The sleeping potion which had been administered to Althea kept her in sound sleep till eight o'clock the next morning. When her eyes opened, and she became conscious of her surroundings, she looked about her in surprise. Then she sat up in bed and gazed wildly at the torn wall paper and dirty and shabby furniture.
"Where am I?" she asked herself, in alarm. "Mamma, mamma!"
The door opened, and the red and inflamed face of Mrs. Hugh Donovan peered in.
"What is it yer want?" she asked.
"I want mamma," answered the child, still more frightened.
"Shure I'm your ma, child."
"No, you are not," said Althea. "I never saw you before."
"Didn't you, now? Maybe you've forgotten. I sent you away to board, but you've come home to live with your ma."
"You are telling stories. You are a bad woman," returned the child, ready to cry.
"It's a purty thing for a child to tell her ma she's lyin'."
"You're not my ma. You're an ugly woman. My ma hasn't got a red face."
"Hear till her now!" exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, indignantly. "Don't you go on talkin' that way, but get right up, or you sha'n't have any breakfast."
"Oh, send me back to my mother and Dan!" implored Althea.
"Dress yourself, and I'll see about it," said Mrs. Donovan.
Althea looked for her clothes, but could not find them. In their place she found a faded calico dress and some ragged undergarments, which had once belonged to a daughter of Mrs. Donovan, now at service.
"Those clothes are not mine," said Althea.
"Shure they are. What are yer talkin' about?"
"I had a pretty pink dress and a nice new skirt. Oh, where are they?"
"Shure you're dramin'. These was the clothes you took off last night," said Mrs. Donovan, with unblushing falsehood.
"I won't put this dress on," said the child, indignantly.
"Then you'll have to lay abed all day, and won't get nothing to eat," said the woman. "Maybe you'll like that now."
"What is your name?" asked Althea.
"Shure you're a quare child to ask your own mother's name. I'm Mrs. Donovan, and you're my Katy."
"I am not Katy. My name is Althea."
"That's a quare name intirely. Who put it into your head. I'm afraid you're gone crazy, Katy."
Althea was bewildered. Was it possible that she could be Katy Donovan, and that this red-faced woman was her mother? She began to doubt her own identity. She could not remember this woman, but was it possible that there was any connection between them?
"Are we in New York?" she asked, timidly.
"No, we are in Brooklyn."
"I used to live in New York with Mamma Mordaunt."
"Well, you're livin' in Brooklyn now with Mamma Donovan."
"I never saw you before."
"Shure I shouldn't have sent you away from me to have you come home and deny your own mother."
"Will you let me go to New York and see Mamma Mordaunt?" asked Althea, after a pause.
"If you're a good girl, perhaps I will. Now get up, and I'll give you some breakfast."
With a shudder of dislike Althea arrayed herself in the dirty garments of the real Katy Donovan, and looked at her image in the cracked mirror with a disgust which she could not repress.
Hartley had suggested that her own garments should be taken away in order to make her escape less feasible.
She opened the door, and entered the room in which Mrs. Donovan had set the table for breakfast.
As she came in at one door, Hugh Donovan entered at another.
"Come here, little gal," he said, with a grin.
Althea looked at him with real terror. Certainly Hugh Donovan was not a man to attract a child.
Althea at once thought of an ogre whom Dan had described to her in a fairy story, and half fancied that she was in the power of such a creature.
"I don't want to," said the child, trembling.
"Go to your father, Katy," said Mrs. Donovan. "He won't hurt you."
This her father! Althea shuddered at the idea, and she gazed as if fascinated at his one eye.
"Yes, come to your pa," said Donovan, jeeringly. "I like little gals—'specially when they're my own."
"I am not your child!" said Althea, alarmed.
"Yes, you be, and don't you deny it. Come and give your father a kiss."
The little girl began to cry in nervous terror, and Donovan laughed, thinking it a good joke.
"Well, it'll do after breakfast," he said. "Sit up, child, and we'll see what the ould woman has got for us."
Mrs. Donovan did not excel as a cook, but Althea managed to eat a little bread and butter, for neither of which articles the lady of the house was responsible. When the meal was over she said:
"Now, will you take me back to New York?"
"You are not going back at all," said Hugh. "You are our little girl, and you are going to live with us."
Althea looked from one to the other in terror. Was it possible they could be in earnest? She was forced to believe it, and was overwhelmed at the prospect. She burst into a tempest of sobs.
Men are less tolerant of tears than women.
Hugh Donovan's face darkened, and his anger was kindled.
"Stop that howlin' now!" he said.
Althea continued to cry hysterically.
"Stop it now, if you know what's best for yourself!"
Althea was terrified, but she could not at once control her emotion.
"Old woman, get the whip!" said Hugh, hoarsely.
From a drawer Mrs. Donovan drew out a riding whip. Her husband took it, and brandished it menacingly.
"Do you see that, now?" he said.
"Yes," said Althea, trembling, stopping short, as if fascinated.
"Then you'll feel it if you don't stop your howlin'."
Althea gazed at him horror-stricken.
"I thought you'd come to your senses," he said, in a tone of satisfaction. "Kape her safe, old woman, till she knows how to behave."
In silent misery the little girl sat down and watched Mrs. Donovan as she cleared away the table, and washed the dishes. It was dull and hopeless work for her. She thought sorrowfully of Mrs. Mordaunt and Dan, and wished she could be with them again. Should she never, never see them? The thought so saddened her that she burst into a low moan, which at once drew the attention of Mrs. Donovan.
"Are you at it again?" she said.
"I can't help it," moaned Althea.
"Ye can't, can't ye? See here, now," and the woman displayed the whip with which her husband had threatened the child. "I'll give ye something to cry for."
"Oh, don't—don't beat me!" entreated Althea.
"Then kape quiet!"
"May I go out into the street?" asked the little girl.
"Ye want to run away," said Mrs. Donovan, suspiciously.
"No, I don't. I mean I won't unless you let me."
"I won't trust ye."
"Must I stay here all the time?" asked Althea, with her little heart sinking at the thought.
"No, Katy, you may go wid me when I go to the market," answered Mrs. Donovan. "Shure, if you'll be a good gal, I'll give you all the pleasure I can."
Althea waited half an hour, and then was provided with a ragged sun-bonnet, with which, concealing her sad face, she emerged from the house, and walked to a small market, where Mrs. Donovan obtained her supplies for dinner.
Troubled as she was, Althea looked about her with a child's curiosity on her way through the strange streets. It served to divert her from her sorrow.
"Who's that little girl, Mrs. Donovan?" asked an acquaintance.
"Shure it's my little Katy," said the woman, with a significant wink which prevented further questioning.
Althea wished to deny this, but she did not dare to. She had become afraid of her new guardians. Oh, ifshe could only see Dan! She felt sure that he would take her away from these wicked people, but how was Dan to know where she was. The poor child's lips quivered, and she could hardly refrain from crying.
It was so late when Dan heard of Althea's disappearance that he felt it necessary to wait till morning before taking any steps toward her recovery.
"I'll find her, mother," he said, confidently. "Do not lie awake thinking of her, for it won't do any good."
"How can I help it, Dan? I didn't know how much I loved the dear child till I lost her."
"You have not lost her, mother."
"I am not so hopeful as you, Dan. I fear that I shall never see her again."
"I am sure we shall. Now, mother, I am going to bed, but I shall be up bright and early in the morning, and then to work."
"You won't have any time, Dan. You must go to the store."
"I shall take a week's vacation. I will write a note to Mr. Rogers, telling him my reasons, and he will be sure not to object. If Althea is to be found, I will find her within a week."
Dan's confidence gave Mrs. Mordaunt some courage, but she could not feel as sanguine of success as Dan.
In the morning Dan sought out Nancy, and took down her account of how the little girl had been spirited away.
"So she went away in a carriage, Nancy?"
"Yes, Master Dan."
"Can you tell me what sort of a looking man it was that took her away?"
"Shure I couldn't. I was struck dumb, you see, wid hearing how your mother broke her leg, and I didn't think to look at him sharp."
"You can tell if he was an old man or a young one."
"He was naythur. He was betwixt and betwane."
"Very tall or very short?"
"Naythur. He was jist middlin'."
"Well, that's something. Now, what kind of a carriage was it?"
"Jist a hack like them at the square."
"You wouldn't remember the driver?"
"No; shure they all look alike to me."
Dan made more inquiries, but elicited nothing further that was likely to be of service to him.
After a little reflection he decided to go to UnionSquare and interview some of the drivers waiting for passengers there.
He did so, but the driver who had actually been employed by Hartley was absent, and he learned nothing. One driver, however, remembered carrying a gentleman and child to a house on Twenty-seventh street, between Eighth and Ninth avenues.
Dan thought the clew of sufficient importance to be followed up. His courage rose when, on inquiring at the house mentioned, he learned that a child had actually been brought there.
"May I see the child, madam?" he asked.
"If you like," answered the lady, in surprise.
She appeared in a short time with a boy of about Althea's age.
Dan's countenance fell.
"It is a little girl I am inquiring after," he said.
"Then why didn't you say so?" demanded the woman, sharply. "You would have saved me some trouble."
"I beg your pardon, madam."
"I begin to think I am not as good a detective as I thought," said Dan to himself. "I am on a false scent, that is sure."
So Dan returned to Union Square.
When he had been asking questions of the cab-drivers he had not been unobserved. John Hartley,who knew Dan by sight, laughed in his sleeve as he noted our hero's inquiries.
"You may be a smart boy, my lad," he said to himself, "but I don't think you'll find the child. I have a great mind to give you a hint."
He approached Dan, and observed, in a friendly way:
"Are you in search of your little sister?"
"Yes, sir," returned Dan, eagerly. "Can you tell me anything about her?"
"I am not sure, but possibly I may. I occupy a room directly opposite the house in which you board."
"Did you see Althea carried away?" asked Dan, eagerly.
"Yes; I was sitting at my window when I saw a hack stop at your door. The door-bell was rung by a man who descended from the hack, and shortly afterward your sister came out, and was put into the carriage."
"What was the man's appearance, sir? The servant could not tell me."
"So much the better," thought Hartley, with satisfaction.
"He was a little taller than myself, I should say," he answered, "and I believe his hair was brown"—Hartley's was black. "I am sorry I can't remember more particularly."
"That is something. Thank you, sir. I wish I knew where the cab went."
"I think I can tell you that. I came down into the street before the cab drove away, and I heard the gentleman referred to say, in a low voice, 'Drive to Harlem.'"
"Thank you, sir," said Dan, gratefully. "That puts me on the right track. I shall know where to search now."
"I wish I could tell you more," said Hartley, with a queer smile.
"Thank you, sir."
"If you find your little sister, I should be glad if you would let me know," continued Hartley, chuckling inwardly.
"I will, sir, if you will let me know your name and address."
"My name is John Franklin, and I live in the house directly opposite yours, No. —."
"All right, sir; I will note it down."
John Hartley looked after Dan with a smile.
"My dear young friend," he said to himself, "it goes to my heart to deceive you, you are so innocent and confiding. I wish you much joy of your search in Harlem. I think it will be some time before I receive intelligence of your success. Still I will keep my room here, and look after you a little. I am reallyafraid your business will suffer while you are wandering about."
John Hartley had already written to London, and he was prepared to wait three weeks or more for an answer to his proposition. Meanwhile he had one source of uneasiness. His funds were getting low, and unless Harriet Vernon responded favorably to his proposal, he was liable to be seriously embarrassed. He had on previous similar occasions had recourse to the gaming-table, but Fortune did not always decide in his favor. He did not dare to hazard the small sum he had on hand, lest want of success should imperil the bold scheme for obtaining an income at his child's expense.
At this critical point in his fortunes he fell in with a Western adventurer, who, by a sort of freemasonry, recognizing Hartley's want of character, cautiously sounded him as to becoming a partner in a hazardous but probably profitable enterprise. It was to procure some genuine certificates of stock in a Western railway for a small number of shares, say five or ten, and raise them ingeniously to fifty and a hundred, and then pledge them as collateral in Wall street for a corresponding sum of money.
John Hartley, if an honest man, would have indignantly declined the overtures; but he was not endowed with Roman virtue. He made a cautiousinvestigation to ascertain how great was the danger of detection, and how well the enterprise would pay. The answer to the second question was so satisfactory that he made up his mind to run the necessary risk. Blake and he came to a definite understanding, and matters were put in train. Certificates were readily obtained, and by the help of a skillful accomplice, who did the work for a specified sum, were ingeniously raised tenfold.
Then Blake, assuming the dress and manners of a thriving business man from Syracuse, negotiated a loan, pledging the raised certificate as collateral. The private banker put it away among his securities without a doubt or suspicion, and Blake and Hartley divided a thousand dollars between them.
John Hartley was very much elated by his success. The pecuniary assistance came just in the nick of time, when his purse was very low.
"It's a good thing to have more than one string to your bow," he thought. "Not but that my little game in getting hold of the child is likely to pay well. Harriet Vernon will find that I have the whip-hand of her. She must come to my terms, sooner or later."
At that very moment Harriet Vernon was embarking at Liverpool on a Cunard steamer. She had received the letter of her brother-in-law, and decided to answer it in person.
For several days Dan strolled about Harlem, using his eyes to good advantage. As a pretext he carried with him a few morning papers for sale. Armed with these he entered shops and saloons without exciting surprise or suspicion. But he discovered not a trace of the lost girl.
One day, as he was riding home in the Third avenue cars, there flashed upon his mind a conviction that he was on a wrong scent.
"Is it probable that the man who carried away Althea would give the right direction so that it could be overheard by a third party? No; it was probably meant as a blind, and I have been just fool enough to fall into the trap."
So Dan's eyes were partially opened.
Before the day was over they were wholly opened. He met John Hartley on Broadway toward the close of the afternoon.
"Well, have you heard anything of your sister?" he asked, with an appearance of interest.
"Not yet," answered Dan.
"That's a pity. Do you go up to Harlem every day?"
"Yes."
"Keep on, you will find her in time."
After they parted, Dan, happening to look back, detected a mocking glance in the face of his questioner, and a new discovery flashed upon him. Hartley was making a fool of him. He had sent him to Harlem, purposely misleading him.
"What can be his object?" thought Dan. "Can he have had anything to do with the abduction of Althea?"
This was a question which he could not satisfactorily answer, but he resolved to watch Hartley, and follow him wherever he went, in the hope of obtaining some clew. Of course he must assume some disguise, as Hartley must not recognize him.
Finally Dan decided upon this plan.
He hired a room on East Fourth street for a week, and then sought an Italian boy to whom he had occasionally given a few pennies, and with some difficulty (for Giovanni knew but little English, and he no Italian) proposed that the Italian should teach him to sing and play "Viva Garibaldi." Dan could play a little on the violin, and soon qualified himself for his new business.
At a second-hand shop on Chatham street he picked up a suit of tattered velvet, obtained a liquid with which to stain his skin to a dark brown, and then started out as an Italian street musician. His masquerade suit he kept in his room at East Fourth street, changing therefrom his street dress morning and evening. When in full masquerade he for the first time sang and played, Giovanni clapped his hands with delight.
"Will I do, Giovanni?" asked Dan.
"Yes, you do very well. You look like my brother."
"All right."
Giovanni was puzzled to understand why Dan took so much pains to enter upon a hard and unprofitable profession, but Dan did not enlighten him as to his motive.
He thought it most prudent to keep his secret, even from his mother. One day he met her on the sidewalk, and began to sing "Viva Garibaldi."
Mrs. Mordaunt listened without a suspicion that it was her own son, and gave him two pennies, which he acknowledged by a low bow, and "Grazia, signora."
"Poor boy! Do you earn much money?" she asked.
"I no understand English," said Dan.
"I hope his padrone does not beat him," said Mrs.Mordaunt to herself. "I hear these poor boys are much abused. I wonder if I can make him understand? Have you a padrone?" she asked.
"Si, signora, padrone," answered Dan.
"Does he beat you?"
"I no understand."
"It is no use; he doesn't understand English. Here is some more money for you," and she handed him a five-cent coin.
"Its a wise mother that knows her own child," thought Dan. "Hallo! there's Hartley. I'll follow him."
Hartley boarded a University Place car, and Dan jumped on also.
"I wonder where he's going?" thought our hero.
Italian boys so seldom ride that the conductor eyed Dan with some suspicion.
"Five cents," he demanded.
Dan produced the money.
"I thought you might be expecting to ride for nothing," said the conductor. "Seems to me you're flush for an Italian fiddler."
"No understand English," said Dan.
"And I don't understand your lingo."
A charitable lady inside the car chanced to see Dan, and it occurred to her that she would do him a service.
"Can you sing, my boy?" she asked.
"I sing a little," answered Dan.
"If the conductor doesn't object, you may sing while we are on our way. Here's ten cents for you."
Dan bowed and took the money.
"You can sing and play," said the conductor, good-naturedly.
Dan was not at all desirous of doing this, for Hartley sat only three feet from him, and he feared he might recognize him, but it would not be in character to refuse, so he began, and sang his one air, playing an accompaniment. Several of the passengers handed him small coins, among them Hartley.
"How well he sings!" said the charitable lady.
"I can't agree with you, ma'am," said Hartley. "I would rather give him money to stop."
"His voice strikes me as very rich, and the Italian is such a beautiful language."
Hartley shrugged his shoulders.
"I have heard a good deal better performers even among the street boys," said Hartley.
"So have I," said Dan to himself. "He doesn't suspect me; I am glad of that."
Hartley remained in the car till it reached the Astor House, and so, of course, did Dan. In fact, Hartley was on his way to Brooklyn to pay another installmentto the guardians of the little girl whom he had carried off. Dan, therefore, was in luck.
Hartley kept on his way to Fulton Ferry, Dan following at a prudent distance.
Had Hartley looked back, he would have suspected nothing, for he had not penetrated Dan's disguise, and would therefore have been quite at a loss to understand any connection between the street musician and himself.
They both boarded the same ferry-boat, and landed in Brooklyn together.
At this moment Hartley turned round, and his glance fell upon Dan.
"Hallo! you here?" he said, with surprise.
"Si, signor," answered Dan, bowing deferentially.
"What brings you to Brooklyn?"
"I sing, I play," said our hero.
"And you do both abominably."
"I no understand English," said Dan.
"It is lucky you don't, or you might not like my compliment."
"Shall I sing 'Viva Garibaldi?'" asked our hero, innocently.
"No—good heavens, no! I've had enough of your squeaking. Here, take this money, and don't sing."
"Si, signor," answered Dan, assuming a look of bewilderment.
Hartley prepared to board a car, which was not yet ready to start. Dan rapidly decided that it would not do for him to follow Hartley any farther. It would certainly arouse his suspicions. But must he abandon the pursuit? That would not do either. Looking about him, his eye fell on a bright-looking newsboy of about twelve.
"Do you want to make some money, Johnny?" he asked.
The boy surveyed him with astonishment.
"Did you speak to me, Garibaldi?" he asked, jocosely.
"Yes, but I am no Italian," said Dan, rapidly. "I am on the track of that man, but he suspects me. I will give you a dollar if you will jump on the car and find out where he goes."
"Where's the dollar?" asked the boy, cautiously.
"Here. Pay your expenses out of it, and I will pay you back when you report to me."
"Where will I find you?"
"Here. I will stay till you come back."
"It's a bargain."
"Hurry; the car is starting."
The newsboy ran, jumped on the car, and it moved on.
"It is the best thing I could do," thought Dan. "I hope the boy is sharp, and won't lose sight of him. Ifeel sure that he had something to do with carrying off poor little Althea."
For two hours Dan lingered near the ferry, playing occasionally by way of filling up the time. It seemed to be a good location, for he received from fifty to sixty cents from passers-by.
"When hard times come," thought Dan, "I shall know what to do. I will become an Italian street singer."
After two hours the newsboy jumped off an incoming car, and approached Dan.
"Did you find out where he went?" asked Dan, eagerly.
"Yes," answered the boy.
Dan's eyes sparkled with joy at the success of his plan.
"Now tell me," he said, drawing the newsboy aside to a place where they would not be overheard.
"First give me my car fare."
"All right. Here's a quarter. Never mind the change."
"You've made a fortun' by fiddling, you have," said the newsboy, in surprise.
"I am not a fiddler. I am a detective."
The newsboy whistled.
"You're a young one."
"Never mind that. Go ahead with your story."
The newsboy described his following Hartley to Donovan's.
Hartley went in, and he directly afterward.
"What sort of a place is it?" asked Dan.
"It's a saloon."
"Perhaps he only went in for a drink," suggested Dan, uneasily.
"No, he didn't call for nothing to drink. I saw him take out some money and give to the man and the woman."
"What man and what woman?"
"They was the Donovans."
"How long did you stay?"
"Ten minutes. I axed old Donovan to buy a paper, and he wouldn't. Then I sat down for a minute, makin' believe I was tired. They looked at me, but I didn't appear to be noticin' 'em, and they let me stay."
"Did you see anything of a little girl?" asked Dan, eagerly.
"Yes, there was a little gal came in. The woman called her Katy."
Dan's spirits sank. It was Mrs. Donovan's daughter, he feared, not the child he was seeking.
"How did she look? How old was she?"
"About five or six years old."
He added a description of the little girl which quite revived Dan's hopes, for it answered in every respect to Althea.
"Did you hear the little girl say anything?"
"Yes, she told her mother she wanted to see Dan."
Dan's eyes glistened. It was Althea, after all.
"It's all right," he said. "You needn't tell me any more. You're a trump."
"Have you found out what you want to know?"
"Yes. Have you anything to do for the next two hours?"
"No."
"Then I'll pay you another dollar to go to the place with me. I think I could find it myself, but I can't take any chances. And don't say a word about what you have seen."
"I won't. Is this little gal your sister?"
"She is my adopted sister, and she has been stolen from us."
"Then I'd be willing to help you for nothing. I've got a little sister about her size. If anybody stole her, I'd mash him!"
"Come along, then."
The two boys boarded a car, and in forty minutes got out.
"That's the place," said the newsboy, pointing out Donovan's, only a few rods away.
"All right. You'd better leave me now, or you may be remembered, and that would lead them to suspect me. Here's your money, and thank you."
"I hope you'll find your sister."
"Thank you. If I do, it'll be through your help."
Dan did not at once enter Donovan's. He stopped in the street, and began to sing "Viva Garibaldi."
Two or three boys gathered about him, and finally acouple of men. One of them handed him a three-cent piece.
"Grazio, signor," said Dan, pulling off his hat.
"What part of Italy do you come from?" asked one of the men.
"Si, signor, I come from Italy," answered Dan, not considering it prudent to understand too well.
"Oh, he don't understand you. Come along."
"His hair doesn't look like that of most Italians."
"Pooh! I'd know him for an Italian boy anywhere."
At this moment the door of the saloon opened, and Dan, putting his violin under his arm, entered.
Donovan had two customers. One was an Irishman, the other a German. Both had evidently drank more than was good for them. Dan looked in vain for Althea. Mrs. Donovan had taken her up stairs.
"Well, boy, what do you want?" asked Donovan, rather roughly.
"Will you have yer musique?" asked Dan, uncertain whether he was talking as an Italian boy might be expected to.
"No; I don't want to hear any fiddle-scraping."
"Shure, let him play a little, Mister Donovan," said the Irishman.
"Just as you like," said Donovan, carelessly, "only I have no money for him."
"Faith, thin, I have. Here boy, play something."
Dan struck up his one tune—Viva Garibaldi—but the Irishman did not seem to care for that.
"Oh, bother ould Garibaldi!" he said. "Can't you play something else?"
"I wish I could," thought Dan. "Suppose I compose something."
Accordingly he tried to play an air popular enough at the time, but made bad work of it.
"Stop him! stop him!" exclaimed the German, who had a better musical ear than the Irishman. "Here, lend me your fiddle, boy."
He took the violin, and in spite of his inebriety, managed to play a German air upon it.
"Shure you bate the boy at his own trade," said the Irishman. "You must be dhry. What'll you have now?"
The German indicated his preference, and the Irishman called for whisky.
"What'll you have, Johnny?" he asked, addressing Dan.
"I no drink," answered our hero, shaking his head.
"Shure you're an Italian wonder, and it's Barnum ought to hire you."
"I no understand English," said Dan.
"Then you're a haythen," said Pat Moriarty.
He gulped down the whisky, and finding it more convenient to sit than to stand, fell back upon a settee.
"I wish Althea would come in," thought Dan.
At that moment a heavy fall was heard in the room overhead, and a child's shrill scream directly afterward.
"Something's happened to my wife," muttered Donovan. "She's drunk again."
He hurried up stairs, and the German followed. This gave Dan an excuse for running up, too.
Mrs. Donovan had been drinking more copiously than usual. While in this condition she imprudently got upon a chair to reach a pitcher from an upper shelf. Her footing was uncertain, and she fell over, pitcher in hand, the chair sharing in the downfall.
When her husband entered the room she was lying flat on her back, grasping the handle of the pitcher, her eyes closed, and her breathing stertorious. Althea, alarmed, stood over her, crying and screaming.
"The old woman's taken too much," said Donovan. "Get up, you divil!" he shouted, leaning over his matrimonial partner. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself, now?"
Mrs. Donovan opened her eyes, and stared at him vacantly.
"Where am I?" she inquired.
"On your back, you old fool, where you deserve to be."
"It's the whisky," murmured the fallen lady.
"Of course it is. Why can't you drink dacent like me? Shure it's a purty example you're settin' to the child. Ain't you ashamed to lie here in a hape before them gintlemen?"
This called Althea's attention to the German andDan. In spite of Dan's disguise, she recognized him with a cry of joy.
"Oh, Dan! have you come to take me away?" she exclaimed, dashing past Donovan, and clasping her arms round the supposed Italian.
Have you come to take me away
"Oh, Dan! Have you come to take me away?" Althea exclaimed.
"Hillo! what's up?" exclaimed Donovan, looking at the two in surprise.
"Oh, it's my brother Dan," exclaimed Althea. "You'll take me away, won't you, Dan? How funny you look! Where did you get your fiddle?"
"So that's your game, my young chicken, is it?" demanded Donovan, seizing our hero roughly by the shoulder. Then pulling off Dan's hat, he added: "You're no more Italian than I am."
Dan saw that it would be useless to keep up the deceit any longer. He looked Donovan full in the face, and said, firmly:
"You are right, Mr. Donovan, I have come here for my sister."
Donovan's red face turned fairly purple with rage.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" he said, adding an oath or two. "You're a bold little pup! You dare to insult me! Why, I could crush you with my little finger."
"I have not insulted you," said Dan. "I have only come for my sister."
"I don't know anything about your sister. So you can go about your business."
"That little girl is my adopted sister," said Dan, pointing to Althea. "Ask her if she doesn't know me."
"That is my daughter, Katy Donovan," said the saloon keeper.
"No, I am not," said Althea, beginning to cry. "I want to go away with my brother Dan."
"Shut up, you little jade!" said Donovan, roughly. "Mrs. Donovan," (by this time she was on her feet, looking on in a dazed sort of way), "is not this our little Katy?"
"Shure it is," she answered.
"You see, young man, you're mistaken. You can leave," and Donovan waved his hand triumphantly.
"That's too thin, Mrs. Donovan!" said Dan, provoked. "That don't go down. I can bring plenty of proof that Althea was until a week since living with my mother."
"That for your proof!" said Donovan, contemptuously snapping his fingers.
"I know who stole her, and who brought her to this house," continued Dan.
Donovan started. The boy knew more than he had expected.
"The same man has been here to-day," added Dan.
"You lie!" retorted Donovan, but he looked uneasy.
"You know that I tell the truth. How much does he pay you for taking care of the girl?"
"Enough of this!" roared the saloon keeper. "I can't waste my time talkin' wid you. Will you clear out now?"
"No, I won't, unless Althea goes with me," said Dan, firmly.
"You won't, then! We'll see about that," and Donovan, making a rush, seized Dan in his arms, and carried him down stairs, despite our hero's resistance.
"I'll tache you to come here insultin' your betters!" he exclaimed.
Dan struggled to get away, but though a strong boy, he was not a match for a powerful man, and could not effect his deliverance. The Irishman already referred to was still upon the settee.
"What's up, Donovan?" he asked, as the saloon-keeper appeared with his burden. "What's the lad been doin'?"
"What's he been doin', is it? He's been insultin' me to my face—that's what the Donovans won't stand. Open the trap-door, Barney."
"What for?"
"Don't trouble me wid your questions, but do as I tell you. You shall know afterward."
Not quite willingly, but reluctant to offend Donovan, who gave him credit for the drinks, Barney raised a trap-door leading to the cellar below.
There was a ladder for the convenience of those wishing to ascend and descend, but Donovan was not disposed to use much ceremony with the boy who had offended him. He dropped him through the opening, Dan by good luck falling on his feet.
"That's the best place for you, you young meddler!" he said. "You'll find it mighty comfortable, and I wish you much joy. I won't charge you no rint, and that's an object in these hard times—eh, Barney?"
"To be sure it is," said Barney; "but all the same,Donovan, I'd rather pay rint up stairs, if I had my choice!"
"He hasn't the choice," said Donovan triumphantly. "Good-by to you!" and he let the trap fall.
"What's it all about now, Donovan?" asked Barney.
"He wanted to shtale my Katy," said Donovan.
"What, right before your face?" asked Barney, puzzled.
"Yes, shure! What'll you take to drink?" asked Donovan, not caring to go into particulars.
Barney indicated his choice with alacrity, and, after drinking, was hardly in a condition to pursue his inquiries.
Dan found himself at first bewildered and confused by his sudden descent into the cellar. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he was able to get an idea of his surroundings. It was a common cellar with an earthen floor. Ranged along one side was a row of kegs, some containing whisky, others empty. Besides, there were a few boxes and odds and ends which had been placed here to get them out of the way.
"Not a very cheerful-looking place," thought Dan, "though I do get it rent free."
He sat down on a box, and began to consider his position. Was there any way of escape? The walls were solid, and although there was a narrow window, consisting of a row of single panes, it was at the top of the cellar, and not easily accessible. He might indeed reach it by the ladder, but he would have to break the glass and crawl through, a mode of escape likely to be attended by personal risk.
"No, that won't do," thought Dan. "At any rate, I won't try it till other things fail."
Meanwhile Donovan, in the bar-room above, was in high good humor. He felt that he had done a sharp thing, and more than once chuckled as he thought of his prisoner below. Indeed he could not forbear, after about half an hour, lifting the trap and calling down stairs:
"Hallo, there!"
"Hallo!" said Dan, coolly.
"What are you doin'?"
"Sitting on a box."
"How do you like it?" chuckled Donovan.
"Come down and see."
"You're an impudent jackanapes!" retorted Donovan, wrathfully. "You'll get enough of it before you're through."
"So will you," answered Dan, boldly.
"I'll take the risk," chuckled Donovan. "Do you know what you remind me of?"
"Suppose you tell me."
"You're like a rat in a trap."
"Not exactly," answered Dan, as a bright thought dawned upon him.
"Why not?"
"Because a rat can do no harm, and I can."
It occurred to Donovan that Dan might have some matches in his pocket, and was momentarily alarmedat the thought that our hero might set the house on fire.
"Have you matches with you?" he asked.
"No," answered Dan.
"If you had," said the saloon-keeper, relieved, "it would do you no good to set a fire. You would only burn yourself up."
"I don't mean to set the house on fire," said Dan, composedly.
"Then you may do your worst. You can't scare me."
"Can't I?" returned Dan, rising from his seat on the box.
"What are you going to do?" asked Donovan, following with his glance the boy's motion.
"I'll tell you," said Dan. "I'm going to take the spigot out of them whisky-kegs, and let the whisky run out on the floor."
"Don't you do it!" exclaimed the saloon-keeper, now thoroughly frightened.
"Then let me up."
"I won't."
"All right. You must take the consequences."
As he spoke Dan dextrously pulled the spigot from a keg, and Donovan, to his dismay, heard the precious liquid—precious in his eyes—pouring out upon the floor.
With an exertion he raised the trap-door, hastily descended the ladder, and rushed to the keg to replace the spigot.
Meanwhile Dan ran up the ladder, pulled it after him, and made his late jailer a captive.
"Put down the ladder, you young rascal!" roared Donovan, when, turning from his work, he saw how the tables had been turned.
"It wouldn't be convenient just yet," answered Dan, coolly.
He shut the trap-door, hastily lugged the ladder to the rear of the house (unobserved, for there were no customers present), then dashed up stairs and beckoned to Althea to follow him. There was no obstacle, for Mrs. Donovan was stupefied by liquor.
Putting on her things, the little girl hastily and gladly obeyed.
As they passed through the saloon, Donovan's execrations and shouts were heard proceeding from the cellar.
"What's that, Dan?" asked Althea, trembling.
"Never you mind, Althea," said Dan. "I'll tell you later."
The two children hurried to the nearest horse-car, which luckily came up at the moment, and jumped on board.
Dan looked back with a smile at the saloon, saying to himself:
"I rather think, Mr. Donovan, you've found your match this time. I hope you'll enjoy the cellar as much as I did."
In about an hour and a half Dan, holding Althea by the hand, triumphantly led her into his mother's presence.
"I've brought her back, mother," he said.
"Oh, my dear, dear little girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt, joyfully. "I thought I should never, never see you again. How did you find her, Dan?"
But we will not wait to hear a twice-told tale. Rather let us return to Donovan, where the unhappy proprietor is still a captive in his own cellar. Here he remained till his cries attracted the attention of a wondering customer, who finally lifted the trap-door.
"What are you doin' down there?" he asked, amazed.
"Put down the ladder and let me up first of all."
"I don't see any ladder."
"Look round, then. I suppose the cursed boy has hidden it."
It was a considerable time before the ladder wasfound. Then the saloon-keeper emerged from his prison in a very bad humor.
"How did you get shut up there?" asked his liberator.
"What business is it of yours?" demanded Donovan, irritably.
"I wish I had left you there," said the customer, with justifiable indignation. "This is your gratitude for my trouble, is it?"
"Excuse me, but I'm so mad with that cursed boy. What'll you take? It's my treat."
"Come, that's talking," said the placated customer. "What boy do you mean?"
"Wait a minute," said Donovan, a sudden fear possessing him.
He rushed up stairs and looked for Althea.
His wife was lying on the floor, breathing heavily, but the little girl was gone.
"The boy's got her! What a cursed fool I have been!" exclaimed Donovan, sinking into a chair.
Then, in a blind fury with the wife who didn't prevent the little girl's recapture, he seized a pail of water and emptied it over the face of the prostrate woman.
Mrs. Donovan came to, and berated her husband furiously.
"Serves you right, you jade!" said the affectionate husband.
He went down stairs feeling better. He had had revenge on somebody.
It was certainly an unlucky day for the Donovans.
After calling at Donovan's, on the day when Dan recovered Althea, John Hartley crossed the Courtlandt street ferry, and took a train to Philadelphia with Blake, his accomplice in the forged certificates. The two confederates had raised some Pennsylvania railway certificates, which they proposed to put on the Philadelphia market.
They spent several days in the Quaker City, and thus Hartley heard nothing of the child's escape.
Donovan did not see fit to inform him, as this would stop the weekly remittance for the child's board, and, moreover, draw Hartley's indignation down upon his head.
One day, in a copy of theNew York Herald, which he purchased at the news-stand in the Continental Hotel, Hartley observed the arrival of Harriet Vernon at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
"I thought she would come," he said to himself, with a smile. "I have her in my power at last. She must submit to my terms, or lose sight of the child altogether."
"Blake," he said, aloud, "I must take the first train to New York."
"Why, what's up, partner?" asked Blake, in surprise. "Anything gone wrong?"
"On the contrary, I see a chance of making a good haul."
"How?"
"Not in our line. It's some private business of my own."
"All right. I wish you success. When will you return?"
"That I can't exactly say. I will write or telegraph you."
In the evening of the same day Mrs. Vernon sat in her room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. A servant brought up a card bearing the name of John Hartley.
"He is prompt," she said to herself, with a smile. "Probably he has not heard of Althea's escape from the den to which he carried her. I will humor him, in that case, and draw him out."
"I will see the gentleman in the parlor," she said.
Five minutes later she entered the ladies' parlor. Hartley rose to receive her with a smile of conscious power, which told Harriet Vernon that he was ignorant of the miscarriage of his plans.
"I heard of yourunexpectedarrival, Mrs.Vernon," he commenced, "and have called to pay my respects."
"Your motive is appreciated, John Hartley," she said, coldly. "I expected to see you."
"That's pleasant," he said, mockingly. "May I beg to apologize for constraining you to cross the Atlantic?"
"Don't apologize; you have merely acted out your nature."
"Probably that is not meant to be complimentary. However, it can't be helped."
"I suppose you have something to say to me, John Hartley," said Mrs. Vernon, seating herself. "Pray proceed."
"You are quite right. I wrote you that I had ferreted out your cunningly devised place of concealment for my daughter."
"You did."
He looked at her a little puzzled. She seemed very cool and composed, whereas he expected she would be angry and disturbed.
"We may as well come to business at once," he said. "If you wish to recover the charge of your ward, you must accede to my terms."
"State them."
"They are expressed in my letter to you. Youmust agree to pay me a thousand dollars each quarter."
"It strikes me you are exorbitant in your demands."
"I don't think so. At any rate, the money won't come out of you. It will come from my daughter's income."
"So you would rob your daughter, John Hartley?"
"Rob my daughter!" he exclaimed, angrily. "She will have enough left. Is she to live in luxury, and with thousands to spare, while I, her only living parent, wander penniless and homeless about the world."
"I might sympathize with you, if I did not know how you have misused the gifts of fortune, and embittered the existence of my poor sister. As it is, it only disgusts me."
"I don't want you sympathy, Harriet Vernon," he said, roughly. "I want four thousand dollars a year."
"Suppose I decline to let you have it?"
"Then you must take the consequences," he said, quickly.
"What are to be the consequences?" she asked, quietly.
"That you and Althea will be forever separated. She shall never see you again."
He looked at her intently to see the effect of his threat.
Harriet Vernon was as cool and imperturbable as ever.
"Have you been in New York for a week past?" she asked, as he thought, irrelevantly.
"Why do you ask?"
"I have a reason."
"No, I have not."
"So I thought."
"Why did you think so?"
"Because you don't appear to know what has happened."
"What has happened?" he asked, uneasily.
"Mr. Donovan can tell you. As for me, I bid you good-evening."
A wild fear took possession of him.
"What do you mean?" he demanded, hurriedly.
"I mean, John Hartley, that you are not as shrewd as you imagine. I mean that a boy has foiled you; and while you were doubtless laughing at his simplicity, he has proved more than a match for you. You have no claim upon me, and I must decline your disinterested proposal."
She left the room, leaving him crest-fallen and stupefied.
"Has Donovan betrayed me?" he muttered. "I will soon find out."
He started for Brooklyn immediately, and toward eleven o'clock entered the saloon at Donovan's.
"Where is the child?" he demanded, sternly.
The rubicund host turned pale.
"She's gone," he cried, "but I couldn't help it, Mr. Hartley. On my honor, I couldn't."
"How did it happen? Tell me at once."
The story was told, Donovan ending by invoking curses upon the boy who had played such a trick upon him.
"You're a fool!" said Hartley, roughly. "I am ashamed of you, for allowing a boy to get the best of you."
"That boy's a fox," said Donovan. "He's a match for the old one, he is. I'd like to break his neck for him."
"It's not too late. I may get hold of the girl again," mused Hartley, as he rose to go. "If I do, I won't put her in charge of such a dunderhead."
He left Donovan's and returned to New York, but he had hardly left the Fulton ferry-boat when he was tapped on the shoulder by an officer.
"I want you," he said.
"What for?" asked Hartley, nervously.
"A little financial irregularity, as they call it in Wall street. You may know something about some raised railroad certificates!"
"Confusion!" muttered Hartley. "Luck is dead against me."