As the lady entered the room a little girl, with an expression of joy, ran from the window from which she had been looking, and took her hand.
"I'm so glad you've got home, auntie," she said. "I got tired of being alone."
"I staid away longer than I intended, Althea," said the lady. "I was afraid you would feel lonely."
"I wasverylonely. I wanted to go out into the hall and play with a little girl that lives in the next room, but I thought you wouldn't find me."
"I am glad you did not. I have brought you a playfellow, Althea."
This drew the little girl's attention to Dan. Unlike most girls of her age, she was not bashful.
"What is his name?" she asked.
"Dan."
"What a funny name! Are you going to live with us, Dan?"
"You are coming to live with me," said Dan, smiling.
"Will you be my brother?"
"Yes."
"And will you play with me?"
"Sometimes."
"I think I shall like you. You are nice-looking," said Althea, in a matter-of-fact tone.
Dan blushed. He found the compliment agreeable, though it came from a little girl.
"So are you, Althea," he said.
"I don't think I am," said Althea. "I've black hair, and my skin is dark. You have nice brown hair, and are whiter than I am."
"Some like dark people best," suggested Dan.
"I don't. I asked auntie to buy me a big cake of soap to wash the brown off, but it wouldn't come."
Dan smiled. He thought the bright, vivacious little face, with the brilliant dark eyes, pretty, though Althea did not.
"You will like to live with Dan, my dear?" said her aunt, inquiringly.
"Yes, if you come, too."
"But I can't."
"Why, not, auntie?"
"I have got to go away—on business."
Althea looked disappointed.
"I don't want you to go away, auntie," she said. "Dan and I can't live alone."
"Dan has a mother, who will be very good to you."
"Will she take care of me?" asked Althea, brightening up.
"Yes, Althea."
"Is she nice?"
"Yes."
"Then she will be my mother?"
"Yes; you can call her mother."
"And you will come to see me some time, auntie?"
"Yes, my dear."
"Then I will go with Dan;" and the little girl placed her hand confidingly in that of our hero.
Dan thought it would be pleasant for him to have a little sister, and he knew that it would brighten his mother's existence.
"Shall we go now, madam?" asked Dan, turning to the lady.
"Not just yet. Come here, Dan."
Dan followed her to the window. She drew from her pocket a wallet containing a considerable sum of money.
"I will hand you two months' payment in advance," she said, "and afterward I will remit you monthly, or direct you where to call for money. Two months at fifty dollars will amount to one hundred, and twentymore for Althea's dress will make it up to a hundred and twenty. Have you a pocket-book?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are you careful of money?"
"Whenever I have any to be careful about," answered Dan.
"I hope you will be comfortably provided from this time. There is a little trunk of Althea's clothes in the trunk-room below. I will write you an order for it, but you may as well wait till you have moved before carrying it away. It will save you trouble."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you had any supper?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then you shall go into supper with Althea and myself."
"What! here, at the Fifth Avenue Hotel?" asked Dan.
"Certainly."
"I'm afraid I don't look fit."
"You look well enough. At any rate, it's nobody's business. We may as well go down now."
There was nothing to say, so Dan followed the mysterious lady into the supper-room, Althea clinging to his hand. He felt awkward as he took his seat. Suppose some one should recognize him asthe newsboy who usually stood in front of the Astor House!
Some one did recognize him.
The young lady whom Tom Carver was escorting boarded at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and had alighted at the same time with our hero, though he did not observe it.
Tom had been invited to supper, and, with Julia and her father, was seated at a neighboring table when Dan entered.
Tom could hardly credit his eyes when he saw Dan entering the supper-room, with the little girl clinging to his hand.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" he ejaculated, forgetting his manners in his surprise.
"What did you remark?" asked Julia, rather amused.
"I beg your pardon, but I was so astonished. There is that newsboy coming into supper!"
"Where?"
"There."
"What a pretty little girl is with him!"
"That's so. Who can she be?"
"You must be mistaken about your friend being a newsboy."
"He is no friend of mine."
"Your acquaintance, then; though he is niceenough looking to be a friend. Are you sure he is a newsboy?"
"Certain. I saw him selling papers yesterday in front of the Astor House."
"His business must be good, or he would not board at the Fifth Avenue Hotel."
"Of whom are you speaking, Julia?" asked her father.
"Of that boy at the next table, pa."
"That boy! Why, that's my young friend of the ferry-boat. Tom, have the kindness to ask him to come here a moment and speak to me."
Much surprised, and considerably against his will, Tom rose and walked over to where Dan was sitting.
"Look here," said he; "come over to the next table, will you?"
"What for?" asked Dan.
"There's a gentleman wants to speak to you."
Dan looked over and he recognized Mr. Rogers, of the firm of Barton & Rogers, who had asked him to call at his place of business on Pearl street.
"Good-evening, Mr. Rogers," he said, politely.
"Good-evening, my boy. Do you board here?"
"Not as a rule," answered Dan, smiling. "My business don't allow it. I am dining here with some friends."
"What's your name?"
"Daniel Mordaunt. Everybody calls me Dan."
"Then, Dan, let me make you acquainted with my daughter, Julia."
Dan bowed and smiled.
"I think you were sitting opposite me in the stage, Mr. Mordaunt," said Julia.
"Yes, Miss Rogers."
"You were polite enough to hand me my handkerchief when I awkwardly dropped it."
"Oh, don't mention it."
"I hope to meet you again."
"Thank you."
"What a pretty girl she is!" thought Dan.
"Dan, this young gentleman is Thomas Carver. You must be nearly of an age. You ought to know each other."
"I have known Mr. Carver a long time," said Dan, smiling.
"Indeed!" said Mr. Rogers, surprised.
"We used to sit together at school."
"You didn't tell me that, Tom," said Julia Rogers, turning to Tom.
"No," said Tom, embarrassed; "it is a good while ago."
"I won't detain you any longer from your friends," said Mr. Rogers, politely. "I shall see you at the office in the morning."
Dan bowed and withdrew.
"Where did you meet him, papa?" asked Julia.
Her father told the story of Dan's exploit on the ferry-boat.
"He is a very smart boy," he said. "I shall probably take him into my employ."
"I hope you will, papa. He is a very gentlemanly boy."
All this was very disagreeable to Tom Carver, but he did not venture to say all that he felt, being somewhat in awe of Mr. Rogers.
"They are making a great fuss over a common newsboy," he muttered to himself.
After supper, Dan prepared to take Althea home with him. She felt so well acquainted already that she made no objection, but, hand-in-hand, left the hotel with Dan. He halted a Broadway stage, and they got in.
"Are you carrying me to where you live, Dan?" asked the little girl.
"Yes, Althea."
"Will your mother be glad to see me?"
"Yes, she will be very glad. She wants a little girl to keep her company."
"Then I'm glad I'm going."
Mrs. Mordaunt was apprised by Fanny that Dan had gone up town with a lady, and therefore was not alarmed when he did not return home at the usual time. She hoped he would clear fifty cents, but had no idea to what extent their fortunes would be advanced by Dan's evening's work.
"I will save Dan some supper," she said to herself. "He will be hungry."
So, mother-like, she supped economically herself, on a cup of tea and some dry bread, and bought a bit of steak for Dan's supper, for she thought he would be very hungry at so late an hour.
It was nearly half-past eight when she heard Dan's well known step on the stairs.
She opened the door to welcome him, but the cheerful welcome upon her lips died away in surprise when she saw his companion.
"Who is this, Dan?" she asked.
"She is going to be my little sister, mother," said Dan, gayly.
"Will you be my mother?" said Althea, releasing Dan's hand, and putting her own confidingly in that of Mrs. Mordaunt.
"Yes, my dear," said the widow, her heart quite won by the little girl's innocent confidence, and she bent over and kissed her.
"What does it all mean, Dan?" she asked, in bewilderment.
"It means that Althea is to board with us, and be company for you. I have agreed with her aunt that you will take her."
"But does her aunt know that we live in such a poor place?" asked his mother in a tone of hesitation.
"Yes, mother, but that makes no difference, as we shall move up town to-morrow."
"I am sure you have acted for the best, Dan, but it seems so strange."
"Will it seem strange to receive fifty dollars a month for Althea's board?" asked Dan.
"Fifty dollars a month!" repeated the widow, incredulously.
"That's the figure, mother. I didn't suppose we ought to charge more."
"More, Dan! Why, it is a fortune!"
"I don't know. That depends on Althea's appetite. Are you a great eater, Althea?"
"Sometimes I am," said the little girl, naively.
"Never mind, I guess there will be enough."
"I nearly forgot, Dan. You will want some supper. I didn't know there would be two, but I will go cut and buy some more meat, if you can wait."
"I have had supper, mother, or dinner rather. I dined with Althea and her aunt at the Fifth Avenue Hotel."
Here was another surprise.
"Has Althea been stopping there, Dan?"
"Yes, mother."
"Then how can she stay even one night in this poor place?"
"I will ask her. Althea, do you mind stopping here just one night? We will go to a better place to-morrow."
"No, Dan, I don't care."
"There, mother, I told you so, Althea is a brick."
"What a funny boy you are, Dan! How can I be a brick? A brick is red and ugly, and I am not."
"No, Althea, you are not ugly, but your cheeks are red."
"They don't look like a brick, Dan."
"No, they don't. I take it all back."
"I had got your supper all ready, Dan," said his mother, regretfully.
"Then eat it yourself, mother."
"I have had my supper."
"You didn't have any meat, I'll warrant. Now, like a good mother, sit down and eat the steak."
Assured that Dan had supped well, Mrs. Mordaunt didn't resist his advice.
Dan looked on, and saw with pleasure that his mother relished the meat.
"We will be able to live better hereafter, mother," he said. "There won't be any stinting. Fifty dollars will go a good ways, and then, besides, there will be my earnings. I forgot to tell you, mother, that I have probably got a place."
"Our good fortune is coming all at once, Dan," said Mrs. Mordaunt, cheerfully.
"So it seems, mother. I think it has come to stay, too."
"I feel so tired," said Althea, at this point. "Can I go to bed?"
"Certainly, my dear child. You can go at once."
In twenty minutes the little girl was in a sound sleep. Dan was not sorry, for he wanted to tell his mother about the days adventures, and he could do so more freely without any one to listen.
"So, mother," he concluded, "we are going to turn over a new leaf. We can't go back to our old style of living just yet, but we can get out of this tenement-house, and live in a respectable neighborhood."
"God has been good to us, Dan. We ought to feel grateful to Him."
"I know it, mother, but somehow I don't think of that as quick as you. Who do you think I saw in the supper-room at the Fifth Avenue? Who but Tom Carver. He was wonderfully puzzled to know how I happened to be there. He told the party he was with that I was a common newsboy."
"He is a very mean boy," said Mrs. Mordaunt, indignantly. "After being so intimate with you too."
"Never mind, mother. He can't do me any harm, and I don't care for his friendship. The time may come when I can meet him on even terms."
"You can now, Dan."
"I mean in a worldly way. I shall work along, and if I get rich I sha'n't be the first rich man that has risen from the ranks."
"God grant you success, my son!"
Early the next morning Dan started out in search of a new home.
He and his mother decided that they would like to live somewhere near Union Square, as that would be a pleasant afternoon resort for their young boarder.
"Will you go with me, mother?" he asked.
"No, Dan, I have not time this morning. Besides you know what will suit us."
"Very well, mother; I will do my best."
Dan crossed Broadway, and took a horse-car up town.
In West Sixteenth street his attention was drawn to the notice, "Furnished Rooms to Let," upon a good-looking brick house.
He rang the bell, and asked to see the lady of the house.
A stout, matronly looking woman, with a pleasant face, answered the servant's call.
"I called to inquire for rooms," said Dan.
"For yourself?" asked Mrs. Brown.
"For my mother, and sister, and myself."
"I have a large back room on the third floor, and a small room on the fourth floor."
"May I see them?"
"Come up stairs, sir."
First Dan went into the large room.
It was neatly carpeted and furnished, and had a cheerful outlook.
"This will do for mother and Althea," he said.
"Will you look at the little room?"
"Yes, ma'am, but I am sure that will suit. It is for me, and I am not particular. But there's one thing that may trouble us."
"What is that?"
"Where can mother prepare our meals? She can't cook in the bedroom."
"I will give her the privilege of using my kitchen. I don't care to take boarders, as it would be too much care, but your mother is welcome to use my kitchen stove."
"Won't it interfere with you?"
"Leave that to your mother and myself," said Mrs. Brown, with a pleasant smile. "We can make some satisfactory arrangement."
"How much do you want for your rooms?" asked Dan.
"Will you be permanent?"
"We will be permanent, if suited."
"Of course; that is all I ask. Will four dollars a week suit you?"
"We will pay it," said Dan, quite relieved, for he feared he should have to pay more. "Can we move in to-day?"
"Any time, sir."
"Thank you."
"I generally ask a week's rent in advance," said Mrs. Brown, "but in your case I won't insist upon it."
"Oh, it is perfectly convenient," said Dan, and he drew out his pocket-book containing the money—over a hundred dollars—which Althea's aunt had given him.
Mrs. Brown's respect for Dan was considerablyincreased by this display of wealth, and she congratulated herself on securing such substantial lodgers.
This business accomplished Dan went down town, and informed his mother of the arrangement he had made. Before night Mrs. Mordaunt, Althea, and he were installed in their new home, much to the regret of Mrs. Rafferty, who regretted losing so good a neighbor. Before this, however, Dan sought the counting-room of Barton & Rogers.
Barton & Rogers evidently did business in a large way. They occupied an imposing-looking building of five stories, the greater part being used to store goods. Dan entered and looked around him. A spare, dark-complexioned man of about thirty-five, with a pen behind his ear, was issuing orders to a couple of workmen.
Dan approached him.
"Is Mr. Rogers in?" he asked.
"No, he is not," said the dark man, curtly.
"Will he be in soon?"
"I don't know."
"You might be more civil," thought our hero.
He stood his ground, feeling authorized to do so because he had come by appointment.
Observing this, the book-keeper turned and said, sharply:
"Didn't you hear? I said Mr. Rogers was out."
"I heard you," said Dan, quietly.
"Then why do you remain? Do you doubt my word?"
"Not at all, sir; but Mr. Rogers asked me to call this morning. I can wait."
"You can tell me your business."
"Thank you, but I don't think that would do."
The book-keeper eyed him sharply, and his face lighted up with a sudden discovery.
"I know you now," he said. "You sell papers in front of the Astor House, don't you?"
"That has been my business."
"I thought so; I have bought papers of you."
"Thank you for your patronage."
"What can you want of Mr. Rogers?"
"Mr. Rogers wants me, I suppose, or he would not have asked me to call," returned Dan.
"You are a cool hand."
"Not always," said Dan, with a smile. "Some hot days I am far from cool."
"I suppose Mr. Rogers wishes you to supply him with an evening paper?"
"Perhaps he does," returned Dan, with a smile.
"Confound the fellow! I can't make anything of him. When did you see Mr. Rogers last?"
"In the supper-room of the Fifth Avenue Hotel."
"How happened you to be there?" demanded Talbot, the book-keeper, in surprise.
"I was taking supper," said Dan, rather enjoyingthe others surprise, "and Mr. Rogers saw me from another table."
"Humph! Do you often take supper at the Fifth Avenue Hotel?"
"Not often."
"Selling papers must be very profitable."
"I'm willing to change places with you."
Just then Mr. Rogers entered the warehouse.
"Ah! you are here before me, Dan," he remarked, pleasantly. "Have you been here long?"
"No, sir; only about five minutes."
"I must keep you waiting a few minutes longer while I look at my letters. The letters have arrived, have they not, Mr. Talbot?"
"Yes, sir."
"Amuse yourself as you like while you are waiting, Dan," said the merchant.
Mr. Talbot, the book-keeper, followed the merchant into the counting-room, and Dan was left alone. He looked about him with interest, thinking it probable that this was to be his future business home. It would certainly be a piece of good fortune to become attached to so large and important a house, and he felt in very good spirits, though he foresaw that Mr. Talbot would not make it very pleasant for him. But with his employer on his side he need not be alarmed.
Fifteen minutes passed, and Mr. Rogers emerged from the counting-room.
"I have to go out a few minutes," he said to Dan. "Come with me, and we can talk on the way."
"Certainly, sir."
Mr. Talbot followed the two with a frown upon his brow.
"How on earth has that boy managed to get round Mr. Rogers?" he asked himself. "I hope he won't be foolish enough to take him in here."
Talbot had a nephew whom he was anxious to get into the business, and Dan's engagement would interfere with his little plan. This partly accounts for his brusque reception of Dan on his first arrival.
"Well, how do you like our place of business, Dan?" asked Mr. Rogers.
"Very much, sir."
"Would you rather sell papers or take employment with me?"
"I should like very much to be in your employ, sir."
"How much did you earn as a newsboy?"
"When I was lucky I made a dollar a day."
"Then I ought to give you six dollars a week."
"I will come for less, sir."
"I will pay you what I said. It is more than boysgenerally get at the start, but I am willing to pay a good sum to a boy who suits me."
"I will try to suit you, sir."
"Do you know why I take you into my employ?"
"Out of kindness, sir."
"I feel kindly disposed to you, Dan, but that is not my chief reason."
Dan was puzzled, and waited to hear more.
"My attention was drawn to you on the ferry-boat. I observed your detection of the mean scamp who cheated a poor flower-girl by offering her bad money, and I inferred that you were sharp and keen."
"I hope I am, sir."
"That is the sort of boy I want just now. Did you observe Mr. Talbot, my book-keeper?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did you think of him?"
Dan smiled.
"I don't think he admires me much," he answered. "He wanted to clear me out before you came in."
"Did he?"
"Yes; he recognized me as a newsboy."
"I understand his reception of you. He has a nephew whom he wishes me to engage. He is jealous of all possible rivals."
"Perhaps his nephew would suit you better, sir," said Dan, modestly.
"Are you willing to resign in his favor?"
"I prefer to leave that to you, sir."
"You can do so safely. The nephew is a disagreeable boy, who would not suit me at all. He thinks more of dress than of duty, and, if I read him aright, is lazy and incompetent. Nevertheless, Mr. Talbot has spoken to me about taking him."
"Perhaps he doesn't know his nephew's faults."
"He knows them well enough, but is desirous of promoting his interests. He won't look upon you very favorably when he learns that I have engaged you."
"If you are satisfied, I won't care for that."
"Well spoken, my lad. And now for a few words in confidence," and Mr. Rogers lowered his voice. "Our business is a large one, and the sums of money handled are necessarily large. Three months since I ascertained that somewhere in my establishment there was a leak. We are losing money in some unexplained way. I believe that some one in whom I repose confidence is betraying me."
Dan listened in earnest attention.
"Do you suspect any one, sir?" he asked.
"I suspect Mr. Talbot," he said, in the same low voice.
Dan started in surprise.
"It seems strange, perhaps, that I should speak soconfidentially to you—a mere boy—but I am impressed with the idea that you can help me."
"If I can, sir, I will," said Dan, earnestly.
"I don't doubt it. My first injunction is to say no word, even to your nearest relations, of what I have told you."
"I won't, sir."
"Next, keep a watch over Mr. Talbot. I want to know what are his habits, whether he uses money freely, with whom he associates. Can you, without betraying to him that he is watched, find out some information for me on these points?"
"I will try, sir."
"If you secure any information, never communicate it to me in the office. Either come to my house, or write me there."
"Yes, sir."
"You understand that I am employing you in a detective capacity, and that your time will partly be taken up out of business hours. I intend to pay you extra, according to results. Is that satisfactory?"
"Perfectly so, Mr. Rogers, but I am afraid you will be disappointed in me."
"I will take my risk of that."
"Have you any directions to give me, sir, as to how to go to work?"
"No; I am nothing of a detective myself. I leavethat to you. I might, of course, employ a professional detective, but Talbot is sharp, and he would suspect. You he will not suspect. He won't dream of my employing a boy. That is all I have to say for the present. When can you come to work?"
"I can come to-morrow morning. To-day we are going to move."
"To-morrow let it be, then. Good-morning, Dan."
Mr. Rogers shook hands with our hero, and walked away.
"I am afraid I have a hard job on my hands," thought Dan, "but I will do my best."
Dan's mother was much pleased with her new quarters. The large room, occupied by Althea and herself, was bright and cheerful, and well furnished. Besides the ordinary chamber furniture, there was a comfortable arm-chair and a lounge. Mrs. Mordaunt felt that she would not be ashamed now to receive a visit from some of her former friends.
She had anticipated some trouble about the preparation of meals, but Mrs. Brown made a proposition which wonderfully removed all difficulties.
"Mrs. Mordaunt," she said, "your family is about the same as mine. I have a son who is employed in a newspaper office down town, and you have two young children. Now, suppose we club together, and each pay half of the table supplies. Then one day you can superintend the cooking—you will only have to direct my servant Maggie—and the next day I will do it. Then, every other day, each of us will be a lady of leisure, and not have to go into the kitchen at all. What do you say?"
"The arrangement will be so much to my advantage that I can say only one thing—I accept with thanks. But won't you be doing more than your share? You will be furnishing the fuel, and pay Maggie's wages."
"I should have to do that at any rate. The plan is perfectly satisfactory to me, if it suits you."
Mrs. Mordaunt found that the expense was not beyond her means. Her income for the care of Althea was fifty dollars a month, and Dan paid her four dollars a week out of his wages, reserving the balance as a fund to purchase clothes. She went herself to market and selected articles for the table, and, for the first time since her husband's failure, found herself in easy circumstances.
There was no need now to make vests at starvation prices. She had thought of continuing, but Dan insisted upon her giving it up entirely.
"If you want to sew, mother," he said, "you can make some of Althea's clothes, and pay yourself out of the ten dollars a month allowed for her clothes."
This was sensible and proper, and Mrs. Mordaunt decided to follow Dan's advice. She lost no time in obtaining books for the little girl, and commencing her education. Althea knew her letters, but nothing more. She was bright and eager to learn, and gained rapidly under her new teacher.
Naturally, Dan and his mother were curious as to Althea's early history, but from the little girl they obtained little information.
"Do you remember your mother, Althea?" asked Dan, one evening.
"Yes," said the little girl.
"When did you see her last?"
"Not long ago. Only a little while before you brought me here."
"Your mother isn't dead, is she?"
"No; but she's gone away."
"Why did she go away?"
"She is sick. That's what auntie told me. Poor mamma cried very much when she went away. She kissed me, and called me her darling."
"Do you know where she went?"
"No; I don't know."
"Perhaps her lungs are affected, and she has gone to a warmer climate," suggested Mrs. Mordaunt. "She may have gone to Florida, or even to Italy."
"Where is your father?" asked Dan, turning to Althea.
"Father is a bad man," said the child, positively. "He made mamma cry. He went away a good while ago."
"And didn't he come back?"
"He came back once, and then mamma criedagain. I think he wanted mamma to give him some money."
Dan and his mother talked over the little girl's revelations, and thought they had obtained a clew to the mystery in which the child's history was involved. Althea's mother might have married a man of bad habits, who wanted to get possession of her fortune, and rendered a separation necessary. Ill health might have required her to leave home and shift the care of the little girl upon strangers. It seemed rather odd that she should have been handed over to utter strangers, but there might have been reasons of which they knew nothing.
"We won't trouble ourselves about it," said Dan. "It's good luck for us, even if it was bad luck for Althea's mother. I like the idea of having a little sister."
Althea's last name was not known to her new protector. When Dan inquired, he was told that she could pass by his name, so Althea Mordaunt she became.
Both Dan and his mother had feared that she might become homesick, but the fear seemed groundless. She was of a happy disposition, and almost immediately began to call Mrs. Mordaunt mother.
"I call you mother," she said, "but I have a mamma besides; but she has gone away."
"You must not forget your mamma, my dear," said the widow.
"No, I won't. She will come back some day; she said she would."
"And I will take care of you till she does, Althea."
"Yes," said the child, nodding. "I am glad I came to you, for now I have a brother Dan."
"And I have a little sister," said Dan.
While Dan was away, and now he was away after supper regularly, Althea was a great deal of company for Mrs. Mordaunt.
In the pleasant afternoons she took the little girl out to walk, frequently to Union Square Park, where she made acquaintance with other little girls, and had a merry time, while her new mother sat on one of the benches.
One day a dark-complexioned gentleman, who had been looking earnestly at Althea, addressed Mrs. Mordaunt.
"That is a fine little girl of yours, madam," he said.
"Thank you," said Mrs. Mordaunt.
"She does not resemble you much," he said, inquiringly.
"No; there is very little resemblance," answered Mrs. Mordaunt, quietly, feeling that she must be on her guard.
"Probably she resembles her father?" again essayed the stranger.
Mrs. Mordaunt did not reply, and the stranger thought she was offended.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but she resembles a friend of mine, and that called my attention to her."
Mrs. Mordaunt bowed, but thought it wisest not to protract the conversation. She feared that the inquirer might be a friend of the father, and hostile to the true interests of the child.
For a week to come she did not again bring Althea to the park, but walked with her in a different direction. When, after a week, she returned to the square, the stranger had disappeared. At all events, he was not to be seen.
We pass now to Dan and his interests.
Mr. Talbot heard of his engagement with anything but satisfaction. He even ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Rogers.
"Do you know that this boy whom you have engaged is a common newsboy?" he asked. "I have bought a paper more than once of him, in front of the Astor House."
"So have I," answered Mr. Rogers, quietly.
"Then you know all about him?"
"Yes."
"It is none of my business, but I think you could easily get a better boy. There is my nephew——"
"Your nephew would not suit me, Mr. Talbot."
The book-keeper bit his lip.
"Won't you give him a trial?" he asked.
"I have engaged Dan."
"If Dan should prove unsatisfactory, would you try my nephew?"
"Perhaps so."
It was an incautious concession, for it was an inducement to the book-keeper to get Dan into trouble.
It was Dan's duty to go to the post-office, sometimes to go on errands, and to make himself generally useful about the warehouses. As we know, however, he had other duties of a more important character, of which Mr. Talbot knew nothing.
The first discovery Dan made was made through the book-keeper's carelessness.
Mr. Rogers was absent in Philadelphia, when Talbot received a note which evidently disturbed him. Dan saw him knitting his brows, and looking moody. Finally he hastily wrote a note, and called Dan.
"Take that to — Wall street," he said, "and don't loiter on the way."
The note was directed to Jones & Robinson.
On reaching the address, Dan found that Jones & Robinson were stock brokers.
Jones read the note.
"You come from Mr. Talbot?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him we will carry the stocks for him a week longer, but can't exceed that time."
"Perhaps you had better write him a note," suggested Dan, "as he may not like to have me know his business."
"Very well."
So Dan carried back the note.
"I believe I have made a discovery," he said to himself. "Mr. Talbot is speculating in Wall street. I wonder if he speculates with his own money or the firm's?"
His face, however, betrayed nothing as he handed the note to the book-keeper, and the latter, after a searching glance, decided that there was nothing to fear in that quarter.
Some light may be thrown upon Mr. Talbot's operations, if the reader will accompany him to a brownstone house on Lexington avenue, on the evening of the day when Dan was sent to the office of the Wall street brokers.
Mr. Talbot ascended the steps, not with the elastic step of a man with whom the world is prospering, but with the slow step of a man who is burdened with care.
"Is Miss Conway at home?" he inquired of the servant who answered the bell.
"Yes, sir."
"Will you tell her I should like to speak with her?"
"Yes, sir."
Talbot walked in with the air of one who was familiar with the house, and entering a small front room, took a seat.
The furniture was plain, and the general appearance was that of a boarding-house.
Talbot seemed immersed in thought, and onlyraised his eyes from the carpet when he heard the entrance of a young lady. His face lighted up, and he rose eagerly.
"My dear Virginia," he said, "it seems a long time since I saw you."
"It is only four days," returned the young lady, coolly.
"Four days without seeing you is an eternity."
The young lady smiled. It was easy to see that Talbot was in love, and she was not.
"A very pretty compliment," she said. "Well, have you any news?"
"Not good news," said he, soberly.
She shrugged her shoulders, and looked disappointed.
Before going further, it may be as well to describe briefly the young lady who had so enthralled the book-keeper.
She had the advantage of youth, a complexion clear red and white, and decidedly pretty features. If there was a defect, it was the expression of her eyes. There was nothing soft or winning in her glance. She seemed, and was, of a cold, calculating, unsympathetic nature. She was intensely selfish, and was resolved only to marry a man who could gratify her taste for finery and luxurious living.
She was the niece of Mrs. Sinclair, who kept theboarding-house, and though living in dependence upon her aunt, did nothing to relieve her from the care and drudgery incidental to her business.
"It's too provoking," she said, pouting.
"So it is, Virginia;" and Talbot tried to take her hand, but she quietly withdrew it.
"You told me that you would have plenty of money by this time, Mr. Talbot."
"I expected it, but a man can't foresee the fluctuations of Wall street. I am afraid I shall meet with a loss."
"I don't believe you are as smart as Sam Eustis—he's engaged to my cousin. He made ten thousand dollars last month on Lake Shore."
"It's the fools that blunder into luck," said Talbot, irritated.
"Then you'd better turn fool; it seems to pay," said Virginia, rather sharply.
"No need of that—I'm fool enough already," said Talbot, bitterly.
"Oh, well, if you've only come here to make yourself disagreeable, I'm sure you'd better stay away," said the young lady, tossing her head.
"I came here expecting sympathy and encouragement," said Talbot. "Instead, you receive me with taunts and coldness."
"You are unreasonable, Mr. Talbot," saidVirginia. "I will be cheerful and pleasant when you bring me agreeable news."
"Oh, Virginia!" exclaimed Talbot, impulsively. "Why will you require impossibilities of me? Take me as I am. I have an income of two thousand dollars a year. We can live comfortably on that, and be happy in a snug little home."
"Snug little home!" repeated the young lady, scornfully. "Thank you; I'd rather not. I know just what that means. It means that I am to be a household drudge, afraid to spend an extra sixpence—perhaps obliged to take lodgers, like my aunt."
"Not so bad as that, Virginia."
"It would come to that in time."
"I am sure you cannot love me when you so coolly give me up for money."
"I haven't given you up, but I want you to get money."
"Would to Heaven I could!"
"You could if you were in earnest."
"Do you doubt that?"
"Where there's a will, there's a way, Mr. Talbot. If you really care so much for me, you will try to support me as I want to live."
"Tell me, in a word, what you want."
"Well," said Virginia, slowly, "I want to go to Europe for my honey-moon. I've heard so much ofParis, I know I should like it ever so much. Then I want to liverespectablywhen I get back."
"What do you call living respectably?" asked Talbot.
"Well, we must have a nice little house to ourselves, and I think, just at first, I could get along with three servants; and I should want to go to the opera, and the theater, and to concerts."
"You have not been accustomed to live in that way, Virginia."
"No; and that's why I have made up my mind not to marry unless my husband can gratify me."
"Suppose this is impossible?"
"Impossible for you!" said Miss Conway, significantly.
"You mean you will look elsewhere?" said Talbot, hastily.
"Yes, I think so," said Virginia, coolly.
"And you would desert me for a richer suitor?" he demanded, quickly.
"Of course I would rather marry you—you know that," said Virginia, with perfect self-possession; "but if you can't meet my conditions, perhaps it is better that we should part."
"You are cruel—heartless!" exclaimed Talbot, angrily.
"No; only sensible," she returned, calmly. "Idon't mean to marry you and be unhappy all my life; and I can't be happy living in the stuffy way my aunt does. We should both be sorry for such a marriage when it was too late."
"I will take the risk, Virginia," said Talbot, fixing his eyes with passionate love on the cold-hearted girl.
"But I will not," said Virginia, decidedly. "I am sure you needn't take it to heart, Mr. Talbot. Why don't you exert yourself and win a fortune, as other people do? I am sure plenty of money is made in Wall street."
"And lost."
"Not if you are smart. Come now, smooth your face, and tell me you will try," she said, coaxingly.
"Yes, Virginia, I will try," he answered, his face clearing. "And if I try——"
"You will succeed," she said, smiling.
"Well, I hope I may."
"And now don't let us talk about disagreeable things. Do you know, sir, it is a week since you took me to any place of amusement? And here I have been moping at home every evening with my aunt, who is terribly tiresome, poor old soul!"
"I would rather spend the evening here with you, Virginia, than go to any place of amusement."
"Then I can't agree with you. One gets tired of spooning."
"I don't—if you call by that name being in the company of one you love."
"You would, if you had as little variety as I have."
"Tell me one thing, Virginia—you love me, don't you?" asked Talbot, in whose mind sometimes there rose an unpleasant suspicion that his love was not returned.
"Why, of course I do, you foolish man," she said, carelessly. "And now, where are you going to take me?"
"Where do you want to go, my darling?"
"To the Italian opera. To-morrow they play 'The Huguenots.'"
"I thought you didn't care for music, Virginia?"
"I don't go for that. I want to go because it's fashionable, and I want to be seen. So, be a good boy, and get some nice seats for to-morrow evening."
"Very well, my darling."
"And you'll try to get rich, for my sake?"
"Yes, Virginia. How rich must I be?"
"As soon as you can tell me you have ten thousand dollars, and will spend half of it on a trip to Europe, I will marry you."
"Is that a bargain?"
"Yes."
"Then I hope to tell you so soon."
"The sooner the better."
When Talbot left the house it was with the determination to secure the sum required by any means, however objectionable. His great love had made him reckless.
Virginia Conway followed his retreating form with her cool, calculating glance.
"Poor man! he is awfully in love!" she said to herself. "I'll give him two months to raise the money, and if he fails, I think I can captivate Mr. Cross, though he's horrid."
Mr. Cross was a middle-aged grocer, a widower, without children, and reputed moderately wealthy.
When Mr. Talbot had entered the house, Dan was not far off. Later, he saw him at the window with Virginia.
"I suppose that's his young lady," thought Dan. "All right! I guess he's safe for this evening."
Stocks took an upward turn, so that Talbot's brokers were willing to carry them for him longer without an increase of margin. The market looked so uncertain, however, that he decided to sell, though he only made himself whole. To escape loss hardly satisfied him, when it was so essential to make money.
He was deeply in love with Virginia Conway, but there was no hope of obtaining her consent to a marriage unless he could raise money enough to gratify her desires.
How should he do it?
He was returning to his boarding-house at a late hour one night, when, in an unfrequented street, two figures advanced upon him from the darkness, and, while one seized him by the throat, the other rifled his pockets.
Talbot was not a coward, and having only a few dollars in his pocket-book, while his watch, luckily, was under repair at Tiffany's, he submitted quietly to the examination.
The pocket-book was opened and its contents eagerly scanned.
An exclamation of disgust mingled with profanity followed.
"Only five dollars, Mike!" muttered one of the ruffians.
"Why don't you carry money, like a gentleman?" demanded the man called Mike. "Ain't you ashamed to carry such a lean wallet as that there?"
"Really, gentlemen, if I had expected to meet you, I would have provided myself better," said Talbot, not without a gleam of humor.
"He's chaffing us Bill," said Mike.
"You'd better not, if you know what's best for yourself," growled Bill. "Where's your ticker?"
"My watch is at Tiffany's."
"That's too thin."
"It's the truth. You ought to have waited till next week, when I'd have had it for you."
"You're a cool customer."
"Why not?"
"We might hurt you."
"You have already. Don't squeeze my throat so next time."
"Have you any jewelry about you?"
"Only a pair of sleeve buttons."
"Gold?"
"Yes; but they are small, and not worth much."
"You've took us in reg'lar! A gent like you ought to have diamond studs, or a pin, or something of value."
"I know it, and I'm sorry I haven't, for your sakes."
"No chaffing!" said Bill, with an ominous growl.
"Don't be afraid. I look upon you as gentlemen, and treat you accordingly. In fact, I'm glad I've met with you."
"Why?" asked Mike, suspiciously.
"I may be able to put something in your way."
"Are you on the square?" asked Bill, rather surprised.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you in the street. Is there any quiet place, where we shall not be disturbed or overheard?"
The men looked at each other in doubt.
"This may be a plant," said Mike, suspiciously.
"On my honor, it isn't."
"If it is," growled Bill, "you'd better make your will."
"I know the risk, and am not afraid. In short, I have a job for you."
The men consulted, and finally were led to put confidence in Talbot.
"Is there money in it?" asked Mike.
"Two hundred dollars apiece."
"We'll hear what you have to say. Bill, let's go to your room."
"Is it far away?" asked Talbot.
"No."
"Lead on, then."
The three made their way to a dilapidated building on Houston street, and ascended to the fourth floor.
Bill kicked open the door of a room with his foot and strode in.
A thin, wretched-looking woman sat in a wooden chair, holding a young child.
"Is it you, Bill?" she asked.
"Yes, it's me!" growled her husband. "Just clear out into the other room. Me and these gentlemen have business together."
She meekly obeyed the command of her lord, glancing curiously at Talbot as she went out. Mike she knew only too well, as one of her husband's evil companions.
The door was closed, but the wife bent her ear to the keyhole and listened attentively.
Suspecting nothing, the conspirators spoke in loudertones than they were aware of, so that she obtained a pretty clear idea of what was being planned.
"Now go ahead," said Bill, throwing himself on the chair his wife had vacated. "What's your game?"
"Can you open a safe?" asked Talbot.
"We might, 'specially if we knowed the combination."
"Perhaps I can manage that."
"Where is it?"
Talbot gave the name of his employer and the number of his store.
"What have you got to do with it?"
"I'm the book-keeper."
"You are? What are you going to make out of it?"
"Leave that to me. I'll guarantee that you'll find four hundred dollars there to pay you for your trouble."
"That isn't enough. The risk is too great."
"It is only one night's work."
"If we're caught, it'll be Sing Sing for seven years."
"That's true. How much do you require, gentlemen?"
The men consulted.
"We might do it for five hundred apiece," said Bill.
There was a little discussion, but finally this was acceded to. Various details were discussed, and the men separated.
"I'm goin' your way," said Mike. "I'll show you the way out."
"All right, thank you, but we'd better separate at the street door."
"Why? Are you too fine a gentleman to be seen with the likes of me?" demanded Mike, feeling insulted.
"Not at all, my friend; but if we were seen together by any of the police, who know me as book-keeper, it would excite suspicion later."
"You're right. Your head's level. You're sure you're on the square?"
"Yes, my friend. I shouldn't dare to tamper with men like you and Bill. You might find a way to get even with me."
"That's so, stranger. I guess we can trust you."
"You may be sure of that."
"More crime!" said the miserable wife to herself, as she heard through the keyhole the details of the plan. "Bill is getting worse and worse every day. Where will it all end?"
"Here, Nancy, get me something to eat," said Bill, when his visitors had departed.
"Yes, Bill, I will get you all there is."
The wife brought out from a small closet a slice of bread and a segment of cheese.
"Pah!" said the burly ruffian, turning up his nose. "What are you giving us?"
"It's all I've got, Bill."
"Where's the meat, I say?"
"There is none."
"You and your brat have eaten it!" said he, irritably.
"God help us, Bill! We have had no meat for a week."
"That's a lie! I can't eat such trash as that. Do you mean to starve me?"
"I can't make food, Bill. If you will give money, I will provide better. I can't do anything without money."
"Whining, are you?" said the brute, furiously. "I'll teach you to complain of me. Take that, and that!" and he struck the woman two brutal blows with his fist. One, glancing, struck the child, who began to cry. This further irritated Bill, who, seizing his wife by the shoulders, thrust her out on the landing.
"There, stay there with the cursed brat!" he growled. "I mean to have one quiet night."
The wretched wife crept down stairs, and out into the street, scarcely knowing what she did. She wasnot wholly destitute of spirit, and though she might have forgiven personal injury, felt incensed by the treatment of her innocent child.
"My poor baby!" she said, pitifully, "must you suffer because your father is a brute? May Heaven avenge our wrongs! Sooner or later it will."
She sat down on some steps near by; the air was chilly, and she shivered with the cold, but she tried to shelter her babe as well as she could. She attracted the attention of a boy who was walking slowly by.
It was Dan, who had at a distance witnessed Talbot's encounter with the burglars, and his subsequent friendly companionship with them, and was trying to ascertain the character of the place which he visited.
"What's the matter with you?" asked Dan, in a tone of sympathy.