Stanhope receiving his orders“Yes; I’ve a dainty bit of mystery for you. No blind alleys and thieves’ dens inthis”—page 33.
“Yes; I’ve a dainty bit of mystery for you. No blind alleys and thieves’ dens inthis”—page 33.
“You have only to meet the lady, receive her instructions, and come away.”
“I hope I shall live through the ordeal,” rising once more and shaking himself like a water-spaniel, “but I’d rather face all the hosts of Rag Alley.”
And Richard Stanhope left the Agency to “overhaul” the innocent masquerade costume that held, in its white and crimson folds, the fate of its owner.
Leaving him thus employed, let us follow the footsteps of Van Vernet, and enter with him the stately portals of the home of the Warburtons.
Crossing a hall that is a marvel of antique richness, with its walls of russet, old gold, and Venetian red tints; its big claw-footed tables; its massive, open-faced clock, with huge weights a-swing below; its statuettes and its bass-reliefs, we pass under a richportierie, and hear the liveried footman say, evidently having been instructed:
“This is Mr. Warburton’s study, sir; I will take up your name.”
Van Vernet gazes about him, marking the gorgeous richness of the room. A study! There are massive book-cases filled with choicest lore; cabinets containing all that is curious, antique, rare, beautiful, and costly; there are plaques and bronzes; there is a mantle laden with costly bric-a-brac; a grand old-fashioned fire-place and fender; there are divans and easy chairs; rich draperies on wall and at windows, and all in the rarest tints of olive, crimson, and bronze.
Van Vernet looks about him and says to himself:
“This is a room after my own heart. Mr. Warburton,of Warburton Place, must be a sybarite, and should be a happy man. Ah, he is coming.”
But it is not Mr. Warburton who enters. It is a colored valet, sleek, smiling, obsequious, who bears in his hand a gilded salver, with a letter upon it, and upon his arm a parcel wrapped in black silk.
“You are Mr. Vernet?” queries this personage, as if in doubt.
“Yes.”
“Then this letter is for you.”
And the valet bows low, and extends the salver, adding softly:
“I am Mr. Warburton’s body servant.”
Looking somewhat surprised, as well as annoyed, Van Vernet takes up the letter, breaks the seal and reads:
Sir:My business with you is of so delicate a nature that it is best, for all concerned, to keep our identity a secret, for a time at least. Your investigation involves the fair fame of a lady and the honor of a stainless name.Come to this house to-morrow night, in the costume which I shall send for your use. The enclosed card will admit you. My valet will show you the domino by which you will recognize me. This will enable me to instruct you fully, and to point out to you the persons in whom you are to take an interest. This letter you will please destroy in the presence of my valet.A. W.
Sir:
My business with you is of so delicate a nature that it is best, for all concerned, to keep our identity a secret, for a time at least. Your investigation involves the fair fame of a lady and the honor of a stainless name.
Come to this house to-morrow night, in the costume which I shall send for your use. The enclosed card will admit you. My valet will show you the domino by which you will recognize me. This will enable me to instruct you fully, and to point out to you the persons in whom you are to take an interest. This letter you will please destroy in the presence of my valet.
A. W.
After reading this strange note, Van Vernet stands so long, silently pondering, that the servant makes a restless movement. Then the detective says, with a touch of imperiousness.
“Give me a match.”
It is proffered him in silence, and in silence he turns tothe grate, applies the match to the letter, and lets it fall from his fingers to the fire-place, where it lies a charred fragment that crumbles to ashes at a touch.
The dark servant watches the proceeding in grave silence until Vernet turns to him, saying:
“Now, the domino.”
Then he rapidly takes from the sable wrapper a domino of black and scarlet, and exhibits it to the detective, who examines it critically for a moment and then says brusquely:
“That will do; tell your master that I will follow his instructions—to the letter.”
As the stately door swings shut after his exit, Van Vernet turns and glances up at the name upon the door-plate, and, as he sets his foot upon the pavement, he mutters:
“A. Warburton is my employer; A. Warburton is the name upon the door: I see! My services are wanted by the master of this mansion: he asks to deal with agentleman, and—leaves him to negotiate with a colored servant! There’s a lady in the case, and ‘an honorable name at stake;’ Ah! Mr. A. Warburton, the day may come when you will wear no domino in my presence; when you will send no servant to negotiate with Van Vernet!”
A rickety two-story frame building, in one of the worst quarters of the city.
Vernet burns the letter“He applies the match to the letter, and lets it fall from his fingers to the fire-place.”—page 38.
“He applies the match to the letter, and lets it fall from his fingers to the fire-place.”—page 38.
It is black with age, and guiltless of paint, but a carefulobserver would note that the door is newer than the dwelling, and that it is remarkably solid, considering the tumble-down aspect of the structure it guards. The windows of the lower story are also new and substantial, such of them as serve for windows; but one would note that the two immediately facing the street are boarded up, and so tightly that not one ray of light can penetrate from without, nor shine from within.
The upper portion of the dwelling, however, has nothing of newness about it. The windows are almost without glass, but they bristle with rags and straw, while the dilapidated appearance of the roof indicates that this floor is given over to the rats and the rain.
Entering at the stout front door, we find a large room, bare and comfortless. There is a small stove, the most battered and rusty of its kind; two rickety chairs, and a high wooden stool; a shelf that supports a tin cup, a black bottle, and a tallow candle; a sturdy legged deal table, and a scrap of rag carpet, carefully outspread in the middle of the floor.
An open door, in one corner, discloses the way to the rat-haunted second floor. There are some dirty bundles and a pile of rags just behind the door; some pieces of rusty old iron are lying near a rear entrance, and a dismal-looking old man is seated on a pallet in one corner.
This is what would be noted by the casual observer, and this is all. But the old man and his dwelling are worthy of closer inspection.
He is small and lean, with narrow, stooping shoulders; a sallow, pinched face, upon which rests, by turns, a fawning leer, which is intended, doubtless, for the blandest of smiles, a look of craftiness and greed, a scowl, or a sneer. His hair,which has been in past years of a decided carrot color, is now plentifully streaked with gray, and evidently there is little affinity between the stubby locks and a comb. He is dirty, ragged, unshaven; and his age may be any where between fifty and seventy.
At the sound of a knock upon the outer door, he sits erect upon his pallet, a look of wild terror in his face: then, recovering himself, he rises slowly and creeps softly toward the door. Wearing now his look of cunning, he removes from a side panel a small pin, that is nicely fitted and comes out noiselessly, and peeps through the aperture thus made.
Then, with an exclamation of annoyance, he replaces the pin and hurriedly opens the door.
The woman who enters is a fitting mate for him, save that in height and breadth, she is his superior; old and ugly, unkempt and dirty, with a face expressive of quite as much of cunning and greed, and more of boldness and resolution, than his possesses.
“It’s you, is it?” says the man, testily. “What has brought you back? and empty-handed I’ll be bound.”
The old woman crossed the floor, seated herself in the most reliable chair, and turning her face toward her companion said, sharply:
“You’re an old fool!”
Not at all discomposed by this familiar announcement, the man closed and barred the door, and then approached the woman, who was taking from her pocket a crumpled newspaper.
“What have you got there?”
“You wait,” significantly, “and don’t tellmethat I come empty-handed.”
“Ah! you don’t mean—”
Again the look of terror crossed his face, and he left the sentence unfinished.
“Old man, youarea fool! Now, listen: Nance and I had got our bags nearly filled, when I found this,” striking the paper with her forefinger. “It blew right under my feet, around a corner. It’s the morning paper.”
“Well, well!”
“Oh, you’ll hear it soon enough. It’s the morning paper, and you knowIalways read the papers, when I can find ’em, although, since you lost the few brains you was born with, you never look at one.”
“Umph!”
“Well, I looked at this paper, and see what I found!”
She held the paper toward him, and pointed to a paragraph among the advertisements.
Wanted. information of any sort concerning one Arthur Pearson, who left the mining country with a child in his charge, twenty years ago. Information concerning said child, Lea Ainsworth, or any of her relatives. Compensation for any trouble or time. Address,O. E. Mears, Atty,Melbourne, Australia.
Wanted. information of any sort concerning one Arthur Pearson, who left the mining country with a child in his charge, twenty years ago. Information concerning said child, Lea Ainsworth, or any of her relatives. Compensation for any trouble or time. Address,
O. E. Mears, Atty,
Melbourne, Australia.
The paper fluttered from the man’s nerveless fingers, but the woman caught it as it fell.
“Oh, Lord!” he gasped, the drops of perspiration standing out upon his brow, “oh, Lord! it has come at last.”
“What has come, you old fool!”
“Everything; ruin! ruin!”
“We’re a pretty looking pair to talk ofruin,” giving a contemptuous glance at her surroundings. “Stop looking so like a scared idiot, and listen to me.”
“Oh, I’m listening!” sinking down upon the pallet in a dismal huddle; “go on.”
Reaction to reading the advertisement“Oh, Lord!” he gasped; “oh, Lord, it has come at last!”—page 42.
“Oh, Lord!” he gasped; “oh, Lord, it has come at last!”—page 42.
The woman crossed over and sat down beside him.
“Now, look here; suppose the worst comes, how far away is it? How long will it take to get a letter to Australia, and an answer or a journey back?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Well, it’ll take all the timewewant. But who is there to answer that advertisement?”
“Oh, dear!”
“You miserable coward!Shewouldn’t know what it meant if she saw it.”
“No.”
“Arthur Pearson—”
“Oh,don’t!”
“Arthur Pearson has not been heard of in twenty years.”
The old man shuddered, and drew a long sighing breath.
“Walter Parks, after all his big talk, never came back from England,” she hurried on. “Menard is dead; and Joe Blakesley is in California. The rest are dead, or scattered south and west. There are none of the train to be found here, except—except the Krutzers; and who can identifythemafter twenty years?”
“I shall never feel safe again.”
“Yes, you will. You always feel safe when the dollars jingle in your pockets, although it’s precious little good they bring you.”
“Buthermoney is already gone.”
“Her husband has a full purse.”
“But how—”
“Oh, I see the way clear enough. It’s only half the work of the other job, and double the money.”
“The money! Ah! how do you think to get it?”
“Honestly, this time; honestly, old man. It shall come to usas a reward!”
Drawing nearer still to her hesitating partner, the woman began to whisper rapidly, gesticulating fiercely now and then, while the old man listened in amazement, admiration, doubt, and fear; asking eager questions, and feeling his way cautiously toward conviction.
When the argument was ended, he said, slowly:
“I shall never feel safe until it’s over, and we are away from this place. When can you do—the job?”
“To-morrow night.”
“To-morrow night!”
“Yes; it’s the very time of times. To-morrow night it shall be.”
“It’s a big risk! We will have to bluff the detectives, old woman.”
“A fig for the detectives! They will have a cold scent; besides—we have dodged detectives before.”
It is early in the evening of the day that has witnessed the events recorded in the preceding chapters, and the Chief of the detectives is sitting in his easiest office chair, listening attentively to the words that fall from the lips of a tall, bronzed, gray-bearded man who sits opposite him, talking fast and earnestly.
He has been thus talking, and the Chief thus listening, for more than an hour, and the story is just reaching its conclusion when the stranger says:
“There, sir, you have the entire case, so far as I know it. What I ask is something unusual, but what I offer, in compensation, is something unusual too.”
“A queer case, I should say,” returns the Chief, half to himself; “and a difficult one. Twenty years ago a man was murdered—killed by a nail driven into his skull. Detectives have hunted for the murderer, singly, in twos and threes. English experts have crossed the ocean to unravel the mystery and it remains a mystery still. And now, when the secret is twenty years old, and the assassin dead and buried, perhaps, you come and ask me for my two best men,—men who have worked together as brothers—and ask me to set their skillagainst each other, in a struggle, which, if it ends as you desire, will mean victory and fortune for the one, defeat and loss of prestige for the other.”
“There is no such thing as loss of prestige. A man may bow to a superior and yet retain his own skill. Plainly, I have come to you as an honorable man should. I wish to deal with these men through you, if possible. But they are free agents. What you refuse to do for me, I must do for myself; and I tell you plainly, that if money can purchase their services, I will have Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope to work this case.”
“You are frank, sir! But I have observed that, in relating your story, you have been careful to avoid giving either your own name or the name of the murdered man.”
“As I shall continue to do until I state the case to the two detectives,afterthey have enlisted in my service.”
The Chief ponders for a time and then says:
“Now, hear my proposition: you are justified in believing that, if thereisa bottom to this ancient mystery, Vernet and Stanhope, singly or together, are the men to find it. That is my belief also. As for your idea of putting them on their mettle, by offering so magnificent a reward to the man who succeeds,thatis not bad—for you and the man who wins. Vernet and Stanhope have, this very day, taken in hand two cases,—working separately, understand. If you will wait in patience until these cases are finished, you shall have the men from this office,—if they will accept the case.”
“Put my proposition before the two men at once. When I know that I shall have their services, I can wait in patience until their duty of the present is done.”
“Then,” said the Chief rising, “the question can soon be settled; Vernet is in the outer office; Stanhope will soon be here. You will find the evening papers upon that desk; try and entertain yourself while I put your case before Vernet.”
Ten minutes later, Van Vernet was standing before his Chief, listening with bent head, compressed lip, and glowing cheek, to the story of the man who was murdered twenty years before, and to the splendid proposal of the tall stranger. When it was all told, and the Chief paused for a reply, the young detective moved a pace nearer and said with decision:
“Tell him that I accept the proposition. A man can’t afford to lose so splendid a chance for friendship’s sake. Besides,” his eyes darkening and his mouth twitching convulsively, “it’s time for Dick and I to find outwho is the better man!”
Returning to the inner office, the Chief of the force found his strange patron walking fiercely up and down the room, with a newspaper grasped firmly in his hand, and on his countenance traces of agitation.
“Look!” he cried, approaching and forcing the paper upon the astonished Chief; “see what a moment of waiting has brought me!”
And he pointed to a paragraph beginning:
WANTED. INFORMATION OF ANY SORT CONCERNING one Arthur Pearson, etc. etc.
WANTED. INFORMATION OF ANY SORT CONCERNING one Arthur Pearson, etc. etc.
“An advertisement, I see;” said the Chief. “But I fail to understand why it should thus excite you.”
“A moment ago it was my intention to keep the identity of the murdered man a secret. This,” indicating the paper by a quick gesture, “changes the face of affairs. After twenty years, some one inquires after Arthur Pearson—”
“Then Arthur Pearson is—”
“The man who was murdered near the Marais des Cygnes!”
“And the child?”
“I never knew her name until now. No doubt it is the little girl that was in Pearson’s care.”
“What became of the child?”
“I never knew.”
“And how does this discovery affect your movements?”
“I will tell you; but, first, you saw Vernet?”
“Yes; and he accepts.”
“Good! That notice was inserted either by some friend of Pearson’s, or by the child’s father, John Ainsworth.”
“What do you know of him?”
“Nothing; I never met him. But, as soon as you haveseen Stanhope, and I am sure that these two sharp fellows are prepared to hunt down poor Pearson’s assassins, Iwillmeet him, if the notice is his, for I am going to Australia.”
“Ah!”
“Yes; I can do no good here. To-morrow morning, business will take me out of the city. When I return, in two days, let me have Stanhope’s answer.”
When Richard Stanhope appeared at the office that night a little later than usual, the story of Arthur Pearson and his mysterious death was related for the third time that day, and the strange and munificent offer of the stranger, for the second time rehearsed by the Chief.
“What do you think of it, my boy? Are you anxious to try for a fortune?”
“No, thank you.”
It was said as coolly as if he were declining a bad cigar.
“Consider, Dick.”
“There is no need. Van and I have pulled together too long to let a mere matter of money come between us.Hewould never accept such a proposition.”
The Chief bit his lip and remained silent.
“Or if he did,” went on Stanhope, “he would not work against me. Tell your patron thatwithVan Vernet I will undertake the case. He may make Van his chief, and I will gladly assist.WithoutVan as my rival, I will work it alone; butagainsthim, as his rival for honors and lucre,never!”
The Chief slowly arose, and resting his hands upon the shoulders of the younger man, looked in his face with fatherly pride.
“Dick, you’re a splendid fellow, and a shrewd detective,” he said, “but you have a weakness. You study strangers, but you trust your friends with absolute blindness. Van is ambitious.”
“So am I.”
“He loves money.”
“A little too well, I admit.”
“If he should accept this offer?”
“But he won’t.”
“If heshould;” persisted the Chief.
“If such a thing were possible,—if, without a friendly consultation, and a fair and square send off, he should take up the cudgel against me, then—”
“Then, Dick?”
Richard Stanhope’s eyes flashed, and his mouth set itself in firm lines.
“Then,” he said, “I would measure my strength against his as a detective; but always as a friend, and never to his injury!”
“And, Dick, if, in the thick of the strife, Van forgets his friendship for you and becomes your enemy?”
“Then, as I am only human, I should be his enemy too. But that will not happen.”
“I hope not; I hope not, my boy. But—Van Vernet has already accepted the stranger’s proposition.”
Stanhope leaped to his feet.
“What!” he cried, “has Vanagreedto work against me—without a word to me—and so soon!”
His lips trembled now, and his eyes searched those of his Chief with the eager, inquiring look of a grieved child.
“It is as I say, Stanhope.”
Stanhope hears that Vernet will work against him“What, has Vanagreedto work against me—without a word to me—and so soon!”—page 50.
“What, has Vanagreedto work against me—without a word to me—and so soon!”—page 50.
“Then,” and he threw back his head and instantly resumedhis usual look of careless indifference, “tell your patron, whoever he may be, thatI am his man, for one year, or for twenty!”
Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope had been brother detectives during the entire term of their professional career.
Entering the Agency when mere striplings, they had at once formed a friendship that had been strong and lasting. Their very differences of disposition and habits made them the better fellow-workmen, and therolemost difficult for one was sure to be found the easier part for the other to play.
They had been a strong combination, and the Chief of the detectives wasted some time in pondering the question: what would be the result, when their skill and courage stood arrayed against each other?
Meantime, Richard Stanhope, wasting no thought upon the matter, hastened from the presence of his Chief to his own quarters.
“It’s my last night,” he muttered, as he inserted his key in the lock, “and I’ll just take one more look at the slums. I don’t want to lose one bird from that flock.”
Half an hour later, there sallied forth from the door where Stanhope had entered, a roughly-dressed, swaggering,villainous-looking fellow, who bore about with him the strongly defined odors of tobacco and bad whiskey.
This individual, armed with a black liquor flask, two revolvers, a blood-thirsty-looking dirk, a pair of brass knuckles, and a quantity of plug tobacco, took his way through the streets, avoiding the more popular and respectable thoroughfares, and gradually approaching that portion of the city almost entirely given over to the worst of the bad,—a network of short streets and narrow alleys, as intricate as the maze, and as dangerous to the unwary as an African jungle.
But the man who now entered these dismal streets walked with the manner of one familiar with their sights and sounds. Moving along with an air of stolid indifference to what was before and about him, he arrived at a rickety building, somewhat larger than those surrounding it, the entrance to which was reached by going down, instead of up, a flight of stone steps. This entrance was feebly illuminated by a lantern hung against the doorway, and by a few stray gleams of light that shone out from the rents in the ragged curtains.
Pushing open the door, our visitor found himself in a large room with sanded floor, a counter or bar, and five or six tables, about which a number of men were lounging,—some at cards, some drinking, and some conversing in the queer jargon called thieves’ slang, and which is as Greek to the unenlightened.
The buzz of conversation almost ceased as the door opened, but was immediately resumed when the new comer came forward toward the light.
“Is that you, Cull?” called the man behind the bar. “You’ve been keepin’ scarce of late.”
The man addressed as “Cull” laughed discordantly.
“I’ve been visitin’ in the country,” he returned, with aknowing wink. “It’s good for my health this time o’ year. How’s business? You’ve got the hull deck on hand, I should say.”
“You better say! Things is boomin’; nearly all of the old uns are in.”
“Well, spread out the drinks, Pap, I’m tolerably flush. Boys, come up, and if I don’t know any of ye we’ll be interduced.”
Almost instantly a dozen men were flocking about the bar, some eager to grasp the hand of the liberal last arrival, and others paying their undivided attention to the bar keeper’s cheerful command:
“Nominate yer dose, gentlemen.”
While the party, glasses in hand, were putting themselvesen rapport, the door again opened, and now the hush that fell upon the assembled “gentlemen” was deeper and more lasting.
Evidently, the person who entered was a stranger to all in the Thieves’ Tavern, for such the building was.
He was a young man, with a countenance half fierce, half desperate, wholly depraved. He was haggard, dirty, and ragged, having the look and the gait of a man who has travelled far and is footsore and weary. As he approached the group about the bar it was also evident that he was half intoxicated.
“Good evenin’, sirs,” he said with surly indifference. Then to the man behind the bar: “Mix us a cocktail, old Top, and strong.”
While the bar keeper was deftly shaking up the desired drink, the men before the counter drew further away from the stranger, and some of them began a whispered conversation.
The last arrival eyed them with a sneer of contempt, and said to the bar keeper, as he gulped down his drink: “Your coves act like scared kites. Probably they ain’t used to good society.”
“See here, my friend,” spoke a blustering fellow, advancing toward him, “you made a little mistake. This ’ere ain’t a tramps’ lodgin’ house.”
“Ain’t it?” queried the stranger; “then what the Moses areyoudoin’ here?”
“You’ll swallowthat, my hearty!”
“When?”
The stranger threw himself into an attitude of defence and glared defiance at his opponent.
“Wax him, Charley!”
“Let’s fire him out!”
“Hold on gentlemen; fair play!”
“I’ll give you one more chance,” said the blusterer. “Ask my pardon and then mizzle instantly, or I’ll have ye cut up in sections as sure as my name’s Rummey Joe.”
The half intoxicated man was no coward. Evidently he was ripe for a quarrel.
“I intend to stop here!” he cried, bringing his fist down upon the counter with a force that made it creak. “I’m goin’ to stay right here till the old Nick comes to fetch me. And I’m goin’ ter send your teeth down your big throat in three minutes.”
There was a chorus of exclamations, a drawing of weapons, and a forward rush. Then sudden silence.
The man who had lately ordered drinks for the crowd, was standing between the combatants, one hand upon the breast of the last comer, the other grasping a pistol levelled just under the nose of Rummey Joe.
“Drop yer fist, boy! Put up that knife, Joe! Let’s understand each other.”
Then addressing the stranger, but keeping an eye upon Rummey Joe, he said:
“See here, my hearty, you don’t quite take in the siteration. This is a sort of club house, not open to the general public. If you want to hang out here, you must show your credentials.”
The stranger hesitated a moment, and then, without so much as a glance at his antagonist, said:
“Yourracket is fair enough. I know where I am, and ye’ve all got a right to see my colors. I’ll show ye my hand, and then”—with a baleful glare at Rummey Joe—“I’ll settle withthatblackguard.”
Advancing to one of the tables, he deliberately lifted his foot and, resting it upon the table top, rolled up the leg of his trousers, and pulled down a dirty stocking over his low shoe.
“There’s my passport, gentlemen.”
They crowded about him and gazed upon the naked ankle, that bore the imprint of a broad band, sure indication that the limb had recently been decorated with a ball and chain.
“And now,” said the ex-convict, turning fiercely, “I’ll teach you the kind of a tramp I am, Mr. Rummey Joe!”
Before a hand or voice could be raised to prevent it, the two men had grappled, and were struggling fiercely for the mastery.
“Give them a show, boys!” some one said.
Showing the mark of the ball and chain“There’s my passport, gentlemen.”—page 56.
“There’s my passport, gentlemen.”—page 56.
The crowd drew back and watched the combat; watched with unconcern until they saw their comrade, Rummey Joe, weakening in the grasp of his antagonist; until knives flashed in the hand of each, and fierce blows were struck on both sides.Then, when Rummey Joe, uttering a shriek of pain, went down underneath the knife of the victor, there was a roar and a rush, and the man who had conquered their favorite was borne down by half a dozen strong arms, menaced by as many sharp, glittering knives.
But again the scene shifted.
An agile form was bounding about among them; blows fell swift as rain; there was a lull in the combat, and when the wildly struggling figures, some scattered upon the floor, some thrown back upon each other, recovered from their consternation, they saw that the convict had struggled up upon one elbow, while, directly astride of his prostrate body, stood the man who had asked for his credentials, fierce contempt in his face, and, in either hand, a heavy six shooter.
“Don’t pull, boys, I’ve got the drop on ye! Cowards, to tackle a single man, six of ye!”
“By Heavens, he’s killed Rummey!”
“No matter; it was a fair fight, and Rummey at the bottom of the blame.”
“All the same he’ll never kill a pal of ours, and live to tell it! Stand off, Cully Devens!”
“No, sir!I am going to take this wounded man out of this without another scratch, if I have to send every mother’s son of you to perdition.”
His voice rang out clear and commanding. In the might of his wrath, he had forgotten the language of Cully Devens and spoken as a man to cowards.
The effect was electrical.
From among the men standing at bay, one sprang forward, crying:
“Boys, here’s a traitor amongst us! Who are ye, ye sneak, that has played yerself fer Cully Devens?”
Cully a.k.a. Stanhope wins the fight“Don’t pull, boys, I’ve got the drop on ye!”—page 58.
“Don’t pull, boys, I’ve got the drop on ye!”—page 58.
The lithe body bent slightly forward, a low laugh crossed the lips of the bogus Cully, the brown eyes lighted up, and flashed in the eyes of the men arrayed against him. Then came the answer, coolly, as if the announcement were scarcely worth making:
“Richard Stanhope is my name, and I’ve got a trump here for every trick you can show me. Step up, boys, don’t be bashful!”
“Richard Stanhope is my name, and I’ve got a trump here for every trick you can show me. Step up, boys, don’t be bashful!”
Momentous silence followed this announcement, while thehabituesof the Thieves’ Tavern glanced into each others’ faces in consternation.
An ordinary meddler, however much his courage and skill, would have met with summary chastisement; butDick Stanhope!
Not a man among them but knew the result of an attack upon him. Bullets swift and sure, in the brains or hearts of some; certain vengeance, sooner or later, upon all.
To avoid, on all possible occasions, an open encounter with an officer of the law, is the natural instinct of the crook. Besides, Stanhope was never off his guard; his presence, aloneamong them, was sure indication thattheywere in more danger than he.
So reasoned the astonished scoundrels, instantly, instinctively.
“Look here, boys,” Stanhope’s cool voice broke in upon their silence; “I’m here on a little private business which need not concern you, unless you make me trouble. This man,” nodding down at the prostrate ex-convict, “is my game. I’m going to take him out of this, and if you raise a hand to prevent it, or take a step to follow me, you’ll find yourselves detained for a long stretch.”
He threw back his head and gave a long, low whistle.
“Hear that, my good sirs. That’s a note of preparation. One more such will bring you into close quarters. If you are not back at those tables, every man of you, inside of two minutes, I’ll give the second call.”
Some moved with agility, some reluctantly, some sullenly; but they all obeyed him.
“Now, Pap, come out and help me lift this fellow. Are you badly hurt, my man?”
The wounded man groaned and permitted them to lift him to his feet.
“He can walk, I think,” went on Stanhope, in a brisk, business-like way. “Lean on me, my lad.” Then, turning to the bar keeper and thrusting some money into his hand: “Give these fellows another round of drinks, Pap. Boys, enjoy yourselves; ta-ta.”
And without once glancing back at them he half led, half supported, the wounded man out from the bar-room, up the dirty stone steps, and into the dirtier street.
“Boys,” said the bar keeper as he distributed the drinks atStanhope’s expense, “you done a sensible thing when you let up on Dick Stanhope. He’s got the alley lined with peelers and don’t you forget it.”
For a little way Stanhope led his man in silence. Then the rescued ex-convict made a sudden convulsive movement, gathered himself for a mighty effort, broke from the supporting grasp of the detective, and fled away down the dark street.
Down one block and half across the next he ran manfully. Then he reeled, staggered wildly from side to side, threw up his arms, and fell heavily upon his face.
“I knew you’d bring yourself down,” said Stanhope, coming up behind him. “You should not treat a man as an enemy, sir, until he’s proven himself such.”
He lifted the prostrate man, turning him easily, and rested the fallen head upon his knee.
“Can you swallow a little?” pressing a flask of brandy to the lips of the ex-convict.
The man gasped and feebly swallowed a little of the liquor.
“There,” laying down the flask, “are your wounds bleeding?”
The wounded man groaned, and then whispered feebly:
“I’m done for—I think—are you—an officer?”
“Yes.”
“Af—after me?”
“No.”
“Do—do you—know—”
“Do I know who you are? Not exactly, but I take you to be one of the convicts who broke jail last week.”
The man made a convulsive movement, and then, battling for breath as he spoke, wailed out:
“Listen—you want to take me back to prison—there is areward—of course. If you only knew—when I was a boy—on the western prairies—free, free. Then here in the city—driven to beg—to steal to—. Oh!don’ttake me back to die in prison! You don’t know the horror of it!”
A look of pitying tenderness lighted the face bent above the dying man.
“Poor fellow!” said Stanhope softly. “I am an officer of the law, but I am also human. If you recover, I must do my duty: if you must die, you shall not die in prison.”
“I shall die,” said the man, in a hoarse whisper; “I know I shall die—die.”
His head pressed more heavily against Stanhope’s knee; he seemed a heavier weight upon his arm. Bending still lower, the detective listened for his breathing, passed his hand over the limp fingers and clammy face. Then he gathered the form, that was more than his own weight, in his muscular arms, and bore it away through the darkness, muttering, as he went:
“Thatwasa splendid stand-off! What would those fellows say, if they knew that Dick Stanhope, single-handed and alone, had walked their alleys in safety, and bluffed their entire gang!”
A crush of carriages about a stately doorway; a flitting of gorgeous, mysterious, grotesque and dainty figures through the broad, open portal; a glow of lights; a gleaming of vivid color; a glory of rich blossoms; a crash of music; a bubbleof joyous voices; beauty, hilarity, luxury everywhere.
It is the night of the great Warburton masquerade, the event of events in the social world. Archibald Warburton, the invalid millionaire, has opened his splendid doors, for the pleasure of his young and lovely wife, to receive the friendly five hundred who adore her, and have crowned her queen of society.
He will neither receive, nor mingle with his wife’s guests; he is too much an invalid, too confirmed a recluse for that. But his brother, Alan Warburton, younger by ten years, handsomer by all that constitutes manly beauty, will play the host in his stead—and do it royally, too, for Alan is a man of the world, a man of society, a refined, talented, aristocratic young man of leisure. Quite a Lion as well, for he has but recently returned from an extended European tour and is the “newest man” in town. And society dearly loves that which is new, especially when, with the newness, there is combined manly beauty—and wealth.
With such a host as handsome Alan Warburton, such a hostess as his brother’s beautiful wife, and such an assistant as her sparkling, piquant little companion, Winnifred French, who could predict for this masquerade anything but the most joyous ending, the most pronounced success? Ah! our social riddles are hard to read.
Into this scene of revelry, while it is yet early, before the music has reached its wildest strains, and the dancing its giddiest whirl, comes a smart servant girl, leading by the hand a child of four or five summers, a dainty fair-haired creature. In her fairy costume of white satin with its silvery frost work and gleaming pearls; with her gossamer wings and glittering aureole of spun gold; her dainty wand and childish grace,she is the loveliest sight in the midst of all that loveliness, for no disfiguring mask hides the beautiful, eager face that gazes down the long vista of decorated drawing rooms, library, music room, boudoir, in wondering, half frightened expectation.
“They’re beginning to dance down there,” says the maid, drawing the child toward a lofty archway, through which they can watch the swiftly whirling figures of the dancers. “Why,docome along, Miss Daisy; one would think your Pa’s house was full of bears and wild-cats, to see your actions.”
But the child draws back and grasps fearfully at the skirts of her attendant.
“What makes ’em look so queer, Millie? Isn’t you afraid?”
“Why no, Miss Daisy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. See; all these funny-looking people are your papa’s friends, and your new mamma’s, and your uncle Alan’s. Look, now,”—drawing the reluctant child forward,—“just look at them! There goes a—aTurk, I guess, and—”
“What makes they all have black things on their faces, Millie?”
“Why, child, that’s the fun of it all. If it wasn’t for them masks everybody would know everybody else, and there wouldn’t be no masquerade.”
“No what?”
“Nomasquerade, child. Now look at that; there goes a pope, or a cardinal; and there, oh my! that must be a Gipsy—or an Injun.”
“A Gipsy or an Indian; well done, Millie, ha ha ha!”
At the sound of these words they turn swiftly. A tall masker, in a black and scarlet domino, is standing just behind them, and little Daisy utters one frightened cry and buries her face in Millie’s drapery.
“Why, Daisy;” laughs the masker; “little Daisy, are you frightened? Come, this will never do.”
With a quick gesture he flings off the domino and removes the mask from his face, thus revealing a picturesque sailor’s costume, and a handsome face that bears, upon one cheek, the representation of a tattooed anchor.
While he is thus transforming himself, the outer door opens and admits a figure clad in soft flowing robes of scarlet and blue and white, with a mantle of stars about the stately shoulders, and the cap of Liberty upon the well-poised head. The entrance of the Goddess of Liberty is unnoticed by the group about the archway, and, after a swift glance at them, that august lady glides behind a screen which stands invitingly near the door, and, sinking upon a divan in the corner, seems intent upon the classic arrangement of her white and crimson draperies.
“Now look,” says Alan Warburton, flinging the discarded domino upon a chair; “look, Daisy, darling. Why, pet, you were afraid of your own uncle Alan.”
The little one peers at him from behind Millie’s skirts and then comes slowly forward.
“Why, uncle Alan, how funny you look, and—your face is dirty!”
“Oh! Daisy,” taking her up in his arms and smiling into her eyes; “you are a sadly uncultivated young person. My face is tattooed, for ‘I’m a sailor bold.’”