"Tin minutes, mebbe—mebbe not more nor five."
"And you don't know him?"
"I do not. I tould ye that before."
"And how about the old woman in the worsted hood that entered this place a moment before this man came out? Who was she, and where is she now?"
"That? Oh, that was Mrs. Marley," replied the saloon-keeper, with the air of a man relieved to be questioned on a point upon which he could answer freely at last.
"And who is Mrs. Marley?"
"The woman what lives on the top flure of the house in the rear; she passed through by way of the store, as she often does."
"What sort of a person is she?"
"Faix, an' ye'd better ax hersilf; I've as much as I can do to attind to me own concerns. She lives all alone by hersilf, pays her rint promptly, and goes an' comes whin she likes. The neighbors say she's mad, and mebbe she is—it's no business at all of mine."
"Show me her room," said Caleb Hook, abruptly. "I'll question her for myself."
"Well, then, go through the back dure, cross the yard, and you see a house in the rear—"
"I shall do nothing of the sort. You will go ahead and show me the way to this woman's room. Come, be lively, I've no time to waste."
The saloon-keeper hesitated for an instant, and then moved towards the room beyond.
That the detective was a man not to be trifled with he now fully realized.
"Come, then," he said, gruffly. "I want to be through with this business as soon as I can, for I've something else to do beside wasting me time like this."
He opened a rear door and led the way across a narrow courtyard.
A small frame dwelling stood before them. Connecting with the street was a narrow alley, now choked up with snow.
In the hurried survey of the scene taken by the detective, he observed that the snow was much trodden down by feet, as though several persons had passed in and out, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour.
"This way," said P. Slattery, opening the door of the rear house and advancing up a pair of rickety stairs.
The detective followed in silence.
Arriving at the top of the flight, the proprietor of the Donegal Shades knocked at the door opening immediately from the head of the stairs.
There was no answer from within.
An ominous stillness seemed to pervade the place, which was totally dark, save for the dim starlight which found its way through a broken window at the end of the hall.
"This is blamed strange!" muttered the man, rapping smartly again. "She can't be asleep, for it's only just now she went in."
But if the strange woman whom Caleb Hook had shadowed was within and awake, she did not reply.
Except the muttered words of the man beside him, not a sound fell upon the detective's ear.
A strange feeling of creeping horror seemed to come over him—a wholly unaccountable feeling, something which he had never experienced before.
Without being able to explain why, even to himself, he was seized with a sudden desire to penetrate behind that plain deal door, upon which his companion was still exercising his knuckles wholly without avail.
Pushing the saloon-keeper to one side, he rapped smartly himself, at the same time grasping the knob in his hand.
It yielded to his grasp—yielded so suddenly and unexpectedly that both the detective and P. Slattery were precipitated forward into the room.
With a cry of horror bursting from his lips the saloon-keeper sprang back toward the door.
"Holy Mother! what mutherin' work is this?" he ejaculated, every several hair upon his fiery pate seeming to rise with terror as he stared at the sight which met the gaze of both Detective Hook and himself.
For there, stretched upon the uncarpeted boards before them, amid surroundings the most poverty stricken, lay a fearful, sickening sight, rendered more plainly visible by the light of a guttering candle standing upon a plain wooden table, which, with a bed and a chair or two, formed the sole furniture of the room.
Nor was the detective scarcely less affected, for the sight which he now beheld was one calculated to move the strongest man.
The strange woman whose steps he had followed through the streets lay before him in the dim light of that cheerless room—dead upon the floor.
THE SECRET OF THE IRON DOOR.
The feeling uppermost in the mind of Frank Mansfield, as handcuffed and helpless, caught under the most suspicious circumstances on the very spot where a great crime had been committed, he accompanied Officer Schneider on the short journey to New Church street station, was one of hopeless despair.
What was the true meaning of these strange happenings?
What has become of Cutts, of his unhappy mother, and of the two boys who had detained her beneath the church-yard wall as he himself entered the bank?
He did not know.
He could not form even the faintest idea.
Until now the thought that Cutts had been other than sincere in his request to examine the signature book of the bank had never entered his mind, but as he began to think serious doubts found place therein.
Was not this very like a conspiracy? Did not the whole affair bear the appearance of what is commonly termed a put-up job?
Most decidedly it was so, and yet, so far as he was aware, the boy, in spite of his misfortunes, did not possess an enemy in the world.
Who, then, would be likely to go out of their way to plot against an individual so insignificant as himself?
It was at the precise moment in which Frank, propounding that question to his troubled mind, heard above the heads of the officer and himself that strange, bat-like cry.
Again the cry was repeated, his conductor advancing before him to ascertain its cause, as has already been described.
Now, such a thought as trying to escape had never once entered into Frank Mansfield's head.
Handcuffed as he stood, to attempt to run with any hope of distancing his pursuer would have been simple folly at best.
Moreover, such an action upon his part he knew perfectly well would only add to the appearance of guilt, quite strong enough against him as matters already stood.
The German policeman had advanced before him, and was peering up among the vines clustered about the top of the Trinity church-yard wall, when Frank, also looking about, perceived close by his side one of the great iron doors, of which there are several at this point set in the wall, opening to the tombs built beneath the bank which rose behind.
Now Frank had often noticed these doors, and as often had carelessly wondered what sort of looking places they might conceal.
Just now he gave the one before which he stood no thought at all, his mind being occupied by his unfortunate situation, and his immediate attention attracted by the bat-like cry from above.
His surprise was, therefore, intense when he suddenly perceived the iron door softly open to an extent sufficient to admit the body of a man.
In the aperture stood a boyish form, rendered plainly visible by the light of a street lamp which stood directly opposite the door itself.
Nor was his surprise less in recognizing in the face before him that of a bootblack who had every afternoon for more than a year past polished his shoes at the close of business hours at the bank.
With a quick movement the boy extended his hand and silently beckoned to him to come in.
The policeman was still skirmishing along the foot of the wall with his head in the air, for that the whole thing occupied but the space of an instant must be distinctly understood, and yielding to an uncontrollable impulse, without the slightest thought of what the result of such action might be, Frank stepped within the iron door by the bootblack's side.
In an instant the door was noiselessly closed behind him, rendering the darkness entire.
The boy, without a word, took Frank by the arm and led him forward, up several steps, and opening a second door of iron like the first, ushered him into a low-vaulted apartment not higher than his head.
"There you are, Mr. Mansfield," said the boy, respectfully. "I tought I could do it, an' I have. I'd like to see the cop as could catch onto yer now!"
"Why, you're Barney, the bootblack, ain't you?" demanded Frank, glancing about him in curious surprise.
Within the vault—for it was nothing more, nor larger than a small-sized bedroom—was a table with dishes upon it, a lamp burning in their midst, a chair or two standing about, and piles of old carpets and faded blankets rolled out upon the stone floor.
Nothing else was to be seen about this strange dwelling-place save a short ladder leading up toward the vaulted brick arch above their heads, down which at this moment two ragged boys came scrambling with all possible speed.
At the same instant Frank heard just such a sound as that which a heavy stone dropped upon frozen ground might make.
The two boys sprang from the ladder to the floor of the vault, laughing aloud.
"We fixed him, Barney!" cried one, giving utterance at the same time to the strange, bat-like cry which had so puzzled the worthy Schneider. "He's running up and down the wall, swearing every Dutch swear he knows. An' dis is your friend, is it? I suppose de fellers will kill us for what we've done, but it's too late to help it now."
"Bully for you, Sandy! Garibaldi, you're a trump! Dere's nothing mean about this gent wot I've been a-shinin' of fer more nor a year, you bet. They've jest been a-playin' it onto him, an' I knew it. In course I couldn't stand by quiet like and see him took'n in."
"Barney, what does all this mean?" cried Frank, regarding the boys and their strange surroundings with looks of unfeigned surprise.
"It means that those two fellows, Ed Wilson and Jim Morrow, have gone back on you, Mr. Mansfield, and put up the job with Cutts, the detective to get you into a hole. You are wid the bats now and dey'll see yer all right, and don't make no mistake."
"Put up a job on me! What do you mean?"
"Look at dem bracelets wot you have on yer hands and then ax me. Cutts paid Jim and Ed to rope you in, an' I s'pose somebody's a-payin' of him. We fellers seen the bank robbers go out, an' one of de bats is a-follerin' of 'em now to spot where dey live. If you don't believe me, look a-here—here's a hull lot of things wot dey dropped!"
The boy stooped, and from beneath the pile of old carpet and blankets in one corner of the vault drew out a small tin box filled with a number of documents, which he emptied upon the table among a mass of broken dishes, bread and scraps of meat, with which the table was already covered.
"There dey am," said Barney, triumphantly. "You've been kind to me, Mister Mansfield, and I'm not the feller to go back on you. The boss of de gang dropped 'em, an' me an' Sandy picked 'em up. An' we didn't say nuthin' to them two sick bats, Jim Morrow an' Ed Wilson, about our find, an' now I'm mighty glad of it, too."
The box was marked "Webster National Bank" in black letters painted upon its side.
Instantly Frank recognized it as a box filled with various private documents, intrusted for safe-keeping to the bank, which he had often seen quietly reposing within the rifled vault.
And his heart bounded for joy as he gazed upon it.
If these boys, whoever and whatever they might be, had witnessed the robbery, then with the aid of their testimony, and this box to corroborate it, he would have no trouble in proving his own innocence before the world.
"Speak, Barney!" he exclaimed, eagerly. "What place is this—what do you know of the robbery of the bank? Tell me all about it, and tell me slowly, so that I may be able to understand."
"Well, den, Mister Mansfield, it's jest like dis," replied the bootblack, with the air of one who had suddenly attained greatness, and was fully aware of it, his companions gazing admiringly at him as he spoke.
"Fust we fellers are wot dey call de 'bats in de wall,' or, in plain United States, a lot of chaps wot find it more convenient to live in dis here snug little hole than to sleep on the trucks when the winter-time comes on. Ter-night, as Sandy an' me an' another feller was a-comin' in from the thayter, we happened to see three fellers a-comin' out of the side door of the bank."
"The Webster Bank?" cried Frank, trembling with excitement.
"Of course. Wot other do you s'pose? We was a-comin' down Rector street just as these three fellers come a-sneakin' out.
"We skinned over the church-yard fence, an' give 'em the bat-call, wot we gives to de fellers of our gang to let dem know we're around.
"Giminnetti! you'd orter see 'em cut round the corner, an' the foremost of them dropped this here box in the snow."
"I see it all!" cried Frank, bitterly. "Cutts knew of this intended robbery, and planned to have suspicion thrown upon me. Fool that I was to listen to his lying words!"
"Betcher life," replied Barney, sententiously. "Hold up fer a minute, an' I'll tell you all about that, too."
But Frank Mansfield failed to reply.
Moving toward the pile of documents, he had, as well as his manacled hands would allow him, opened the one nearest the edge of the table, and was now examining it by the uncertain light of the lamp.
What was this?
Surely there must be some mistake!
But no—here it was all down in black and white.
"And I do give and bequeath to the said Frank Mansfield, when he shall have reached the age of twenty-two, all of the property herein described, the exact location of which will be found fully set down in the sealed parchment which accompanies this will."Witness my hand and seal,"Jeremiah Mansfield."Witnesses:"Elijah Callister."Henry Smith.}New York, 1879."
"And I do give and bequeath to the said Frank Mansfield, when he shall have reached the age of twenty-two, all of the property herein described, the exact location of which will be found fully set down in the sealed parchment which accompanies this will.
"Witness my hand and seal,
"Jeremiah Mansfield.
"Witnesses:
"Elijah Callister."Henry Smith.
}
New York, 1879."
It was the will of the boy's paternal grandfather, dated five years back, and on the very day preceding the old gentleman's death, as he had good cause to remember, and drawn in favor of himself.
IN WHICH FRANK MANSFIELD MAKES AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.
Had it occurred to Officer Schneider to remain quietly in the precise spot at which his prisoner had disappeared until the Trinity Church clock struck the hour of four, his patience would have been rewarded by seeing the iron door in the grave-yard wall cautiously open, and the head and shoulders of a boy thrust out into the silent street.
But as neither that exceedingly astute member of the New York police force—the finest in America, we believe it has been said—nor any one else was about at the time, the head and shoulders were followed by a well-developed pair of arms and legs, and a boy stepped out upon the snow.
Instantly this boy was followed by another, after which the iron door was softly closed from within.
Turning their faces toward the north, both boys started upon the dead run up New Church street, and whipping around the corner of Cedar street like a flash, suddenly slackened their steps, and began slowly to ascend the hill in the direction of Broadway.
In the stillness of the Sabbath morning not a sound is to be heard.
The great city sleeps, its ceaseless roar is hushed.
Even as the virtue of charity covereth a multitude of sins, so has covered the pure snow everything in and about these silent streets with an unbroken mantle of white.
Let us glance at these two solitary travelers as they move along, and seek to learn who and what they may be.
As to the larger of the pair there can be no doubt.
Frank Mansfield disguised or Frank Mansfield in his usual dress must to the reader, who has free admission to all our secrets, be Frank Mansfield still.
And we find him now clad in a rough, well-worn suit of clothes, with a blue woolen shirt and a low, slouch, felt hat, not unlike the garments which a few hours since we saw adorning the person of Barney, the bootblack, one of the "bats" in the vault of the church-yard wall.
But his hands are free—there is no doubt of that, for he has one inserted in each side-pocket of his short monkey-coat as he hurries along by the side of his companion through the snow.
And for this relief, one may as well say right here, Frank had to thank a sharp file, procured by one of his new-found friends and Master Barney's strength of arm.
As to the second boy, he is likewise a "bat from the wall."
The special "bat," in fact, mentioned by Barney in his graphic description of the robbery of the Webster Bank as having taken upon himself to track the burglars to their home.
He was a well-built fellow of some eighteen or nineteen years, rough and uncouth in his dress and speech, but immeasurably superior, as could be seen at a glance, to either of his companions encountered by Frank in the vault.
He rejoiced among his fellow "bats" in the short and easily-remembered appellation of "Jerry Buck."
"Are you sure you'd know the place again, Jerry?" asked Frank, as they walked along.
It was for the purpose of pointing out the house into which the three bank-robbers had disappeared that the two boys had now sallied forth.
"Positive," replied the boy, quickly. "It was down in Cherry street, just behind the Catherine Market. I never let up on 'em till I seed 'em go in."
"There were three of them, you say?"
"Yes—one big feller with a carpet-bag, his head all tied up in a comforter, and two others, one with a big bag over his shoulder, an' the other with nothin' at all."
As Frank said nothing further, and his companion evinced an equal disinclination to talk, the boys, having now turned into Broadway, moved along in silence until they reached the newspaper offices which line the right-hand side of Park Row and Printing House Square.
At each one of these they made a halt, Jerry Buck entering at the basement doors, and elbowing his way among a crowd of men and boys, emerged with an ever increasing bundle of morning papers under his arm.
For Jerry was a newsboy as well as a "bat in the wall," and had his living to get on Sunday as upon the other days of the week.
"Now, we won't stop no more," he said briefly, as his complement of papers was completed at last. "Let's hurry up, for as soon as it's light I've got to get to work."
He turned into Frankfort street as he spoke, and leading the way past the great arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, entered Cherry street at its junction with Franklin square.
Continuing along that thoroughfare, clean to the eye at least for once, the boys passed the end of the Catherine Market, and at a sign from Jerry came to a halt before a dirty brick tenement.
"That's the place," he said. "I saw them all three go in that door."
"You are sure?"
"Certain. I can't make no mistake about it, for I used to live in that house once myself."
"And I suppose they are there now, the miserable scoundrels," exclaimed Frank, looking up at the house. "Jerry, I think the best thing I can do is to go directly and inform the police."
"Maybe it is. You've got education and ought to know better than I, but there's another road out of this place by way of the alley in the rear. Perhaps I'd better show you that first."
He led the way around the corner into Catherine street, and paused before an old tumble-down rookery bearing the sign "The Donegal Shades, by P. Slattery," above the door.
Here in the neighborhood of the busy market there were signs of abundant life.
Men, women and boys were moving up and down the sidewalk, to and fro, bent on their various affairs.
"That's the place," said Jerry, pointing toward an alley leading to the rear of the saloon.
As Frank raised his eyes in response to the sign a man sprang toward them with a loud shout.
It was the detective who had arrested him at the bank that night.
By the light of a neighboring street-lamp Frank recognized him at a glance.
With an exclamation he sprang away just as the man's hand was stretched out to grasp his coat, and, followed by Jerry Buck, who did not comprehend the situation at all, dashed up the street with the speed of the wind, without pausing to look behind.
But Jerry was possessed of no such fears as at that moment filled our hero's breast.
As they turned the corner of Cherry street he shot a hurried glance behind him and beheld the singular accident already described, which served to bring the detective to a sudden halt.
"Hist! hist!" he whispered, seizing Frank by the arm. "He's down, and there comes one of the bank burglars now!"
Even as he spoke the man who had dropped the basket of fish dashed round the corner and past them up Cherry street at the top of his speed.
"That's the one wot carried the bag!" whispered the boy, excitedly. "Who's the feller that made you cut an' run?"
"The detective what arrested me—I don't know his name."
"The deuce? Well, you don't want him to see you, and there's no danger of it. I can give him the slip twenty times in this neighborhood—never you fear. If yer a-goin' to give yerself up you' better do it. Don't let that fellow take you in, or they won't believe a word you say."
But the detective on whom their eyes were fixed from around the corner of the building by the side of which they stood, showed no disposition to follow.
On the contrary.
He remained stooping over the basket dropped by the flying man in the snow.
As the boys watched him there emerged from the alley at the side of the Donegal Shades two men, who, moving unobserved through the crowd which had now gathered about the building, hurried up Catherine street, passed within two feet of the spot where the boys now were.
"I know the big fellow," whispered Jerry Buck, seizing Frank by the arm. "That's another of them—that's the fellow who carried the carpet-bag away from the bank."
But Frank Mansfield made no response.
He stood staring at the vanishing forms like one in a trance.
If the larger of the two men was one of the robbers of the Webster Bank, what was his companion doing in such company as his?
For the man who walked by the burglar's side was the old-time friend of the boy himself—was the father of the girl he loved—that most respectable stock operator and member of the Tenth Baptist Church, Elijah Callister, and no one else!
IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.
Caleb Hook stared at the fearful sight which in that darkened chamber met his gaze with feelings of mingled horror and surprise.
Could this, indeed, be the strange creature whose footsteps he had followed—who but a few short moments before he had seen in life.
It was hard to realize it, but there could be no doubt that such was the fact.
There lay the same attenuated form, the same pale and worn features, the thin gray hair, now falling in a tangled mass to the floor, behind the head.
And the restless eyes had ceased their wandering at last, stilled by the cold hand of death.
Upon the woman's forehead a fearful bruise was plainly to be seen as the detective stooped, and, by the light of the candle which he had seized from the table, examined the inanimate form.
It was such a mark as a man's fist might make upon the right temple above the eye.
There was nothing save this fearful bruise, which in itself would have been enough to have felled the strongest man, far less a frail woman like this.
Caleb Hook set the candle upon the floor, and taking the woman's hand in his own, silently felt her pulse.
It had ceased to beat—the hand was already cold.
"Is she dead?" demanded the saloon-keeper, in a frightened whisper.
"She certainly is," replied the detective. "Can you look at her and ask? That blow must have been the work of a powerful man—coward, I should rather say, whoever he was, to use a woman so."
"God save us! an' yer right," exclaimed Slattery, with a shudder. "An' she was a dacent body, if she war mad. Bad luck to the murtherin' spalpane who raised his hand agin her. I would I had me own two hands about his throat!"
As the warm-hearted Irishman uttered these words, with some evidence of deep feeling, the sound of footsteps was heard on the stairs without, and a stout woman, bare-headed and so lightly dressed as to leave a strong suspicion in the minds of the two men who beheld her that she had just left her bed, now bustled into the room.
"An' what's all the row up here?" she demanded. "There's noise enough to wake the dead."
"But not enough to wake yon poor crayter, Mrs. O'Brien!" exclaimed Slattery, grimly, pointing at the same time toward the body of the woman on the floor. "D'ye know what's been goin' on up here? Poor Mrs. Marley's after bein' murdered."
"Holy Vargin! an' is it murther that's been done?" cried the woman, who, having caught sight of the body, now sprang toward the door, extending her hands before her, as if to ward off the sight.
"Help! Murder! Perlice! Och, an' it's bad luck that's overtook me respictible house!"
Before the hand of the detective could be raised to stay her, the frightened creature had rushed down the stairs, through the alley and out into the street, causing the air to ring with her cries of murder and her shouts for the police.
"It's the woman down stairs," said Slattery aghast. "Sure, an' it's the whole worruld we'll have in to join us now."
Caleb Hook made no reply.
He cared little, in fact, who entered this chamber of death and who stayed away.
He could not be everywhere, and had no desire to take charge of the case.
The woman was dead, and her knowledge concerning the robbery of the Webster Bank must remain forever untold.
Nevertheless, he realized fully that between the robbery and this murder there was unquestionably a connecting link.
In all human probability the secrets possessed by this unfortunate creature had cost her life.
He kneeled beside the body and made a hurried examination of her clothes, Slattery talking volubly as he did so, and, professing his entire innocence of any knowledge of the affair.
But the search was fruitless.
Save for a few cheap personal belongings, there was nothing found upon the woman of any interest at all.
He had scarce completed his work, before the sound of many footsteps was heard upon the stairs, and a motley crowd pressed their way into the room.
Men from the market, men from the street.
Butchers, fishmongers, and housewives with their baskets, on their way to purchase their morning supplies.
Close behind them came a policeman, who elbowed his way through the crowd.
Into the hands of this man the detective resigned the case, informing him of his own identity and of the facts connected with the discovery of the body.
"I'll go around to the Oak street station at once, officer," he added in a whisper, "and send you help. Meanwhile, keep an eye on that man Slattery, if you want my advice. Better keep him in here with you—I'll send these people away.
"Get back there!" he said, sternly, facing the crowd now pressing about the door. "Get back, every one of you! The law will attend to this matter without your help!"
He pushed back a brawny butcher as he spoke, who, with his check frock hanging to his heels, had pushed his way beyond the rest within the little room.
At the same instant a slight stir was observed among those beyond, and a young man with pallid features and whitened lips tightly set pushed his way into the room.
He was followed by a second youth but little younger than himself, who held a bundle of newspapers beneath his arm.
Detective Hook started back with an exclamation of surprise.
Before him stood the very pair who had eluded his grasp in the street but a few moments before.
It was Frank Mansfield and his newsboy companion, Jerry Buck.
Attracted by the outcry in the street and impelled by a desire for which he was wholly unable to account, Frank had followed the crowd through the alley and up the rickety stairs, wholly regardless of results.
Springing forward, he now sank beside the body of the unfortunate woman with a low, horror-stricken cry.
Instantly the detective's hand was upon his shoulder and had gently, but firmly, raised him to his feet.
The boy stared at him wildly.
"Let me go," he said hoarsely, pulling himself away. "Send away these people! leave me alone with my dead!"
"Your dead, young man? Is that woman anything to you?"
"She is my mother!" cried Frank, kneeling by the side of the body, and taking the cold, white hand within his own.
"She is my mother, and I, who basely left her to the hands of others, am responsible for this—I, her most unworthy son!"
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.
For a moment no one spoke.
The kneeling boy wept by the side of the woman's body upon the floor, the crowd falling back to make way for him of their own accord.
"Come, my boy," said Detective Hook, at length, laying his hand with womanly tenderness upon Frank's shoulder, "this is no place for you. The coroner has a duty here; meanwhile you had better come with me."
The boy arose obediently.
Forcing back the crowd, the detective closed the door of the little room behind him, and taking Frank by the arm, he led him to the street without speaking a word.
To Jerry Buck, who had followed them through the alley and now stood with his bundle of newspapers under his arm staring at them wonderingly, he paid no attention at all.
At this moment the policeman who, at the detective's orders, had taken the stolen dollars to the Oak Street station, came hurrying up.
Releasing his hold on Frank's arm, Caleb Hook drew the man aside and whispered a few hurried words in his ear.
The policeman turned abruptly and hurried back in the direction from which he had come.
"That man will see that all proper steps are taken for the care of the remains of your unfortunate mother," said the detective, quietly, "which leaves me free to attend to you."
"Now, my boy, I want to talk with you. I know you to be the same person who has twice given me the slip to-night, and by right ought to handcuff you and take you to the station at once. But, although it may surprise you, I don't propose to do anything of the sort, for I think it unnecessary to resort to such means."
"I'll go with you now, sir," replied Frank, in a broken voice. "I was just going to give myself up. I shall not try to escape again."
"Good!" replied the man, putting his arm through that of the boy and moving up Catherine street as he spoke. "I flatter myself I can read men's faces as well as the next, and that is why I have determined to place confidence in you. I may deem it my duty to arrest you yet. Very likely I shall; but before I do so I am going to have a quiet talk with you, when I'm certain you'll see the advantage of telling me the whole truth about this bank affair, and in order that we may be undisturbed I propose to take you to my own room, which, fortunately, is not far off."
Now the room occupied by Caleb Hook—for he was a bachelor, and had no one to care for but himself—was situated in a respectable lodging-house in Madison street, between Montgomery and Clinton.
Ten minutes later the detective himself entered the apartment, followed by the youthful assistant cashier of the Webster National Bank.
It was a large room on the second floor of the house.
The furniture was modern and abundant, giving to the interior a thoroughly comfortable air.
Locking the door behind him and lighting a handsome drop-light, Detective Hook touched a match to a fire already laid in the open grate, which in a moment broke into a cheerful blaze.
"Now then, young man," he said, pulling off his overcoat, and drawing up a comfortable easy chair, "you are my guest for the present, whether I conclude to turn you over to the authorities later on or not. Sit down there, and make yourself at home."
Frank seated himself wearily and remained gazing at the fire without reply.
Meanwhile, Caleb Hook studied his face in silence.
"Was that woman really your mother?" he said at length.
"Yes."
The boy had burst into tears, burying his face in his hands.
"Poor fellow!" said the detective, sympathizingly, putting his hand gently upon his shoulder, "I had a mother once, whom I loved better than any one in the world. Dear me! she died a dozen years ago.
"You've had a great deal of trouble," he added, after a short pause. "I can see that at a glance. Now, do you know, Frank, that two-thirds of the scrapes people get themselves into come from lying? Suppose your mother were to speak to you now? Don't you think she would advise you to tell me all you know about this bank affair? Come, now, I'm sure she would."
"She would as she once was," replied Frank, bitterly; "but my mother has been insane for the last five years, and in an asylum. God only knows how she came to escape to meet her death to-night."
"Tell me all about it, my boy, tell me all about it," said Hook, familiarly, and in the most sympathizing tones. "If there is any way in the world to help you, count on me every time."
It was the favorite motto of this famous man that to understand the motive of a criminal it was only necessary to lead him to believe that your sympathy lay wholly with himself.
Personally, he fully believed the boy before him to have had a hand in the bank robbery.
Nor was this strange.
Had he not caught him almost in the act?
If he could, by working upon his feelings in these, the first moments of his bitter sorrow, bring him to confess, much trouble to himself and much expense to the police in working out a troublesome case might thus be saved.
It was with this end in view that he had adopted this unusual course.
Nor were his efforts unrewarded.
Frank opened his heart without further pressure, and related truthfully all that had occurred.
One thing only he concealed—the secret of the "Bats in the Wall."
The boys had befriended him in his moment of need.
He was firmly resolved that no amount of pressure should draw from him the secret of their hiding-place, which through their kindness to himself he had learned.
"Upon my word, this is a most remarkable story," exclaimed the detective, gazing at Frank with a puzzled air as he completed his tale. "But you have omitted to tell me how it is that having handcuffed you myself, and delivered you into the charge of an officer, you managed to escape as you did."
"I can't tell you that, sir," replied the boy, firmly. "It would not help you any so far as tracing the bank-robbers are concerned to know."
"You say you met some boys who saw the burglars, who showed you a box of papers, which they had dropped in their flight, from which you took this will of which you have given me so strange an account. Did these boys have anything to do with your escape?"
"Perhaps they did and perhaps they didn't—they proved my friends, and I shan't give them away."
"That's right, never go back on your friends. Now, then, Frank Mansfield, do you know who I am?"
"I know you are a detective."
"So I am. My name is Caleb Hook."
"I've often heard of you," said Frank, regarding him with some curiosity.
And who has not!
The name of Caleb Hook has for years been the most famous of the New York force.
"No doubt," replied that individual, quietly. "But to return to our subject in which I am becoming more interested every moment. I see deeper into things than you can expect to, my boy, and let me tell you in what you have related I see evidences of a deep and carefully laid scheme, of which this bank robbery forms only a part. Let me see that will you found in the box."
Frank took the document from his pocket and placed it in his hands.
"I've had no time to read it through," he said.
The detective opened the paper, the seals of which had already been broken when Frank first found it, and perused it in silence.
"My boy," said he, as he came to the end, "let me tell you that this document is likely to prove of the greatest value to you. In it the testator—your grandfather, you say he is—relates that he has converted all his property, valued at over half a million, into gold and gems and has buried it in a place described in a sealed parchment which ought to accompany this will. All of this is to be yours at the age of twenty-two, under certain conditions; until then the document is to be secret, and its contents remain unknown. Now, where is that sealed parchment? That's the question before the house!"
"I'm sure I can't tell," replied Frank, in astonishment. "It may be with the other papers in the box. Half a million! and all for me! And we all thought my grandfather died poor!"
"It is very evident he did nothing of the sort. Jeremiah Mansfield—Jeremiah Mansfield—let me see—wasn't that the miserly old fellow who was murdered in Harlem some five years ago?"
"Yes: his house was entered by burglars in the night. They killed him, and no property except the old house was ever found, although until then my father thought him to be rich."
"And it seems he was right," replied Hook, musingly. "Then your father was Francis Mansfield, the foreign importer, who was said—who——"
"They said he stole one hundred thousand dollars of the funds of a European house intrusted to his keeping!" cried Frank, with deeply flushed face, "but it was false. The money arrived too late for deposit, father put it over night in his safe. Burglars entered the store that night, blew up the safe and stole every cent. It killed my father to be thought a defaulter, drove my mother mad, and ruined us all."
"Just so," answered the detective; "I remember it all perfectly well. It was a sad case, indeed."
For a few moments he remained silently musing, still holding the open paper in his hand.
"Who is this man Callister?" he asked, at length. "Is it the Wall street speculator of that name?"
"Yes. He was my father's best friend."
"And it was he whom you saw coming out of that alley with the other man that Jerry Buck, the newsboy, told you was one of the burglars?"
"Yes, I'm sure of it. I know him too well to make a mistake."
"And I know him, too," muttered Hook, "and I propose to know him better by and by. You observe that he is one of the witnesses to your grandfather's will!" he added, aloud.
"Yes."
"Now, Frank, let me tell you something you don't know, but might have known if you had taken the trouble to read this document carefully. Listen to this clause in your grandfather's will, which has a most important bearing on this case:
"'And if, at the age of twenty-two, my grandson, the said Frank Mansfield, shall be found to be honest and upright, and in every way a reputable member of society, the sealed parchment, together with the buried treasure which it represents, which I deem unsafe, in these days of fraud, to intrust to the keeping of any bank, shall be delivered to him, and shall become his sole property by virtue of this my last will. If, however, the said Frank Mansfield shall have become deceased, or if he shall have been at any time proven guilty of any unlawful act, then this, my last will and testament, together with the accompanying parchment and the buried treasure it represents, shall be given to my good friend, Elijah Callister, of the City of New York, to become his sole property, under the provisions of this will.'"
"And knowing this, Mr. Callister tried to have me convicted of crime!" cried Frank, springing to his feet in great excitement. "Can it be possible that the man is so base?"
"Young man, it looks tremendously like it," said Caleb Hook, decidedly, folding up the will and putting it in his own pocket.
"You tell me that Cutts led you into this affair—and I want you to understand for what you proposed to do you are most decidedly to blame—that he agreed to pay these boys, Ed Wilson and Jim Morrow, who, according to the story told by them to that boy Barney, have undoubtedly left already in the early morning train for California, where, had the plot succeeded, they could never have been reached to prove your innocence, even had they been so disposed.
"Now, if Cutts paid them—and Cutts is crooked, if he is a detective; I've known that this long while—the question is who was to pay Cutts? My answer would be this man Callister, whose direct interest it is to have you convicted of crime."
"Mr. Hook," exclaimed the boy, lost in astonishment, "I am completely bewildered. What would you advise me to do?"
"To place yourself in my hands, if you will," answered the detective, decidedly. "I will take up your case if you wish me to do so, for it is just the sort of an affair I like.
"I now fully believe your story, my boy, and shall not place you under arrest. In working for your interests I shall also be doing my duty in unearthing the robbers of the Webster Bank."
"Of course I shall be only too glad of your help," said Frank, eagerly. "I have been foolish—I see it now. Whatever you say I'll do."
"Then, inasmuch as you have mysteriously disappeared, remain so. I've reported your disappearance to the police; let it be your care not to reappear until I say the word.
"Disguise yourself, watch Callister, see your bootblacks and newsboys, and procure from them the tin box and all it contains. I will do for your unfortunate mother all that can be done. When you want money come to me. We will work together, Frank, and as I don't work for nothing, you can repay me when you come into your own."
"I can never repay you, sir!" cried the boy, with tears in his eyes, grasping the detective's outstretched hand.
"Yes, you can, and I'm sure you will. Here are a few dollars now. When you need it you shall have more. Now go, and don't be seen in the streets so dressed that any one will recognize you again. You can meet me—let me see—I've got to go out of town this afternoon on important business, and won't return until late to-night. Meet me where I saw you first—on the corner of Rector street and Broadway—to-night, as the clock of old Trinity strikes twelve."
WHAT WAS SEEN BY THE CHURCH-YARD WALL.
The Sabbath has passed, and night has fallen upon the city once more.
The busy streets are growing deserted, and the great business thoroughfares about lower Broadway, silent at all hours on this the day of rest, have, as the night wears on, become almost entirely abandoned by pedestrians, and have sunk into obscurity and gloom.
As the midnight hour approached, the figure of a young man, roughly dressed in garments of the commonest sort, his face concealed beneath a low slouch hat, his mouth by a heavy black mustache, might have been observed to briskly ascend the Rector street hill, which rises along the church-yard wall, and to take his station at the corner of Broadway, close by the side of the iron fence which divides the old burial ground from the street.
He was evidently waiting for some one, for as he paced up and down beneath the cold light of the glittering stars his eye was from time to time turned upon the clock in the church tower, now about to strike the hour of twelve.
No one that had ever known Frank Mansfield would have recognized the neatly dressed young bank clerk in this rough looking youth who now strode uneasily up and down.
And yet it was none other than Frank himself, cleverly disguised, prompt on the hour of his appointment with Detective Hook.
Nor was that famous officer at all behindhand.
Just as the clock of old Trinity rang out the midnight hour the boy perceived him moving at a rapid pace down Broadway.
Clever as was Frank's disguise, it did not deceive the detective for an instant.
"Well, young man, you are on time, I see?" he said, abruptly, peering beneath the low slouched hat. "What have you learned? You have got the sealed parchment that should accompany the will, I hope? Otherwise, your chances of finding your legacy are mighty slim."
"I have learned nothing, excepting the fact that my mother escaped from the private asylum up-town where she had been confined over a week ago."
"And the parchment?"
"Was not in the box, Mr. Hook. Here it is, with all the papers it contained. I have examined every one of them, and it is not there."
He drew a small tin box from beneath his coat as he spoke and placed it in the detective's hands.
"That's bad for us," replied Caleb Hook, opening the box and examining the papers one by one. "These seem to relate to all sorts of matters. Surely this cannot be the box in which the will was originally contained."
"I can't say—it is all that was found by the boys. I——"
"Seek not the parchment. Watch and wait, for the day of vengeance is at hand!"
Plainly heard by both the man and the boy, these words rang out upon the silence of the deserted street.
"Who spoke?" exclaimed the detective, springing back from the church-yard rail against which he had been leaning.
Save himself and his companion, not a soul was to be seen either on Rector street or Broadway.
With a low cry the boy had seized him by the arm.
"There—there!" he whispered, trembling with excitement, pointing, at the same time to the open expanse of the Trinity church-yard within the rail, by the side of which they stood.
The eyes of Caleb Hook followed the direction indicated by Frank's hand.
There, moving among the headstones in the shadow of the church itself, was the form of a woman, cheaply dressed in a faded calico, an old shawl and a woolen hood.
She was tall and thin, and her long gray hair hung in a tangled mass down her neck and shoulders.
"Great God! if it ain't——"
"My mother!" cried the boy aloud, springing toward the rail. "It is! It is! Look! she faces us now. God have mercy! What can this mean?"
The form had paused, and, turning, gazed sorrowfully toward the astonished pair beneath the stars which glistened above.
But, feeble as was their light, Detective Hook recognized in that care-worn face, at a glance, the features of the strange woman whom he had tracked through the streets on the previous night, and who, to his positive knowledge now lay dead in the city morgue!
IN CAGNEY'S SANCTUM.
We never heard it claimed that Oliver street was fashionable.
If such a claim was made, many who know that narrow lane, extending from Chatham square down to the East River front, would be inclined to dispute its truth.
Crossing Cherry street, Water and Front, passing directly through the heart of the densely populated Fourth Ward, long known as the home of the toughest of the "toughs" who infest the City of New York, it would be useless for us to pretend that Oliver street was anything else than just what it is—as bad as bad can be.
Not that many excellent people cannot be found within its limits.
That is true of every city street, no matter how poor its seeming; but Michael J. Cagney was certainly not one of these, nor was his saloon—"The Fourth Ward Shades"—any better than it ought to be, if common rumor was to be believed.
And yet Cagney did a flourishing business—there could be no doubt as to that.
It was open all day, it could be entered at night, nor upon the Sabbath were the thirsty turned away.
How Mr. Michael J. Cagney managed to arrange matters with the excise commissioners is no concern of ours.
In the present stage of the events of this narrative we are concerned only with two individuals, who, at the hour of daybreak on the particular Sunday morning of the visit of Frank Mansfield and Jerry Buck to the Catherine Market, entered quietly at Cagney's little side door.
They were none other than the two men who had emerged from the alley at the side of the Donegal Shades, one of whom it will be recollected, Frank recognized as that most reputable member of society, Mr. Elijah Callister, the well-known operator on the stock exchange, and the other the man pointed out by Jerry Buck as one of the burglars of the Webster Bank.
Pushing against the door, to all appearance tightly fastened, but which instantly yielded to their touch, the two men found themselves within a dirty bar-room.
Bottles and demijohns lined the grimy shelves, great casks and barrels were piled from the level of the sawdust-covered floor in double tiers around two sides of the room.
Upon the top of these barrels lay four or five ragged men, some young, some old, all sprawled out without reference to the gracefulness of the position shown and all sound asleep.
These were the drunkards of the Saturday night previous, taken from the floor, to which they had fallen under the influence of the vile poison imbibed at this and other bars, and thrown upon the top of these barrels to sleep off the effects of their debauch.
The two men paid no attention to this—a common Sunday morning spectacle in many low saloons—but with a nod to the sleepy, red-eyed bartender passed through a swinging half door, which formed to a certain extent at least, a dividing line between Cagney's proper and Cagney's private sanctum beyond.
It was only a little 7x8 affair, in the center of which stood a table, and one or two hard wooden chairs, all a shade less dirty than the room beyond.
The stock operator seated himself at the table upon entering.
His companion, sinking into a chair and burying his face in his hands, groaned aloud.
For a moment Mr. Callister regarded him gloomily.
Then, extending his hand, he grasped his shoulder and shook the man with some violence.
"Rube, Rube, I say!"
"Well, what is it, Lije? Why the deuce can't you let me be?"
"But there's no use in this kind of business. What's done is done, and can't be helped. Brace up man, and try to look as near like yourself as you can. Here comes Paddy to see what we'll take."
The burglar raised his head and was staring fixedly before him, as the half door swung inward and the sleepy bartender entered the room.
"What's your liquor, gents?" he demanded, with an air of indifference.
They must pay for their use of the apartment by an order of some kind.
So that they did this, their presence in the place, be their business, lawful or unlawful, was a matter of no moment to him.
"A bottle of Cagney's particular and two glasses, Paddy, and you may keep the change," said Callister, throwing down a five-dollar bill. "We have a little business to transact together—don't let us be disturbed."
"O. K., gents," replied the sleepy bartender, with a gleam of intelligence in his blinking red eyes. "I'll look out for yez, and if ye want anything else, wy jest tap that ere bell."
He presently returned with bottle and glasses and having placed them upon the table, withdrew.
"Here, Rube, drink this. It will give you some heart," said the stock operator, pouring out a portion of the liquor and passing it to his friend.
The man seized the glass eagerly and drained it to the last drop.
"My God—my God! Lije, what a terrible thing this is!" he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper, as he set the glass upon the table again. "I can see her face before me now, so white and worn! It will never leave me—I feel it—I know it! It will haunt me as long as I live!"
"Nonsense, man! You have been guilty of a piece of tremendous folly, but we've too much at stake to break all to pieces over such a slip."
"Poor Maria! poor girl!" groaned the man Rube, again burying his face in his hands and groaning aloud. "It was all my vile temper, Lije. I swear to God I never meant to kill her, and now——"
"And now she's dead," returned Callister, with an air of hardened indifference. "She was hopelessly mad, and a nuisance to herself and to us. She's dead, and it can't be helped. You let your temper get the better of you, and you killed her. That's all there is to be said."
"For which act may God forgive me," groaned Rube again. "Oh, Lije, it seems but yesterday since I married her! Do you remember what beautiful girls they were when you and I and Frank Mansfield went a-courting them? Do you remember——"
"No, I don't remember, and I don't want to. All the love I had for them was turned to hate long ago. She's dead, and let her go. What I'm interested in just now is the whereabouts of those papers. You thought she had them, and because she wouldn't give them up——"
"I killed her. God forgive me! I killed her! Oh, Lije, if I had only listened to Maria's advice, I'd be a different man to-day from what I am!"
A soft-hearted bank burglar, surely. A strange murderer, for a fact.
The man had buried his face in his hand again, which rests upon the table now, and is crying like a child.
"Rube Tisdale, you are a fool. If you give way like this, no power on earth can keep you from being nabbed. You thought Maria had old Mansfield's will and the paper telling where he buried his fortune. She refused to give it up, and you killed her with your fist. We searched her, and the papers were not to be found. No one suspects your connection with the woman. If you will but keep a stiff lip you are as safe in New York as anywhere else; but if you are going to give way like this, why the sooner you skip——"
"Sun, Herald, Journal, World! Papers, gents—papers!"
A head was thrust through the swinging door; a ragged boy, carrying a bundle of newspapers under his arm entered the room.
"Get out, you young imp, or I'll throw this glass at you!" cried Callister, picking up the glass and swinging it above his head.
The boy sprang back, the half-door, which worked on a spring, closing noiselessly after him.
Then the leading light in the Tenth Baptist Church turned to the remorse-stricken man again.
Now, if there was one thing upon which Mr. Elijah Callister prided himself more than another, it was upon his shrewdness at all times and seasons—no matter how engrossing the business for the moment occupying his mind.
But if possessed of this quality to any startling extent, he surely has failed to display it now, for had he but taken the precaution to open the half door and look out into the bar-room, he would have perceived that the sleepy bartender, yielding to his sleepiness at last, was as firmly locked in the arms of Morpheus as any of the drunkards stretched upon the barrels, his head resting upon his hands, his hands upon the bar.
He might have seen also—for of this we are not so certain—the youthful figure of a ragged newsboy, crouching in the shadow of a tier of great whisky-barrels in such a position that, while he could obtain a view of the feet only of the two men who occupied Cagney's sanctum beneath the closed half door, he could, by simply placing his ear close to the jamb, hear plainly every word spoken within.