One of the officers recognizes Stanhope“Stanhope!” gasps the officer, starting forward.—page 413.“The man who killed the Jew, Siebel, isthere!” he says sternly.Then snatching up the wig, he readjusts it upon his head, saying, as he does it:“Drake, Holt, look after these people; and Harvey, you may do well to ignore Vernet’s instructions for the present. He has done mischief enough already. I must prevent this last blunder.”The carroty moustache has once more resumed its place. “Holt, you understand?”“Perfectly, sir.”As the detective is once more transformed into Franz Francoise, Mamma becomes fairly livid. She makes a final frantic effort to free herself and howls out:“Let me go; what have I done? for what am I arrested? Let me go, you impostor!”“You will learn in good time, woman,” retorts Stanhope. “You may have to answer to several small charges: blackmail, abduction, theft, murder.”He goes to the door; then turns and looks back at the handcuffed pair:“Holt,” he says impressively, “watch that woman closely, and search them both at the Jail. You will find upon the woman a belt, which you will take charge of until I come.”Mamma Francoise yells with rage. She writhes, she curses; her fear and fury are horrible to behold. As Richard Stanhope crosses the threshold, her curses are shrieked after him, and her captors shudder as they listen.Papa is abject enough. He has been shivering, quaking, cowardly, from the first; but Stanhope’s last words havecrushed him utterly. His knees refuse to support him, his eyes stare glassily, his jaw drops weakly.And as they bear them away, the one helpless from fear, the other resisting with tiger-like fierceness, a distant clock strikes one, two, three!CHAPTER LVII.WHAT HAPPENED AT WARBURTON PLACE.There is unusual stir and life in the Warburton Mansion, for Alan Warburton has returned, as suddenly and strangely as he went away.He has made Mrs. French and Winnie such explanations as he could, and has promised them one more full and complete when he shall be able, himself, to understand, in all its details, the mystery which surrounds him.After listening to the little that Alan has to tell—of course that part of his story which concerns Leslie is entirely ignored, as being another’s secret rather than his—Mrs. French and Winnie are more than ever mystified, and they hold a long consultation in their private sitting-room.Acting upon Alan’s suggestion—he refuses to issue an order—Mrs. French has bidden the servants throw open the closed drawing-rooms, and give to the house a more cheerful aspect.Wonderingly, the servants go about their task, and at noon all is done. Warburton Place stands open to the sunlight, a cheerful, tasteful, luxurious home once more.“I don’t see what it’s all about,” Winnie French says petulantly. “One would think Alan were giving himself an ovation.”They lunched together, Alan, Mrs. French and Winnie. It was a silent meal, and very unsatisfactory to Alan. When they rose from the table, Mrs. French desired a few words with him, and Winnie favored him with a chilling salute and withdrew.When she had gone, Mrs. French came straight to the point. She was a serious, practical woman, and she wasted no words.They had discussed the situation, her daughter and herself, and they had decided. Winnie was feeling more and more the embarrassment of their present position. They had complied with the wishes expressed in Leslie’s farewell note, as well as by himself and Mr. Follingsbee. But this strangeness and air of mystery by which they were surrounded was wearing upon Winnie. She went out so seldom, and she grieved and pined for Leslie and the little one so constantly, that Mrs. French had decided to send her away.She had talked of this before, but Winnie had been reluctant to go. To-day, however, she had admitted that she wished to go; that she needed and must have the change.It was not their intention to withdraw their confidence from Leslie, or from him, or to desert their friends. Mrs. French would stay at her post, but Winnie, for a time at least, should go away. Her relatives in the country were anxious to receive her, and Winnie was ready and impatient to set out.And what could Alan say? While his heart rebelled against this decision, his reason endorsed it, and his pride held all protestation in check.He offered a few courteous commonplaces in a constrained and embarrassed manner.He was aware that their unhappy complications must place himself and his sister-in-law in an unfavorable light. He realized that they had already overtaxed the friendship and endurance of Mrs. French and her daughter. In his present situation, he dared not remonstrate against this decision; he was already too deeply their debtor. He should regret the departure of Miss French, and he should be deeply grateful to Mrs. French for the sacrifice she must make in remaining.All the same, he felt an inward pang as he left Mrs. French, and went slowly down to the drawing-room. Winnie had gone in that direction, and he was now in search of her, for, in spite of her scorn and his own pride, he felt that he must speak with her once more before she went away. She had decided to go this day, the day of his home-coming. That meant simply that she was leaving because of him.Winnie was seated in a cavernous chair, looking extremely comfortable, and, apparently, occupied with a late magazine. She glanced up as Alan entered, then hastily resumed her reading.Seeing her so deeply absorbed, he crossed the room, and looked out upon the street for a moment, then slowly turned his back upon the window and began a steady march up and down the drawing-room, keeping to the end farthest from that occupied by Winnie, and casting upon her, when his march brought her within view, long, earnest glances.That she was wilfully feigning unconsciousness of his presence, he felt assured. That she should finally recognize that presence, he was obstinately determined.But Winnie is not as composed as she seems, and his steadymarch up and down becomes very irritating. Lowering her book suddenly, she turns sharply in her chair.“Mr. Warburton, allow me to mention that your boots creak,” she says tartly.“I beg your pardon, Winnie.”“No, you do not! I can’t see why you must needs choose this room for your tramping, when all the house is quite at your disposal.”Alan stops and stands directly before her.“I came, Winnie, because you were here,” he says gently.“Well,” taking up her book and turning her shoulder towards him, “if you can’t make yourself less disagreeable, I shall leave, presently, becauseyouare here.”Paying no heed to her petulant words, he draws forward a chair and seats himself before her.“Winnie,” he says gravely, “what is this that I hear from your mother: you wish to leave Warburton Place?”“I intend to leave Warburton Place.”“Why, Winnie?”“Pray don’t make my name the introduction or climax to all your sentences, Mr. Warburton; I quite comprehend that you are addressing me. Why do I leave Warburton Place? Because I have staid long enough. I have staid on, for Leslie’s sake, until I’m discouraged with waiting.” There is a flush upon her cheeks and a hysterical quiver in her voice. “I have remained because it washerhome, and atherrequest. Now that her absence makes you master here, I will stay no longer. It was you who drove her away with your base, false suspicions. I will never forgive you; I will never—”There is a sound behind her. She has risen to her feet, and she sees that Alan is not heeding her words; his eyes areturned toward the door; they light up strangely, and as he springs forward, Winnie hastily turns.Standing in the doorway, pale and careworn but slightly smiling, is Leslie Warburton, and she holds little Daisy tightly clasped in her arms; Daisy Warburton surely, though so pallid, and clad in rags!As Alan springs forward, she holds out the child.“Alan, I have kept my word,” she says gently, wearily; “I have brought back little Daisy.”It is the end of her wonderful endurance. As Alan snatches the child to his breast, she sinks forward and again, as on that last day of her presence here, she lies senseless at his feet.But now his looks are not cold; he does not call a servant; but turning swiftly he puts the child in Winnie’s arms, and kneels beside Leslie.As he kneels, he notes the presence of a man in sombre attire, and behind him, the peering face of a servant.“Call Mrs. French,” he says, chafing the lifeless hands. “Bring restoratives—quick!”And he lifts her tenderly, and carries her to a divan.Then for a time all is confusion. There is talking, laughing, crying; Mrs. French is here, and Millie, and presently every other servant of the household.For a moment, Winnie seems about to drop her clinging burden. Then suddenly her face lights up; she clasps Daisy closer, and drawing near, she watches those who minister to the unconscious one.Leslie revives slowly and looks about her, making a weak effort to rise.“Be quiet,” says the stranger in the priestly garments, whohas “kept his head” while all the others seem dazed; “be quiet, madam. Let me explain to your friends.”As he speaks, Alan stoops over Winnie, and kisses the little one tenderly, but he does not offer to take her from Winnie’s clasp. He turns instead and bends over Leslie.“Obey him, Leslie,” he says softly. “We will tell you how glad we are by and by.”She looks wonderingly into his face, then closes her eyes wearily.“He can tell you,” she whispers; “I—I cannot.”And then there is silence, while Alan, in compliance with a hint from the seeming Priest, motions the servants out of the room, all but Millie. Daisy has seized her hand and clings to it obstinately.“Let her stay,” whispers Winnie. And of course Millie stays.When they have filed out, Alan moves forward, his hand extended to close the door, and then he stops short, his attitude unchanged, and listens.There are voices outside, and approaching feet. He hears the remonstrance of a servant, and an impatient tone of command. And then a man strides into their presence, closely followed by two officers.It is Van Vernet, his eyes flashing, his face triumphant; Van Vernet inpropia personne, and wearing the dress of a gentleman.He pauses before Alan, and delivers a mocking salute.“Alan Warburton, you are my prisoner!”With a cry of alarm, Leslie lifts herself from the couch.Sheknows what these words mean.Alan starts as he hears this cry, and moving a pace nearer Vernet, says, in a low tone:Leslie introduces Daisy to Alan“Alan, I have kept my word; I have brought back little Daisy.”—page 421.“I will go with you, sir; but withdraw yourself and men from this room; I—”Something touches his arm.He turns to see Winnie close beside him, her face flushing and paling, her breath coming in quick gasps.“Alan,” she whispers, “what does he mean?”Alan takes her quivering hand in his, and tenderly seeks to draw her back.“He means what he says, Winnie. He is an officer of the law.”“A prisoner!you!Oh, Alan, why, why?”The tone of anguish, and the look in Alan’s eyes, reveal to Vernet the situation. This is the woman beloved by Alan Warburton; now his triumph over the haughty aristocrat will be sweet indeed. Now he can strike through her. Stepping forward, he lays a hand upon Alan’s arm.“Mr. Warburton,” he says sternly, “I must do my duty. Bob, bring the handcuffs.”As the officer thus addressed moves forward, Winnie French utters a cry of anguish, and flings herself before Alan.“You shall not!” she cries wildly. “You dare not! What has he done?”Vernet looks straight at his prisoner, and smiles triumphantly.“Mr. Warburton is accused of murder,” he says impressively.“Murder!” Winnie turns and looks up into Alan’s face. “Alan, oh, Alan, it is not true?”“I am accused of murder, Winnie, but it isnottrue.”“Oh, Alan! Alan! Alan!” She flings her arms about him clinging with passionate despair, sobbing and moaning pitifully.And Alan clasps her close and a glad light leaps into his eyes. For one moment he remembers nothing, save that, after all her assumed coldness, Winnie French loves him.Still folding her in his arms, he half leads, half carries her to the divan where Leslie sits trembling and wringing her hands.“Winnie, darling,” he whispers, “do you really care?”Then as Mrs. French extends her arms, he withdrew his clasp and turns once more toward Vernet.“End this scene at once,” he says haughtily. “I ask nothing at your hands, Van Vernet. Secure me at once; I am dangerous to you.”He extends his hands, and casts upon Vernet a look full of contempt. It causes the latter to feel that, somehow, his triumph is not quite complete after all. But he will not lose one single privilege, not abate one jot of his power. He takes the manacles from the hands of his assistant, and steps forward. No one else shall adjust them upon these white, slender wrists.At that instant, as Leslie rises to her feet, uttering a cry of terror, there is a sudden commotion at the door; one of the officers is flung out of the way, and a strong hand strikes the handcuffs from Vernet’s grasp.He utters an imprecation and turning swiftly is face to face with Franz Francoise!“You!” he exclaims hoarsely. “How came you here? Boys—”The two officers move forward. But the seeming Priest, who has stood in the back ground a silent spectator, now steps before them.“Hold on!” he says; “don’t burn your fingers, boys.”“Answer me,” vociferates Vernet; “who brought you here, fellow? What—”“Oh, it ain’t the first time I’ve slipped through your fingers, Van Vernet,” the new-comer says mockingly.Then seeing the terror in Leslie’s eyes, he snatches the wig and moustache from his head and face, and turns toward Alan.“Mr. Warburton,” he says courteously, “I see that I am here in time. I trust that you have suffered nothing at the hands of my colleague, save his impertinence. Van, your game is ended. You’ve played it like a man, but you were in the wrong and you have failed. Thank your stars that your final blunder has been nipped in the bud. Alan Warburton is an innocent man. The murderer, if you choose to call him such, is safely lodged in jail by now.”But Van Vernet says never a word. He only gazes at the transformed ex-convict as if fascinated.Another gaze is riveted upon him also. Leslie Warburton leans forward, her lips parted, her face eager; she seems listening rather than seeing. Slowly a look of relieved intelligence creeps into her face, and swiftly the red blood suffuses cheek and brow. Then she comes forward, her hands extended.“Mr. Stanhope, is it—was ityou?”“It is and was myself, Mrs. Warburton. There is no other Franz Francoise in existence. The part I assumed was a hideous one, but it was necessary.”“Stanhope!” At the name, Alan Warburton starts forward. “Are you Richard Stanhope?”Francois prevents Alan's arrest“Vernet utters an imprecation, and turning swiftly, is face to face with Franz Francoise!”—page 425.“I am.” And then, as he catches the reflection of his half disguised self in a mirror, he gives vent to a short laugh. “We form quite a contrast, my friend Vernet and I,” he says with a downward glance at his uncouth garments. “Mr.Warburton, we—for your brother’s wife has done more than I—have brought back your little one. And I have managed to keep you out of the clutches of this mistaken Expert, or at least to prevent his ‘grip’ from doing you any serious damage. Of course you are anxious to hear all about it, but I am waited for at head-quarters; my story, to make it comprehensible, must needs be a long one, and I have asked Mr. Follingsbee to meet me there. He can soon put you in possession of the facts. Now a word of suggestion: This lady,” glancing towards Leslie, “has been very ill; she is still weak. She has fought a brave fight, and but for her your little girl might still be missing. She needs rest. Do not press her to tell her story now. When you have heard my report from Mr. Follingsbee, you will comprehend everything.”Leslie sinks back upon the divan, for she is indeed weak. Her face flushes and pales, her hands tremble, and her eyes follow the movements of the detective with strange fixedness. Then she catches little Daisy in her arms, and holding her thus, looks again at their rescuer.Meantime, Van Vernet has seemed like a man dazed; has stood gazing from one to the other, listening, wondering, gnawing his thin under lip. But now he turns slowly and makes a signal to his two assistants, who, like himself, have been stunned into automatons by the sudden change of events.“Stop, Vernet!” says Stanhope, noting the sign. “Just one word with you: Our difference, not to call it by a harsher name, our active difference began in this house, when, on the night of a certain masquerade, you contrived to delay me here while you stepped into my shoes. I discovered your scheme that night, and since then I have not scrupled to thwart you in every way; how, and by what means, it will give mepleasure to explain later. For the present, here, where our feud began, let it end. I shall give a full history of our exploits, yours and mine, to our Chief, to Mr. Follingsbee, and of course to these now present. This much is in justice to myself, and to you. I think that I have influence enough at head-quarters to keep the story from going further, and—don’t fancy me too magnanimous—I shall do this for the sake of Mrs. Warburton, and of Mr. Alan Warburton, whom you have persecuted so persistently and mistakenly. As you have not succeeded in dragging their names into a public scandal, I shall withhold yours from public derision; and believe me when I say that our feud ends here. In the beginning, you took up the cudgel against me, to decide which is the better man. Put on the defensive, I have done my level best, and stand ready to be judged by my works. For the rest; I am saying too much here. I do not wish nor intend to humiliate you unnecessarily. If you will wait for me outside, I can suggest something which you may profit by, if you choose.”There is nothing that Van Vernet can say in reply. He is conquered, and he knows it well. No scornful retort rises to his tongue, and there is little of his accustomed haughty grace in his step, as he turns silently and leaves the room, followed by his overawed, astounded and silent assistants.At least he has the merit of knowing when he is defeated, and he accepts the inevitable in sullen silence.Then Richard Stanhope turns again to Leslie.“Madam,” he says, with hesitating deference, “I have kept my word as best I could, and I leave you in the hands of your friends. Forgive me for any rudeness of mine, for any unpleasant moments I may have caused you, while I was playingthe part of Franz Francoise. We could have won our battle in no other way. To-morrow, I will place in your hands, through Mr. Follingsbee, some papers which will, I believe, prove most valuable. I trust that you will never again have need of the aid of a detective. Still, should you ever require a service which I can render, I am always at your command.”With a hasty movement, as if in defiance of that which sought to hold her back, Leslie rises and extends both her hands.“I cannot thank you,” she says earnestly; “words are too weak. But no man will ever stand above you in my esteem. In time of trouble or danger, I could turn to you with fullest trust, not as a detective only, but as a friend, as a man; the truest of men, the bravest of the brave!”Something in her voice vibrated pitifully, then choked her utterance. She trembled violently, and all the life went out of her face.As she sank back, Stanhope gently released her hands, and stepping aside to make way for Mrs. French and Winnie, said in a low tone to Alan:“She has been terribly tried; do not let her talk until she is stronger. She needs a physician’s care.”“She shall have it,” returned Alan, moving with Stanhope toward the door. “Mr. Stanhope, I—I know, through Mr. Follingsbee, of the interest you have taken in my welfare, but I realize to-day, as I could not before, how much your protection has been worth. I see what would have been the result of my remaining here. Vernet would have dragged me before the public, as a felon. But you are eager to go. I will not attempt to express my gratitude now; I expect and intend to see you again, here and elsewhere.”He extended his hand and clasped that of Stanhope with a hearty pressure.And then, with a sign to the sham Priest who had been his silent abettor, Stanhope hurried from the room and from the house.Vernet was standing alone on the pavement. His two assistants, having been dismissed, were already some distance away.“I have waited,” he said, turning his face at Stanhope’s approach, but without changing his position of body, “because I would not gratify you by running away. Have you anything further to add to your triumph?”For a moment Stanhope’s eyes seemed piercing him through and through. Then he smiled.“When our Chief told me, Van,” he said slowly, “that you had determined to try your strength against mine, I felt hurt, but not angry. That was a disappointment; it was the game you played at the masquerade which has cost you this present humiliation. But for that night, I swear to you, I should never have interfered, never laid a straw in your way. Let us move on, Van, and talk as we go.”He made a signal to the disguised officer standing near him, and that individual, accepting his dismissal by a quick nod, moved down the street with an alacrity quite unbecoming to his clerical garb.Then Stanhope and Vernet, Victor and Vanquished, turned their steps in the opposite direction.For some moments Vernet paced on in silence, savagely gnawing at his under lip. Then professional curiosity broke through his chagrin.“I should like to know how you did it,” he said, his face flushing.Stanhope shrugged his shoulders and favored his interlocutor with an uncouth grimace.“Easy ’nuff,” he said; “Hoop la!”Vernet started and stared. “Silly Charlie!” he ejaculated.“That’s the ticket; how did I do therole?”Vernet ground his teeth, and pondered over this startling bit of intelligence. At last:“I understand why the Raid failed,” he said, “but I don’t comprehend—”“Let me clear it up,” broke in Stanhope. “You see, I had often explored those alleys, disguised as Silly Charlie; the character was one that admitted me everywhere. Before going to the masquerade, I had prepared for the night’s work by putting my toilet articles in a carriage, and stationing it near the festive mansion. This I did to insure myself against possible delay, my programme being to drive to the agency, start my men, and then go on ahead of them, assuming my disguise as I went, for the purpose of reconnoitring the grounds for the last time, before leading the men into the alleys. You delayed me a little, and I had to deal with your ‘Chinaman’ in such a way as to leave in his mind a very unfavorable opinion of ‘Hail Columbia.’ But I was there ahead of you after all; for particulars—ahem! consult your memory.”His eyes twinkled merrily at the recollection of Vernet in the cellar trap, and he suppressed a laugh with difficulty.Again Vernet reddened and bit his under lip.“Oh, you have outwitted me,” he said bitterly, “but you will never be able to prove it was not Warburton who personated the Sailor that night.”“I won’t try, for it was Warburton. I shall not explain his presence there, however; it was a mistake on his part,but he meant well. It was not he who did the killing.”“You are bent on clearing Warburton, but how will you prove his innocence?”“By a witness who saw Papa Francoise strike the blow.”“Who?”“A girl known as Rag-picker Nance. She was in the custody of the Francoises when I made my appearance among them, in the character of Franz. They were afraid of her and kept her drugged and drunk constantly. They wanted to be rid of her, and I took her off their hands one dark night—the same night, by the by, that came so near being your last, in that burning tenement. Heavens! but that old woman is a tigress! In spite of me, she managed to fire the building. It came near being the end of you.”Vernet turned and eyed him sharply.“Was it you,” he asked, “who brought me out?”Stanhope blushed, and then laughed carelessly to conceal his embarrassment.“Well, yes,” he admitted; “I’m sorry to say that it was. It was a great piece of impertinence on my part; but, you see, I had the advantage over the others of knowing that you were up there.”Vernet wore the look of a man who sees what he cannot comprehend.“You’re a riddle to me,” he said. “You upset a man’s plans and boast of it openly. You do him a monstrous favor, you save his life, and admit it with the sheepishness of a chicken-thief.”“Well, you see, I feel sheepish,” confessed Stanhope flippantly. “I blush for so such Sunday-school sentiment. This habit of putting in my oar to interfere with the designs ofProvidence, is a weakness in a man of my cloth. Don’t give me away, Van;I’llnever tell of it.”Light as were the words, Vernet well understood their meaning. The episode of the blazing tenement—his burnt-cork essay, with its ludicrous beginning and its almost tragical end—was to be kept a secret between them. When he could, in justice to others, Stanhope would spare his defeated rival.Vernet’s is not the only mind that would find it difficult to comprehend this generous nature, turning, for the sake of a less fortunate companion, his own brave deeds into a jest.For some moments they walked on in silence. Then Vernet said:“Of course, I see that there is a mystery between Alan Warburton and these Francoises, and that you intend to keep the mystery from publicity. But I don’t see how you can prosecute this case without bringing Warburton into court.”“What case?”“Papa Francoise, for the murder of the Jew.”“Say, the killing of the Jew; it was only manslaughter. We shall not press that case.”“What!”“There is an older charge against Papa Francoise, and a weightier one.”“What is that?”“It’s the end of your search and mine, Van. When I arrested Papa Francoise to-day, I arrestedthe murderer of Arthur Pearson!”“What!”Van Vernet stopped short and faced his companion, his face growing ashen white.Vernet and Stanhope walking down the street, discussing the situation“When I arrested Papa Francoise to-day, I arrestedthe murderer of Arthur Pearson!”—page 434.“It’s true, Van. In trying to relieve the sufferings of adying man, I stumbled upon the clue I might have sought after, and failed to find, for an hundred years.”They had halted at a street corner, and Van Vernet wheeled sharply about and made a step forward.“Vernet, where are you going?”“Nowhere; never mind me; we part here.”“Not yet, Van, I want to say—”“Not now,” broke in Vernet huskily. “You—have said enough—for once.”And he strode hurriedly down the side street.“Poor Van,” soliloquized Stanhope, as he gazed after the retreating figure. “Poor fellow; defeat and loss of fortune are too much for him.”And he turned and went thoughtfully on toward his own abode.CHAPTER LVIII.HOW STANHOPE CAME BACK.Again we are in the office of the Chief of the detectives; in his private office, where he sits alone, looking bored and uncomfortable.“Everybody late,” he mutters, “and I hoped Follingsbee would come first.”He consults his watch, and finds that it is four o’clock. Four o’clock, and his interviews with the lawyer, the Australian, and the Englishman, yet to come.Ten minutes more of waiting. Then the boy enters to announce Messrs. Parks and Ainsworth.The Chief rises to receive them, and accepts their excuses in silence.“We drove about the city,” says Walter Parks, “to pass away a portion of the time. An accident to our vehicle detained us.”Then the two men sit down and look expectantly at the Chief.“Mr. Ainsworth,” he says gravely, “I have news for you of Thomas Uliman and his wife; bad news, I regret to say.”“Bad news!” The Australian’s face pales as he speaks. “Tell it at once, sir.”“Thomas Uliman and his wife are both dead.”The Australian bows his head upon his hand and remains silent.“I can furnish you with dates and addresses that will enable you to make personal investigation. In fact, I am every moment expecting a visit from the gentleman who was Mr. Uliman’s legal adviser.”“Ah,” sighs the Australian, “he may tell me where to find my little daughter.”“I have also,” resumes the Chief, “a brief report from Mr. Vernet.”At these words Walter Parks leans forward.“May we hear it?” he asks anxiously.“Mr. Follingsbee, sir,” says the office-boy at the door, in obedience to orders. And then Mr. Follingsbee enters.“I think,” says the Chief, after performing the ceremony of introduction, “I think that we may waive all other business until Mr. Ainsworth’s anxiety has been, in a measure, relieved.”“By all means,” acquiesced Walter Parks, suppressing hisown feelings and withdrawing his chair a little into the background.Then John Ainsworth turns to the lawyer an anxious face.“I am told that you knew Thomas Uliman and his wife,” he begins abruptly.“The late Thomas Uliman,” corrects the lawyer; “yes, sir.”“How long have they been dead?”“More than three years. They died in the same year.”“Allow me”—the Chief interrupts. “This gentleman, Mr. Follingsbee, is the only brother of the late Mrs. Uliman. He has just been informed of her death.”“Indeed!” Mr. Follingsbee rises and extends his hand. “I have heard her speak of her brother John,” he says. “She grew to believe that you were dead.”“And my daughter, my little girl—didshethink that, too?”“Your daughter?” Mr. Follingsbee turns an inquiring look upon the Chief. “Pardon me, I—I don’t understand.”“My child—I sent my child to her aunt—twenty years ago.”Again Mr. Follingsbee looks from one face to the other inquiringly, and an expression of apprehension crosses the face of the Chief.“Mr. Ainsworth’s daughter was less than three years old when she was sent to Mr. Uliman’s care. In searching out the history of this family, I learn that they left an adopted daughter,” the Chief explained.Mr. Follingsbee coughs nervously.“They left such a daughter,” he says, hesitatingly, “but—shewasan adopted daughter—the child of unknown parents.”Slowly John Ainsworth rises to his feet, his eyes turning appealingly from one to the other.“My God!” he exclaims hoarsely, “where then is my child?”In silence the three who sympathize with this father, look at one another helplessly. And as they sit thus silent, from the outer office comes the sound of a clear, ringing, buoyant laugh.Instantly the Chief starts forward, but the door flies open in his face, and Richard Stanhope stands upon the threshold.“Stanhope!” exclaims the Chief; “why, Dick!”“It’s me,” says Stanhope, seizing the proffered hand and giving it a hearty pressure. “Oh, and here’s Mr. Follingsbee. Glad you are here, sir.”As he grasps the hand of the lawyer he notes, with a start of surprise the presence of Walter Parks.“Mr. Parks!” he exclaims, “this is better than I hoped for.”And then his eyes rest upon John Ainsworth’s disturbed countenance.“Mr. Stanhope,” the Chief says gravely, “this is Mr. Ainsworth, late of Australia. He is interested in your search almost equally with Mr. Parks.”The detective starts, and scans the face of the Australian with strange eagerness. Evidently his impressions are satisfactory for his face lights up as he asks:“Not—not Mr. John Ainsworth, once the friend of Arthur Pearson?”“The same,” replies Walter Parks, for John Ainsworth seems unable to speak.“Then,” and he extends his hand to Mr. Ainsworth, “thisis indeed a most opportune meeting. My lack of knowledge concerning you, sir, was my one anxiety this morning.”The four office-chairs being occupied, Stanhope perches himself upon the corner of the desk, saying, as the Chief makes a movement toward the bell:“Don’t ring, sir; I’m quite at home here.”And he looks “quite at home;” as cool, careless, and inconsequent as on the day when, in that same room, he had accepted with reluctance his commission for the masquerade.He had, on leaving Vernet, taken time to wash the stains and pencilings from his face, and to don an easy-fitting business-suit. Stanhope is himself again: a frank, cheery, confidence-inspiring presence.“It seems to me,” he says, gazing from one to the other, “that there must be a special Providence in this meeting together, at the right time, of the very men I most wish to see. Of course, your presence is not mysterious,” nodding toward his Chief, “and Mr. Follingsbee—”“Is here at my request,” interposed the Chief.“Is he?” queries Stanhope. “I thought he was here at mine.”“I believe,” says the lawyer, smiling slightly, “that your invitation did come first, Mr. Stanhope.”“I had a reason for desiring Mr. Follingsbee to be present at this interview,” explains Stanhope. “And as I don’t want to be unnecessarily dramatic, nor to prolong painful anxiety, let me leave my explanations to the last. Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson’s murderer.”“Oh!”The Chief, Stanhope, Follingsbee, Ainsworht and Parks discuss the case“Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson’s murderer!”—page 440.Walter Parks springs up with a hoarse cry. John Ainsworth leans back in his chair, pale and panting. The Chiefclutches at Stanhope’s knee in excited eagerness, and waits breathlessly for his next words.Only Mr. Follingsbee, who has never heard of Arthur Pearson, remains unmoved.“Are you sure?” articulates the excited Englishman. “Where is he? Who is he?”“He is in a good, strong cell by this time, in the city jail.”“Oh!” gasps John Ainsworth.“And his name is Franz Krutzer, although for many years he has been known as Papa Francoise.”“Good heavens!” cries Walter Parks. “Franz Krutzer! why, Stanhope—why, Ainsworth, it was that man’s wife who had the care of your little girl!”“Precisely,” confirms Stanhope.John Ainsworth leans forward and extends two trembling hands.“You know,” he whispers, “what do you know of my child?”And then as Stanhope hesitates, he cries piteously: “Oh, tell me, is she alive?”“I have not a doubt of it,” says Stanhope, smiling. “She was alive half an hour ago.”“And safe and well?”“And safe and well.”“Thank God! Oh, thank God!”A moment he bows his head upon his hands, then lifts it and exclaims eagerly:“Half an hour, you said; then—she must be near?”“Yes; she is very near.”“Take me to her—tell me where to find her—at once.”“Mr. Ainsworth—” Stanhope drops from the desk and extendshis hand to the anxious father—“your daughter is near and safe, but she has lately passed through a terrible ordeal. She is exhausted in body and mind. More excitement just now might do her serious harm. I beg you to be patient. When you have heard what I am about to tell these gentlemen and yourself, you will feel assured that you have a daughter to be proud of.”With a sign of assent, the Australian sinks back upon his chair, making a visible effort to control his impatience. And Stanhope resumes his perch upon the desk.“I must begin,” he said, “with Mr. Follingsbee; and I must recall some things that may seem out of place or unnecessary. It was nearly six weeks ago,” addressing himself to his Chief, “that you gave me a commission from Mr. Follingsbee.”The Chief nodded; and the lawyer stared as if wondering why that business need be recalled.“I was to attend a masquerade,” resumes Stanhope, “and to meet there the lady who desired my services. I was to be escorted by Mr. Follingsbee, and I decided to wear, for the sake of convenience, a dress I bought in Europe, and which I had there worn at a masquerade that I attended in company with Van Vernet. After accepting this commission, and receiving my instructions, I put on a rough disguise, and went to a certain locality which we had selected as the place for a Raid that would move the following night. I was to leave the ball at a very early hour, in order to conduct this Raid. And to make sure that none of my birds should slip through my fingers, I went, as I have said, on the night before, to reconnoitre the grounds. In a sort of Thieves’ Tavern, where the worst of criminals assembled, I found a young fellow,evidently an escaped convict, in a hot fight with some of the roughs. I brought him out of the place, and as he seemed dying, I took him to a hospital, and left him in the care of the Sisters. The next day I prepared for the Raid, and the Masquerade.”He pauses for a moment, and then resumes his history, telling first, how in company with Mr. Follingsbee, he had entered the Warburton Mansion; had been presented to Leslie and learned from her lips that she had a secret to keep; how Van Vernet had discovered his presence there, and the means the latter had taken to detain him, and to secure the leadership of the Raid.Through the scenes of that night he led his amazed listeners; telling of Leslie’s advent among the Francoise gang; of Alan’s pursuit; the killing of Siebel; and the manner in which he had outwitted Vernet. Then on through the days that followed; relating how, disguised as Franz Francoise, he had appeared before the two old plotters; been accepted by them as the real Franz, and so dwelt among them.“It was an odd part to play, and oddly suggested,” he said. “It was just after Vernet’s discovery of Alan Warburton’s picture, when I was at a loss how to make my next move, that I went to visit my wounded ex-convict—the one, you will remember, whom I rescued from the Thieves’ Tavern. I found him very low; indeed dying. He was in a stupor when I came, but soon passed into delirium, and his ravings attracted my attention, for he repeated over and over again the name of Krutzer, Franz Krutzer. Now, I had obtained from Mr. Parks here, a list of the names of all who composed that wagon-train, and I remembered the name of Franz Krutzer. And as he raved on, I gathered material enough to arouse mysuspicions. He talked of a child whom they wished to keep; of money hoarded and strangely gotten; of beatings because of his eavesdropping. One moment he defied them in wild, boyish bravado, and babbled gleefully of what he had overheard. The next, he writhed in imaginary torture under the lash, vowing that he did not listen; that he would never tell. Then he was frightened by an approaching thunder-storm; he was crouching beneath his blankets, and crying out: ‘Oh, don’t make me go out—don’t; I’m afraid. I won’t! I won’t!’ Then he seemed to have returned from somewhere. ‘Let me in!’ he cried. ‘I’m wet and cold; let me in, quick! Yes, he’s there; up by the big rock. He’s fast asleep and I didn’t wake him.’ Then, ‘where is dad going?’ he said. ‘Oh, I don’t, I don’t; I didn’t have the hammer.’ Then, after more random talk: ‘I won’t tell; don’t beat me. I’ll never tell that I saw him there asleep. Oh, maybe he was dead then!’“I had not intended to remain, but I did. I never left him until his ravings ceased; until the end came. In his last moments, consciousness returned. For a time he was strong, as the dying sometimes are. He was very grateful to me because I had not taken him back to the prison to die, and he willingly answered a few questions concerning himself and his parents. I had entered him at the hospital under a false name, and under that name he was buried.“Immediately after his death, I came and announced my readiness to devote myself exclusively to the Arthur Pearson case. And as soon as he was buried, I notified the prison-officials of his death, and asked them to keep my information a secret for a time. I then made minute inquiries into the character and history of Franz Francoise, and learned enough from the penitentiary-officials, and from his imprisoned comrades—someof them, not knowing of his death, were very anxious to have him recaptured—to enable me to personate him as I did.“When I presented myself to the Francoises, it was with the double purpose of solving the Pearson mystery and finding Daisy Warburton, for I agreed with Mrs. Warburton in thinking that they had stolen the child. I could not then foresee the complications which would arise, nor did I dream of the formidable and fox-like enemy I was to encounter in Mamma Francoise. It had been my intentions to draw them into my net by letting them see that I knew, or remembered, too much about that Marais des Cygnes affair. But a few days of the old woman’s society convinced me that this would be a false move, and so I never once alluded to the days so far gone by. But the girl, Nance, was there, and although they would have concealed it if they could, they were obliged to tell me what I guessed before, that she was dangerous to them. Then I grew blood-thirsty, and professed a dislike for the girl. She was an encumbrance, and I offered to remove her. I took her away one night, and they imagined her at the bottom of the river, when in reality she was in the hands of merciful women, who brought back her senses, and who still have charge of her, until such time as I may want her to testify against Papa. My investigation was progressing slowly, when Mrs. Warburton appeared among us one night, and announced her purpose to remain until they gave back little Daisy. I had not planned for this; and during the night I thought the matter out and resolved in some way to make myself known to her, and to persuade her to return home and leave the rest to me. But in the morning she was in a raving delirium.”He paused for a moment and then resumed, drawing a graphic picture of Leslie’s life among the Francoises; telling how Mamma had suddenly conceived her famous scheme of marrying Leslie to her son; of Leslie’s illness, and how he had contrived to make Dr. Bayless—who was really a good physician, albeit he had been implicated in some very crooked business—useful, and his abettor; giving a full account of all that had transpired.“Mrs. Warburton’s condition,” he concluded, “was such that I dared not confide in her, as I had intended. She was too ill and weak to exercise self-control, and we had too much at stake to run any risk. Indeed, I had begun to realize what an enemy we had to deal with, and to fear that we could only succeed by playing our desperate game to the end. In fact, there seemed no alternative. From the moment of Mrs. Warburton’s coming among us, Mamma’s watch was lynx-like. I could not have removed the lady or interposed to save her one moment’s uneasiness, without being myself betrayed. And then our situation would have been worse than ever; Mamma would have revenged herself upon us through the little girl. At every point, that vile old woman was a match for me. When she proposed the marriage, I pretended to withhold my consent until she should tell everything concerning the lady’s prospective fortune. For two long weeks I enacted the part of a blustering, drunken ruffian; cursing, quarrelling, threatening; before I extorted the truth from her. Some papers, that had accidentally fallen into her hands, had informed her that Mrs. Warburton—or the child, Leschen, she called her—was the daughter of one John Ainsworth. These same papers—they were those confided to her by Arthur Pearson—gave a specific account of the fortune John Ainsworth possessed at the time he left the mines.”Again he paused, and the Australian lifted his head, speaking quickly.“I comprehend,” he said; “I sent such memoranda in a letter to my sister, and also told her of investments I proposed to make in Australia. I wanted her to understand my business affairs for little Lea’s sake.”“And through these documents,” resumed Stanhope, “the shrewd old woman traced your Australian career, and knew that your fortune, in the twenty years of your exile, had swollen immensely. When she saw the advertisement of your lawyer, she took alarm. She must act promptly or, perhaps, lose her game. So she stole the little girl, hoping to use her as a means by which to compel Mrs. Warburton to yield up a large slice of her prospective wealth. And had her first plan been carried out, she would not have hesitated to find means to remove from her path the greatest obstacle to her ambition—yourself, Mr. Ainsworth.”“I see,” said the Australian gravely. “Yes, it is quite probable.”“The unexpected coming of myself, as Franz Francoise, and of Mrs. Warburton so soon after, caused them, or rather Mamma, to reconstruct her plan, as I have told you. And she reached the height and depth of her cunning by effectually concealing, from first to last, the hiding-place of the little girl. Nothing could wring this secret from her; on that subject she was absolutely dangerous. She never visited the child, so nothing was learned by shadowing her. Indeed, when she brought the child to the house to-day, she eluded the two men whom I had set to watch her, and did it so cleverly that they could not even guess, after her first feint, which way she went. And I was playing my last card without knowingthat the child was in the house, when her pitiful prayer betrayed her presence.“Until then I had not intended to reveal myself; the men were to arrest Papa Francoise, and to try and make terms through him for the ransom of the child. One of my men was disguised as a Priest, and of course we had arranged to make Papa’s arrest cut short the wedding ceremony. Holt, Beale and the others have aided me wonderfully, though they do not yet know what it was all about.”“They shall be generously rewarded,” breaks in Walter Parks; “every man of them who has in any way assisted you.”Let the reader imagine all that followed: the praises showered upon Stanhope; the congratulations of each to all; the eager questions of Walter Parks; the desire of John Ainsworth to hear of his daughter’s courage and devotion over and again; the general jubilation of the Chief.CHAPTER LIX.AND LAST.“But,” queried Walter Parks, when question and comment had been exhausted, “are you sure that we have, even now, evidence enough to convict Krutzer, or Francoise, as you call him?”“He has called himself Francoise from the day he and his worthy wife left the wagon-train,” rejoined Stanhope. “He has never been Krutzer since. As for proof, we shall not lack that; but I think the old villain, if he lives to come to trial,will plead guilty. His wife possesses all the courage; he is cunning enough, but cowardly. He will not be allowed to see or consult with her; and free from her influence, he can be made to confess. Besides, the old woman has been wearing about her person a belt, which, if I am not mistaken, is the one stolen from the body of Arthur Pearson. It is of peculiar workmanship, and evidently very old. It contains papers and money.”“If it is Pearson’s belt,” interposed Walter Parks, “I can identify it, and so could some others of the party if—”“Was a certain Joe Blakesley a member of your band?” asked the Chief quickly.“Yes.”“And could he identify this belt?”“He could.”“Then Vernet has done something; he has found this Blakesley.”“Where?” asked the Englishman, eagerly.“In California.”“Good!” cried Stanhope; “Van shall have the full benefit of his discovery.”And in the final summing-up, he did have the benefit, not only of this, his one useful exploit, but of all Stanhope’s magnanimity. Through his intercession, Vernet was retained in the service he had abused; but he was never again admitted to the full confidence of his Chief, nor trusted with unlimited power, as of old. The question of supremacy was decided, and to all who knew the true inwardness of their drawn battle Richard Stanhope was “the Star of the force.”In regard to Papa Francoise, as we will still call him, Stanhope had judged aright.He was possessed of wondrous cunning, and all his instincts were evil, but he lacked the one element that, sometimes, makes a successful villain: he was an utter coward. Deprived of the stimulus of the old woman’s fierce temper and piercing tongue, he cowered in his cell, and fell an easy victim to his inquisitors. He was wild with terror when confronted by the girl Nance, risen, as it seemed to him, from the grave to denounce him. And when, after Nance had withdrawn, he faced Stanhope and his Chief, Walter Parks and John Ainsworth, he was as wax in their hands.Up to that moment the name of Arthur Pearson, and that long-ago tragedy of the prairies, had not been mentioned, and Papa believed that the killing of Siebel, with, perhaps, the stealing of little Daisy, were, in the eyes of the law, his only crimes. But when Walter Parks stood forth and pierced him through and through with his searching eyes, Papa recognized him at once, and fairly shrieked with fear.And when he learned from Richard Stanhope, how Franz Francoise met his death, and that it was his son’s dying words which condemned him, he threw himself before his accusers in a paroxysm of abject terror, and confessed himself the murderer they already knew him to be.But Mamma was made of other timber. When consigned to her cell, she was silent and sullen until, in compliance with Stanhope’s instructions, they attempted to take from her the belt she wore. Then her rage was terrible, and her resistance damaging to the countenances and garments of those who sought to control her.She received Richard Stanhope with such a burst of fury, that restraint became necessary; and even when she sat bound and helpless before her accusers, her struggles were furious,and her imprecations, shrieked out between frothing lips, were horrible to hear.When she saw Walter Parks, she seemed to guess why he was there. And when she knew all: that Franz Francoise was surely dead, and how he died; that Papa had confessed everything; that John Ainsworth had come back to claim his daughter, and lavish upon her his love and fortune—her ravings broke out afresh. She was frightful to see, and dangerous to all who ventured to approach. So they treated her as a mad woman, and for many days Mamma hurled unheard imprecations at her cowardly spouse, and cursed Richard Stanhope, arrayed in a strait-jacket.But she was non-committal, baffling, from first to last. She would admit nothing, explain nothing, confess nothing. She defied them all.On the following morning, at the Warburton Mansion, a happy group assembled to hear, from Mr. Follingsbee, all that was not already known to them of Stanhope’s story.How it was told, let the reader, who knows all, and knows Mr. Follingsbee, imagine.Leslie was there, fair and pale, robed once more in the soft, rich garments that so well became her. Alan was there, handsome and humble. He had made, so far as he could in words, manly amends to Leslie, and she had forgiven him freely at last. Winnie too, was there, obstinately avoiding Alan’s glance, and keeping close to Leslie. Mrs. French was there, smiling and motherly. And little Daisy was there, the centre of their loving glances.In her childish way, the little one had told all that she could of her captivity.She had gone to sleep upon the balcony of her Papa’s house and in the arms of “Mother Goose.” She had awakened in a big, dark room, whose windows were tightly shuttered, and where she could see nothing but a tiny bit of sky. A negress, who frightened her very much, had brought her food, and sat in the room sometimes. She had been lonely, terrified, desolate.The little that she could tell threw no light upon the mystery of her hiding-place, but it was all that they ever knew.“I used to pray and pray,” said Daisy, “but God didn’t seem to hear me at all. And when I woke in that little room that smelled so bad—it was worse than the other—I just felt I mustmakeGod hear, so I prayed, oh, so loud, and then the door broke in, and that nice, funny man picked me up, and there was Mamma; and only think! God might have let me out long before if I had only prayed loud enough.”When Leslie learned her own story, and was brought face to face with her father, her cup of joy was full indeed. She was at anchor at last, with some one to love her beyond all others; with some one to love and to render happy.“Oh,” she said, “to know that my dear adopted parents were after all my own kindred; my uncle and my aunt! What caprice of their evil natures prompted those wretches to do me this one kindness?”“They knew where to find the Ulimans,” said her father, “and knew that they were wealthy. It was the easiest way to dispose of you.”“I suppose so,” she assented, sighing as she thought of those dear ones dead; smiling again as she looked in the face of her new-found father.In the present confidence, the happiness and peace, thatsurrounded her, Winnie French could not continue her perverserole, nor, indeed, was Alan the man to permit it. She had let him see into her heart, in that moment when he had seemed in such deadly peril, and he smiled down her pretty after-defiance.“You shall not recant,” he said laughingly; “for your own sake, I dare not allow it. A young woman who so rashly espouses the cause of a swain, simply because he has the prospect of a pair of handcuffs staring him in the face, is unreliable, sadly out of balance. She needs a guardian and I—”“Need an occupation,” retorted Winnie, maliciously. “Don’t doom yourself to gray hairs, sir; repent.”“It’s too late,” he declared; and they ceased to argue the question.They would havefetedStanhope and made much of him at Warburton Place, for Alan did not hesitate to pronounce such a man the peer of any. But the young detective was perversely shy.He came one day, and received Leslie’s thanks and praises, blushing furiously the while, and conducting himself in anything but a courageous manner. Once he accepted Alan’s invitation to a dinner, in which the Follingsbees, Mr. Parks and Mr. Ainsworth participated. But he took no further advantages of their cordially-extended hospitality, and he went about his duties, not quite the same Dick Stanhope as of yore.On her part, Leslie was very reticent when Stanhope and his exploits were the subject of discussion, although, when she spoke of him, it was always as the best and bravest of men.“Parks talks of returning to England,” said her father oneday at luncheon, “and he wants Stanhope to go with him.”“Will he go?” asked Alan, in a tone of interest.“I hope not; at least not until I have time to bring him to his senses.”“Why, Papa!” ejaculates Leslie.“Has our Mr. Stanhope lost his senses, uncle?” queries little Daisy anxiously.“You shall judge, my dear. He has refused, with unyielding firmness, to accept from me anything in token of my gratitude for the magnificent service he has rendered us.”“And,” added Alan, “he has refused my overtures with equal stubbornness.”“But he has accepted the splendid reward promise by Mr. Parks, has he not?” queries Mrs. French.“That, of course; he was bound to do that,” said Mr. Ainsworth, discontentedly. “And in some way I must make him accept something from me. Leslie, my dear, can’t you manage him?”“I fear not, Papa.” And Leslie blushed as she caught Winnie’s laughing eye fixed upon her. “I don’t think Mr. Stanhope is a man to be managed.”“Nonsense, Leslie,” cries Winnie. “He’s afraid of a woman; he blushes when you speak to him.”“Did he blush,” queried Leslie maliciously, “when you embraced him that night of the masquerade?”In the midst of their laughter, Winnie was mute.One day, some weeks after thedenouement, Stanhope, sauntering down a quiet street, met Van Vernet.“Stop, Van,” he said, as the other was about to pass; “don’tgo by me in this unfriendly fashion, if only for appearance’s sake. How do you get on?”“As usual,” replied Vernet indifferently, and looking Stanhope steadily in the face. “And you? somehow you look too sober for a man who holds all the winning-cards.”“I don’t hold all the winning-cards, Van. Indeed, I’m inclined to think that I’ve lost more than I’ve won.”Vernet continued to regard him steadily and after a moment of silence, he said quietly:“Look here, Dick, I’m not prepared to say that I quite forgive you for outwitting me—I don’t forgive myself for being beaten—but one good turn deserves another, and you did me a very good turn at the end. You’ve won a great game, but I’m afraid you are going to close it with a blunder.”“A blunder, Van?”“Yes, a blunder. You have devoted yourself, heart and soul, to a pretty woman, and you are just the man to fall in love with her.”“Take care, Van.”“Oh, I know what I am saying. On the day of our meeting at Warburton Place—the last meeting, I mean, when you figured as Franz Francoise—I saw what you missed. You may think that I was hardly in a state of mind for taking observations, but, in truth, my senses were never more intensely alert than while I stood there dumbly realizing the overthrow of all my plans. And I saw love, unmistakable love, shining upon you from a woman’s eyes.”“Van, you are mad!”“Not at all. It’s a natural termination to such an affair. Why, man, you are deservedly a hero in her eyes. Don’t be overmodest, Dick. If you care for this woman, you can win her.”He turned with these words, passed his amazed listener, and walked on. And Stanhope resumed his saunter, looking like a man in a dream.That evening he made his first voluntary call at Warburton place.Alan and Winnie, two months later, were married, and Stanhope was among the wedding-guests.“Warburton Place will have a new mistress, Mr. Stanhope,” Leslie said to him. “I am going to abdicate in Winnie’s favor.”“Entirely, Mrs. Warburton?”“Entirely; I have fought it out, and I have conquered, after a hard struggle. Alan and Winnie, when they return, will reign here. Papa and I are already preparing our new home. We shall not be far away, and we will divide Daisy between us.”Later in the evening, Mrs. Follingsbee captured him and inquired:“Have you heard Leslie’s last bit of Quixotism?”“No, madam.”“She has made this house over to Winnie as a bridal gift. And every dollar of her husband’s legacy she has set aside for Daisy Warburton.”“I’m glad of it,” blurted out Stanhope; and then he colored hotly and bit his lips.When Alan and his fair little bride were installed as master and mistress of Warburton Place, Leslie and her father received their friends in a new home. It was not so large as the mansion Leslie had “abdicated;” not so grand and stately; but it was elegant, dainty, homelike.“It suits me better,” said Leslie to Stanhope. “The other was too grand. Winnie can throw upon her mother the burden of its stateliness, and Mrs. French will make a charming dowager. I am going to leave my past behind in the old home; and begin a new life in this.”“Are you going to leave me behind, with the rest of your past?” he asked.“No,” she said smilingly, “you have not lost your value; and if I should turn you out, fresh troubles would arise. I should have to contend with Daisy, and Papa too.”And indeed Daisy had given him a prominent place in her affections.“Some of my friends,” he said after a pause, “are advising me to abandon the Agency, and embark in some quieter enterprise.”“Do you mean that they wish you to give up your profession? to cease to be a detective?”“Yes.”“And what did you answer?”“I am seeking advice; give it me.”“Any man may be a tradesman,” she said slowly. “Nine tenths of mankind can be or are doctors, lawyers, clergymen. The men who possess the skill, the sagacity, and the courage to do what you have done, what you can do again, are very few. To restore lost little ones; to reunite families; to bring criminals to justice, and to defeat injustice,—what occupation can be nobler! If I were such a detective as you, I would never cease to exercise my best gifts.”“I never will,” he said, taking her hand in his.Stanhope and Leslie discuss their common future“A man of your calling should have guessed that long ago!”—page 461.Months passed on; winter went and summer came. WalterParks lingered in America, his society dearly valued by John Ainsworth and Mr. Follingsbee, his presence always a welcome one in Leslie’s dainty parlors, and at Warburton Place. Winnie, who had been a saucy sweetheart and piquant bride, had become a sweetly winsome wife. John Ainsworth was renewing his youth; and Leslie, having passed the period of her widowhood, once more opened her doors to society.Richard Stanhope had become a frequent and welcome guest at Leslie’s home, and all his visits little Daisy appropriated at once to herself. Indeed she and Stanhope stood upon a wondrously confidential footing.“Next month comes Mamma’s birthday,” said Daisy to him one day, when she sat upon his knee in Leslie’s pretty flower-decked room. “We’re going to have a festival, and give her lots of presents. Are you going to give her a present, Mr. Stanhope?”“I don’t know,” he said, looking over at Leslie; “your Mamma is such a very particular lady, Daisy, that she might be too proud to accept my offering.”“Why,” cried the child, “that’s just what Uncle Ainsworth says about you: that you are too proud to take a gift from him, and it vexes him, too.”“Daisy, Daisy!” cried Leslie, holding up a warning finger.“Your uncle is a very unreasonable man, Daisy,” laughed Stanhope. “Now tell me, do you think I had better offer your Mamma a birthday present?”“Why”—and Daisy opened wide her blue eyes—“Uncle Alan says that everybody who loves Mamma will remember her birthday. Don’t you love my Mamma?”“Yes,” said Stanhope slowly, and fixing his eyes upon Leslie’s face, “I love her very much.”Leslie’s cheeks were suffused with blushes, and she sat quite silent, with downcast eyes.“Daisy,” said Stanhope, putting the child down quickly, “go to your uncle Ainsworth, and tell him that I have changed my mind; that I want the best part of his fortune. Run, dear.”And as the child flew from the room, he rose and stood before Leslie.“If your father yields to my demand,” he said softly, “what will be your verdict?”A moment of stillness. Then she lifts her brown eyes to his, a smile breaking through her blushes.“A man of your calling,” she said, “should have guessed that long ago!”Papa Francoise never came to trial. His terror overcame his reason, and in his insanity he did what he never would have found the courage to do had he retained his senses. He hanged himself in his prison cell.But Mamma lived on. Through her trial she raved and cursed; and she went to a life-long imprisonment raving and cursing still. Her viciousness increased with her length of days. She was the black sheep of the prison. Nothing could break her temper or curb her tongue. She was feared and hated even there. Hard labor, solitary confinement, severe punishment, all failed, and she was at last confined in a solitary cell, to rave out her life there and fret the walls with her impotent rage.Millie, the faithful incompetent, remained in Leslie’s service until she went to a home of her own, bestowed upon her by a good-looking and industrious young mechanic.Nance, the one-time drunkard, became the object of Leslie’s pitying care, and did not relapse into her former poverty and evil habits.The Follingsbees, the Warburtons—all these who had been drawn together by trials and afflictions—remained an unbroken coterie of friends, who never ceased to chant Stanhope’s praises.And little Daisy passed the years of her childhood in the firm belief that,“God will do anything you want him to, if you only pray loud enough.”THE END.POPULAR BOOKS.Madeline Payne, the Detective’s Daughter.ByLawrence L. Lynch, author of “Shadowed by Three,” “Out of a Labyrinth,” etc. Illustrated with 44 original engravings. Price, $1.50.“One of the most fascinating of modern novels. It combines the excitement that ever attends the intricate and hazardous schemes of a detective, together with the development of as carefully constructed and cunningly elaborated a plot as the best of Wilkie Collins’ or Charles Reade’s.”The Gold Hunters’ Adventures in Australia.ByWm. H. Thomes. Illustrated with 41 engravings. Price, $1.50.An exciting story of adventures in Australia, in the early days, when the discovery of gold drew thither a motley crowd of reckless, daring men.Running the Blockade.ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.A tale of adventures on a Blockade Runner during the rebellion, by a Union officer acting in the Secret Service of the United States. The nature of this hazardous mission necessarily involves the narrator in constant peril.The Bushrangers; or, Wild Life in Australia.ByWm. H. Thomes. Illustrated. Price, $1.50.The record of a second voyage to that land of mystery and adventure—Australia—by the “Gold Hunters,” and replete with exciting exploits among the most lawless class of men.A Slaver’s Adventures on Sea and Land.ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.A thrilling story of an exciting life on board a slaver, chased by British gunboats, and equally interesting adventures in the wilds of Africa and on the Island of Cuba.The Gold Hunters in Europe, or, The Dead Alive.ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.The heroes of “The Gold Hunters’ Adventures” and “The Bushrangers” seek excitement in a trip through Europe, and meet, in England, France and Ireland (among the Fenians), with a constant succession of perilous adventures.A Whaleman’s Adventures on Sea and Land.ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.A vivid story of life on a whaler, in the Pacific Ocean, and of adventures in the Sandwich Islands, and in California in the early days, when the discovery of gold electrified the whole world and attracted bold men to wrest the mines of wealth from the possession of Mexicans and Indians.These most fascinating Tales of Adventure on Sea and Land are for sale on all Railroad Trains, by all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by The Publishers.ALEX. T. LOYD & CO.,CHICAGO.Madeline PayneTHE EXPERT’S DAUGHTER.By LAWRENCE L. LYNCHAuthor of “Shadowed by Three,” “Out of a Labyrinth,” etc., etc.Illustrated with 45 Original Engravings.PRICE, $1.50.CONTENTS.—The Lovers’ Meeting. The Serpent In Eden. A Sudden Departure. What the Old Tree Revealed. Two Heartless Plotters. The Story of a Mother’s Wrongs and a Husband’s Crimes. Turns her Back on the Old Home, and Trusts the Future and Lucian Davlin. Nurse Hagar is “Out of Sorts.” Madeline Defies her Enemies. “You are her Murderer!” The Railway Station at Night. A Disappointed Schemer Rejoiced. Madeline’s Flight. The Night Journey to New York. A Friendly Warning Unheeded. “Take it;in the Name of your Mother I ask it!” Alone in the Great City. A Shrewd Scheme. An Ever-Present Face. Olive Gerard’s Warning. The Cruel Awakening. The Bird in a Golden Cage. The Luxurious Apartments of Lucian Davlin, the Man of Luck. A Dissatisfied Servant. The Man of Luck Defied. A Well-Aimed Pistol Shot. “Little Demon, I will kill you before I will lose you now!” Doctor Vaughn Summoned. A Charming Widow at Bellair. “The Danger is Past!” Gone! “When Next we Meet I Shall Have Other Weapons!” Bonnie, Bewitching Claire. A Tell-tale Photograph. “Cruel, Crafty, Treacherous.” Madeline and Olive in Conference. “Kitty, the Dancer, will Die!” The Story of an Old Crime Retold. “Percy! Percy! Percy!” A Message from the Dead. “May God’s Curse fall on all who Drove her to her Doom!” Miss Arthur’s French Maid. Cora Growing Weary of Dissembling. Celine Leroque Overhears an Important Conversation. Mr. Percy startled. Cora Shares this Feeling. Percy Turns the Tables. “And yet you are on the Earth!” Celine Manages to Play the Spy to some Purpose. Cora and Celine Measure Swords. Cora’s Cunning Plot. “Celine looked Cautiously about her.” An Intercepted Telegram. Face to Face. A Midnight Appointment. “I am Afraid for you; but give It up now? never!” An Irate Spinster. Celine’s Highly Probable Story. Gathering Clues. A Hurried Visit. The Hand of Friendship Wields the Surgeon’s Knife. Claire Keith Placed Face to Face with Trouble. A Dual Renunciation. An Astonishing Disclosure. “I am not Worthy of him, andsheis!” Struggling Against Fate. “Ah, how Dared I think to Become one of you?” A Fiery Fair Champion. Hagar and Cora have a Meeting. Cora gets a Glimmer of a False Light. “To be, to do, to Suffer.” A Troubled Spinster. An Aggravating French Maid. “Won’t there be a Row in the Castle!” Setting some Snares. Cora and Celine form an Alliance. A Veritable Ghost Awakens Consternation in the Household. “If ever you want to make him feel what it is to Suffer, Hagar will help you!” Doctor Vaughn Visits Bellair. Not a Bad Day’s Work. Henry Reveals his Master’s Secrets. Claire Turns Circe. A Mysterious Tenant. Celine Hurries Matters a Trifle. The Curtain Rises on the Mimic Stage. Celine Discharged by the Spinster, takes Service with Cora. The Sudden Illness. The Learned “Doctor from Europe.” “I am Sorry, very Sorry.” The Plot Thickens. A Midnight Conflagration. The Mysterious House in Flames, and its Mysterious Tenant takes Refuge with Claire. The Story of a Wrecked Life. “Well, it is a Strange Business, and a Difficult.” Letters from the Seat of War. Mr. Percy Shakes Himself. A Fair Invalid. “Two Handsomer Scoundrels Never Stood at Bay!” A Silken Belt Worth a King’s Ransom. A Successful Burglary. Cross Purposes. A Slight Complication. A new Detective on the Scene. Clarence Vaughn seeks to Cultivate him. Bidding High for First-Class Detective Service. “Thou shalt not Serve two Masters” set at naught. Mr. Lord’s Letter. Premonitions of a Storm. “The—fellow is Dead!” A Thunderbolt. “I have come back to my own!” A Fair, but Strong. Hand. Cora Restive under Orders. “You—you are——?” “Celine Leroque, Madam.” A Madman. A Bogus Doctor Uncomfortable. “Don’t you try that, sir!” Lucian Davlin’s “Points” are False Beacons. Cora’s Humiliation. An Arrival of Sharp-Eyed Well-Borers. Rather Strange Maid Servants. The Cords are Tightening and the Victims Writhe. A Veritable Sphynx. Sleeping with Eyes Open. A Savage Toothache. A Judicious Use of Chloroform. A Bold Break for Freedom. An Omnipresent Well-Borer. “No Nonsense, Mind; I’m not a Flat.” “For God’s sake,whatare you?” “A Witch!” The Doctor’s Wooing. Mrs. Ralston Overhears Something. A Fresh Complication. “He is very Handsome; so are Tigers!” An Astounding Revelation. Mrs. Ralston’s Story. “No,” gasped Olive, “I—I—.” A Movement In Force. Cora stirs up the Animals. A Wedding Indefinitely Postponed for Cause. Nipped in the Bud. Ready for Action. “Be at the Cottage to-night.” A Plea for Forgiveness. Sharpening the Sword of Fate. The Weight of a Woman’s Hand. “Officers, take him; he has been my Prisoner long enough!” “Man, you have been a Dupe, a Fool!” Cora’s Confession. “The Pistol is Aimed at Madeline’s Heart!” “It Is a Death Wound!” “The Goddess you Worship has Deserted you!” The Death-bed of a Hypocrite. “And then comes Rest!” The World is Clothed in a New White Garment.“God’s greatness shines around our incompleteness,Round our restlessness His rest!”A SLAVER’S ADVENTURESON SEA AND LAND.Lion and rhinoceros at night“We saw many species of wild animals.” Page 89.By WM. H. THOMES,Author of “The Gold Hunters’ Adventures in Australia,” “The Bushrangers,” “Running the Blockade,” etc., etc.ILLUSTRATED WITH FORTY ELEGANT ENGRAVINGS.SOLD ON ALL RAILWAY TRAINS AND BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.the bushrangersas I turned, I managed to keep my eyes on the shelf overhead, so that I could note all the movements that took place. I was repaid for my trouble, for as I fell back and pressed my hand on my side, as though fatally wounded, I had the satisfaction of hearing a triumphant laugh issue from the thicket overhead; and the next instant the repulsive features of Moloch were thrust through the branches of the trees, and he seemed to enjoy the appearance which I presented.“Bah! you fools!” cried the rascal, in a mocking tone, “do yer think that yer can take me? I vos too quick for yer. Had yer come an hour sooner, yer might have caught me nappin’. But now I jist spits at yer. Ah, fools, I has the voman, and I means to keep her.”I seldom miss with a revolver, especially when the object at which I aim is within reasonable distance; but I must confess that I was nervous and full of revengeful feelings, or perhaps I was too hasty; for I suddenly raised my pistol and fired at the fiend who was grinning at me from amid the branches of the balsam trees. I missed the scoundrel, and yet I would have given a thousand dollars to have sent a bullet crushing through his brain, and killed him on the spot.“Ho, ho! yer didn’t come it,” laughed the fiend. “Vait a minute and I’ll make yer see somethin’ that’ll open yer eyes.”He disappeared, and while he was gone I changed position, so that he could not single me out for another shot, in case he desired to test his old horse-pistols.“You ain’t hit, is you?” whispered Hackett and Hopeful in anxious tones.“No,” I answered.Before they could congratulate me, Moloch, the devil, appeared, bearing in his arms the almost lifeless form of poor, dear Amelia Copey, whose dress was torn and soiled, and whose hair was hanging down in tangled masses, neglected and uncared for.“Look!” yelled the fiend, in a triumphant tone; “‘ere’s the girl vot I loves, and she vill love me afore long, or I’ll know the reason vy.”As he spoke he held the fair form in such a manner thatTHE BUSHRANGERS.A Yankee’s Adventures During His Second Visit to Australia.BY WM. H. THOMES,Author of“The Gold Hunters in Australia,” “The Bushrangers,” “Running the Blockade,”etc., etc.
“Stanhope!” gasps the officer, starting forward.—page 413.
“The man who killed the Jew, Siebel, isthere!” he says sternly.
Then snatching up the wig, he readjusts it upon his head, saying, as he does it:
“Drake, Holt, look after these people; and Harvey, you may do well to ignore Vernet’s instructions for the present. He has done mischief enough already. I must prevent this last blunder.”
The carroty moustache has once more resumed its place. “Holt, you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
As the detective is once more transformed into Franz Francoise, Mamma becomes fairly livid. She makes a final frantic effort to free herself and howls out:
“Let me go; what have I done? for what am I arrested? Let me go, you impostor!”
“You will learn in good time, woman,” retorts Stanhope. “You may have to answer to several small charges: blackmail, abduction, theft, murder.”
He goes to the door; then turns and looks back at the handcuffed pair:
“Holt,” he says impressively, “watch that woman closely, and search them both at the Jail. You will find upon the woman a belt, which you will take charge of until I come.”
Mamma Francoise yells with rage. She writhes, she curses; her fear and fury are horrible to behold. As Richard Stanhope crosses the threshold, her curses are shrieked after him, and her captors shudder as they listen.
Papa is abject enough. He has been shivering, quaking, cowardly, from the first; but Stanhope’s last words havecrushed him utterly. His knees refuse to support him, his eyes stare glassily, his jaw drops weakly.
And as they bear them away, the one helpless from fear, the other resisting with tiger-like fierceness, a distant clock strikes one, two, three!
There is unusual stir and life in the Warburton Mansion, for Alan Warburton has returned, as suddenly and strangely as he went away.
He has made Mrs. French and Winnie such explanations as he could, and has promised them one more full and complete when he shall be able, himself, to understand, in all its details, the mystery which surrounds him.
After listening to the little that Alan has to tell—of course that part of his story which concerns Leslie is entirely ignored, as being another’s secret rather than his—Mrs. French and Winnie are more than ever mystified, and they hold a long consultation in their private sitting-room.
Acting upon Alan’s suggestion—he refuses to issue an order—Mrs. French has bidden the servants throw open the closed drawing-rooms, and give to the house a more cheerful aspect.
Wonderingly, the servants go about their task, and at noon all is done. Warburton Place stands open to the sunlight, a cheerful, tasteful, luxurious home once more.
“I don’t see what it’s all about,” Winnie French says petulantly. “One would think Alan were giving himself an ovation.”
They lunched together, Alan, Mrs. French and Winnie. It was a silent meal, and very unsatisfactory to Alan. When they rose from the table, Mrs. French desired a few words with him, and Winnie favored him with a chilling salute and withdrew.
When she had gone, Mrs. French came straight to the point. She was a serious, practical woman, and she wasted no words.
They had discussed the situation, her daughter and herself, and they had decided. Winnie was feeling more and more the embarrassment of their present position. They had complied with the wishes expressed in Leslie’s farewell note, as well as by himself and Mr. Follingsbee. But this strangeness and air of mystery by which they were surrounded was wearing upon Winnie. She went out so seldom, and she grieved and pined for Leslie and the little one so constantly, that Mrs. French had decided to send her away.
She had talked of this before, but Winnie had been reluctant to go. To-day, however, she had admitted that she wished to go; that she needed and must have the change.
It was not their intention to withdraw their confidence from Leslie, or from him, or to desert their friends. Mrs. French would stay at her post, but Winnie, for a time at least, should go away. Her relatives in the country were anxious to receive her, and Winnie was ready and impatient to set out.
And what could Alan say? While his heart rebelled against this decision, his reason endorsed it, and his pride held all protestation in check.
He offered a few courteous commonplaces in a constrained and embarrassed manner.
He was aware that their unhappy complications must place himself and his sister-in-law in an unfavorable light. He realized that they had already overtaxed the friendship and endurance of Mrs. French and her daughter. In his present situation, he dared not remonstrate against this decision; he was already too deeply their debtor. He should regret the departure of Miss French, and he should be deeply grateful to Mrs. French for the sacrifice she must make in remaining.
All the same, he felt an inward pang as he left Mrs. French, and went slowly down to the drawing-room. Winnie had gone in that direction, and he was now in search of her, for, in spite of her scorn and his own pride, he felt that he must speak with her once more before she went away. She had decided to go this day, the day of his home-coming. That meant simply that she was leaving because of him.
Winnie was seated in a cavernous chair, looking extremely comfortable, and, apparently, occupied with a late magazine. She glanced up as Alan entered, then hastily resumed her reading.
Seeing her so deeply absorbed, he crossed the room, and looked out upon the street for a moment, then slowly turned his back upon the window and began a steady march up and down the drawing-room, keeping to the end farthest from that occupied by Winnie, and casting upon her, when his march brought her within view, long, earnest glances.
That she was wilfully feigning unconsciousness of his presence, he felt assured. That she should finally recognize that presence, he was obstinately determined.
But Winnie is not as composed as she seems, and his steadymarch up and down becomes very irritating. Lowering her book suddenly, she turns sharply in her chair.
“Mr. Warburton, allow me to mention that your boots creak,” she says tartly.
“I beg your pardon, Winnie.”
“No, you do not! I can’t see why you must needs choose this room for your tramping, when all the house is quite at your disposal.”
Alan stops and stands directly before her.
“I came, Winnie, because you were here,” he says gently.
“Well,” taking up her book and turning her shoulder towards him, “if you can’t make yourself less disagreeable, I shall leave, presently, becauseyouare here.”
Paying no heed to her petulant words, he draws forward a chair and seats himself before her.
“Winnie,” he says gravely, “what is this that I hear from your mother: you wish to leave Warburton Place?”
“I intend to leave Warburton Place.”
“Why, Winnie?”
“Pray don’t make my name the introduction or climax to all your sentences, Mr. Warburton; I quite comprehend that you are addressing me. Why do I leave Warburton Place? Because I have staid long enough. I have staid on, for Leslie’s sake, until I’m discouraged with waiting.” There is a flush upon her cheeks and a hysterical quiver in her voice. “I have remained because it washerhome, and atherrequest. Now that her absence makes you master here, I will stay no longer. It was you who drove her away with your base, false suspicions. I will never forgive you; I will never—”
There is a sound behind her. She has risen to her feet, and she sees that Alan is not heeding her words; his eyes areturned toward the door; they light up strangely, and as he springs forward, Winnie hastily turns.
Standing in the doorway, pale and careworn but slightly smiling, is Leslie Warburton, and she holds little Daisy tightly clasped in her arms; Daisy Warburton surely, though so pallid, and clad in rags!
As Alan springs forward, she holds out the child.
“Alan, I have kept my word,” she says gently, wearily; “I have brought back little Daisy.”
It is the end of her wonderful endurance. As Alan snatches the child to his breast, she sinks forward and again, as on that last day of her presence here, she lies senseless at his feet.
But now his looks are not cold; he does not call a servant; but turning swiftly he puts the child in Winnie’s arms, and kneels beside Leslie.
As he kneels, he notes the presence of a man in sombre attire, and behind him, the peering face of a servant.
“Call Mrs. French,” he says, chafing the lifeless hands. “Bring restoratives—quick!”
And he lifts her tenderly, and carries her to a divan.
Then for a time all is confusion. There is talking, laughing, crying; Mrs. French is here, and Millie, and presently every other servant of the household.
For a moment, Winnie seems about to drop her clinging burden. Then suddenly her face lights up; she clasps Daisy closer, and drawing near, she watches those who minister to the unconscious one.
Leslie revives slowly and looks about her, making a weak effort to rise.
“Be quiet,” says the stranger in the priestly garments, whohas “kept his head” while all the others seem dazed; “be quiet, madam. Let me explain to your friends.”
As he speaks, Alan stoops over Winnie, and kisses the little one tenderly, but he does not offer to take her from Winnie’s clasp. He turns instead and bends over Leslie.
“Obey him, Leslie,” he says softly. “We will tell you how glad we are by and by.”
She looks wonderingly into his face, then closes her eyes wearily.
“He can tell you,” she whispers; “I—I cannot.”
And then there is silence, while Alan, in compliance with a hint from the seeming Priest, motions the servants out of the room, all but Millie. Daisy has seized her hand and clings to it obstinately.
“Let her stay,” whispers Winnie. And of course Millie stays.
When they have filed out, Alan moves forward, his hand extended to close the door, and then he stops short, his attitude unchanged, and listens.
There are voices outside, and approaching feet. He hears the remonstrance of a servant, and an impatient tone of command. And then a man strides into their presence, closely followed by two officers.
It is Van Vernet, his eyes flashing, his face triumphant; Van Vernet inpropia personne, and wearing the dress of a gentleman.
He pauses before Alan, and delivers a mocking salute.
“Alan Warburton, you are my prisoner!”
With a cry of alarm, Leslie lifts herself from the couch.Sheknows what these words mean.
Alan starts as he hears this cry, and moving a pace nearer Vernet, says, in a low tone:
Leslie introduces Daisy to Alan“Alan, I have kept my word; I have brought back little Daisy.”—page 421.
“Alan, I have kept my word; I have brought back little Daisy.”—page 421.
“I will go with you, sir; but withdraw yourself and men from this room; I—”
Something touches his arm.
He turns to see Winnie close beside him, her face flushing and paling, her breath coming in quick gasps.
“Alan,” she whispers, “what does he mean?”
Alan takes her quivering hand in his, and tenderly seeks to draw her back.
“He means what he says, Winnie. He is an officer of the law.”
“A prisoner!you!Oh, Alan, why, why?”
The tone of anguish, and the look in Alan’s eyes, reveal to Vernet the situation. This is the woman beloved by Alan Warburton; now his triumph over the haughty aristocrat will be sweet indeed. Now he can strike through her. Stepping forward, he lays a hand upon Alan’s arm.
“Mr. Warburton,” he says sternly, “I must do my duty. Bob, bring the handcuffs.”
As the officer thus addressed moves forward, Winnie French utters a cry of anguish, and flings herself before Alan.
“You shall not!” she cries wildly. “You dare not! What has he done?”
Vernet looks straight at his prisoner, and smiles triumphantly.
“Mr. Warburton is accused of murder,” he says impressively.
“Murder!” Winnie turns and looks up into Alan’s face. “Alan, oh, Alan, it is not true?”
“I am accused of murder, Winnie, but it isnottrue.”
“Oh, Alan! Alan! Alan!” She flings her arms about him clinging with passionate despair, sobbing and moaning pitifully.
And Alan clasps her close and a glad light leaps into his eyes. For one moment he remembers nothing, save that, after all her assumed coldness, Winnie French loves him.
Still folding her in his arms, he half leads, half carries her to the divan where Leslie sits trembling and wringing her hands.
“Winnie, darling,” he whispers, “do you really care?”
Then as Mrs. French extends her arms, he withdrew his clasp and turns once more toward Vernet.
“End this scene at once,” he says haughtily. “I ask nothing at your hands, Van Vernet. Secure me at once; I am dangerous to you.”
He extends his hands, and casts upon Vernet a look full of contempt. It causes the latter to feel that, somehow, his triumph is not quite complete after all. But he will not lose one single privilege, not abate one jot of his power. He takes the manacles from the hands of his assistant, and steps forward. No one else shall adjust them upon these white, slender wrists.
At that instant, as Leslie rises to her feet, uttering a cry of terror, there is a sudden commotion at the door; one of the officers is flung out of the way, and a strong hand strikes the handcuffs from Vernet’s grasp.
He utters an imprecation and turning swiftly is face to face with Franz Francoise!
“You!” he exclaims hoarsely. “How came you here? Boys—”
The two officers move forward. But the seeming Priest, who has stood in the back ground a silent spectator, now steps before them.
“Hold on!” he says; “don’t burn your fingers, boys.
”“Answer me,” vociferates Vernet; “who brought you here, fellow? What—”
“Oh, it ain’t the first time I’ve slipped through your fingers, Van Vernet,” the new-comer says mockingly.
Then seeing the terror in Leslie’s eyes, he snatches the wig and moustache from his head and face, and turns toward Alan.
“Mr. Warburton,” he says courteously, “I see that I am here in time. I trust that you have suffered nothing at the hands of my colleague, save his impertinence. Van, your game is ended. You’ve played it like a man, but you were in the wrong and you have failed. Thank your stars that your final blunder has been nipped in the bud. Alan Warburton is an innocent man. The murderer, if you choose to call him such, is safely lodged in jail by now.”
But Van Vernet says never a word. He only gazes at the transformed ex-convict as if fascinated.
Another gaze is riveted upon him also. Leslie Warburton leans forward, her lips parted, her face eager; she seems listening rather than seeing. Slowly a look of relieved intelligence creeps into her face, and swiftly the red blood suffuses cheek and brow. Then she comes forward, her hands extended.
“Mr. Stanhope, is it—was ityou?”
“It is and was myself, Mrs. Warburton. There is no other Franz Francoise in existence. The part I assumed was a hideous one, but it was necessary.”
“Stanhope!” At the name, Alan Warburton starts forward. “Are you Richard Stanhope?”
Francois prevents Alan's arrest“Vernet utters an imprecation, and turning swiftly, is face to face with Franz Francoise!”—page 425.
“Vernet utters an imprecation, and turning swiftly, is face to face with Franz Francoise!”—page 425.
“I am.” And then, as he catches the reflection of his half disguised self in a mirror, he gives vent to a short laugh. “We form quite a contrast, my friend Vernet and I,” he says with a downward glance at his uncouth garments. “Mr.Warburton, we—for your brother’s wife has done more than I—have brought back your little one. And I have managed to keep you out of the clutches of this mistaken Expert, or at least to prevent his ‘grip’ from doing you any serious damage. Of course you are anxious to hear all about it, but I am waited for at head-quarters; my story, to make it comprehensible, must needs be a long one, and I have asked Mr. Follingsbee to meet me there. He can soon put you in possession of the facts. Now a word of suggestion: This lady,” glancing towards Leslie, “has been very ill; she is still weak. She has fought a brave fight, and but for her your little girl might still be missing. She needs rest. Do not press her to tell her story now. When you have heard my report from Mr. Follingsbee, you will comprehend everything.”
Leslie sinks back upon the divan, for she is indeed weak. Her face flushes and pales, her hands tremble, and her eyes follow the movements of the detective with strange fixedness. Then she catches little Daisy in her arms, and holding her thus, looks again at their rescuer.
Meantime, Van Vernet has seemed like a man dazed; has stood gazing from one to the other, listening, wondering, gnawing his thin under lip. But now he turns slowly and makes a signal to his two assistants, who, like himself, have been stunned into automatons by the sudden change of events.
“Stop, Vernet!” says Stanhope, noting the sign. “Just one word with you: Our difference, not to call it by a harsher name, our active difference began in this house, when, on the night of a certain masquerade, you contrived to delay me here while you stepped into my shoes. I discovered your scheme that night, and since then I have not scrupled to thwart you in every way; how, and by what means, it will give mepleasure to explain later. For the present, here, where our feud began, let it end. I shall give a full history of our exploits, yours and mine, to our Chief, to Mr. Follingsbee, and of course to these now present. This much is in justice to myself, and to you. I think that I have influence enough at head-quarters to keep the story from going further, and—don’t fancy me too magnanimous—I shall do this for the sake of Mrs. Warburton, and of Mr. Alan Warburton, whom you have persecuted so persistently and mistakenly. As you have not succeeded in dragging their names into a public scandal, I shall withhold yours from public derision; and believe me when I say that our feud ends here. In the beginning, you took up the cudgel against me, to decide which is the better man. Put on the defensive, I have done my level best, and stand ready to be judged by my works. For the rest; I am saying too much here. I do not wish nor intend to humiliate you unnecessarily. If you will wait for me outside, I can suggest something which you may profit by, if you choose.”
There is nothing that Van Vernet can say in reply. He is conquered, and he knows it well. No scornful retort rises to his tongue, and there is little of his accustomed haughty grace in his step, as he turns silently and leaves the room, followed by his overawed, astounded and silent assistants.
At least he has the merit of knowing when he is defeated, and he accepts the inevitable in sullen silence.
Then Richard Stanhope turns again to Leslie.
“Madam,” he says, with hesitating deference, “I have kept my word as best I could, and I leave you in the hands of your friends. Forgive me for any rudeness of mine, for any unpleasant moments I may have caused you, while I was playingthe part of Franz Francoise. We could have won our battle in no other way. To-morrow, I will place in your hands, through Mr. Follingsbee, some papers which will, I believe, prove most valuable. I trust that you will never again have need of the aid of a detective. Still, should you ever require a service which I can render, I am always at your command.”
With a hasty movement, as if in defiance of that which sought to hold her back, Leslie rises and extends both her hands.
“I cannot thank you,” she says earnestly; “words are too weak. But no man will ever stand above you in my esteem. In time of trouble or danger, I could turn to you with fullest trust, not as a detective only, but as a friend, as a man; the truest of men, the bravest of the brave!”
Something in her voice vibrated pitifully, then choked her utterance. She trembled violently, and all the life went out of her face.
As she sank back, Stanhope gently released her hands, and stepping aside to make way for Mrs. French and Winnie, said in a low tone to Alan:
“She has been terribly tried; do not let her talk until she is stronger. She needs a physician’s care.”
“She shall have it,” returned Alan, moving with Stanhope toward the door. “Mr. Stanhope, I—I know, through Mr. Follingsbee, of the interest you have taken in my welfare, but I realize to-day, as I could not before, how much your protection has been worth. I see what would have been the result of my remaining here. Vernet would have dragged me before the public, as a felon. But you are eager to go. I will not attempt to express my gratitude now; I expect and intend to see you again, here and elsewhere.”
He extended his hand and clasped that of Stanhope with a hearty pressure.
And then, with a sign to the sham Priest who had been his silent abettor, Stanhope hurried from the room and from the house.
Vernet was standing alone on the pavement. His two assistants, having been dismissed, were already some distance away.
“I have waited,” he said, turning his face at Stanhope’s approach, but without changing his position of body, “because I would not gratify you by running away. Have you anything further to add to your triumph?”
For a moment Stanhope’s eyes seemed piercing him through and through. Then he smiled.
“When our Chief told me, Van,” he said slowly, “that you had determined to try your strength against mine, I felt hurt, but not angry. That was a disappointment; it was the game you played at the masquerade which has cost you this present humiliation. But for that night, I swear to you, I should never have interfered, never laid a straw in your way. Let us move on, Van, and talk as we go.”
He made a signal to the disguised officer standing near him, and that individual, accepting his dismissal by a quick nod, moved down the street with an alacrity quite unbecoming to his clerical garb.
Then Stanhope and Vernet, Victor and Vanquished, turned their steps in the opposite direction.
For some moments Vernet paced on in silence, savagely gnawing at his under lip. Then professional curiosity broke through his chagrin.
“I should like to know how you did it,” he said, his face flushing.
Stanhope shrugged his shoulders and favored his interlocutor with an uncouth grimace.
“Easy ’nuff,” he said; “Hoop la!”
Vernet started and stared. “Silly Charlie!” he ejaculated.
“That’s the ticket; how did I do therole?”
Vernet ground his teeth, and pondered over this startling bit of intelligence. At last:
“I understand why the Raid failed,” he said, “but I don’t comprehend—”
“Let me clear it up,” broke in Stanhope. “You see, I had often explored those alleys, disguised as Silly Charlie; the character was one that admitted me everywhere. Before going to the masquerade, I had prepared for the night’s work by putting my toilet articles in a carriage, and stationing it near the festive mansion. This I did to insure myself against possible delay, my programme being to drive to the agency, start my men, and then go on ahead of them, assuming my disguise as I went, for the purpose of reconnoitring the grounds for the last time, before leading the men into the alleys. You delayed me a little, and I had to deal with your ‘Chinaman’ in such a way as to leave in his mind a very unfavorable opinion of ‘Hail Columbia.’ But I was there ahead of you after all; for particulars—ahem! consult your memory.”
His eyes twinkled merrily at the recollection of Vernet in the cellar trap, and he suppressed a laugh with difficulty.
Again Vernet reddened and bit his under lip.
“Oh, you have outwitted me,” he said bitterly, “but you will never be able to prove it was not Warburton who personated the Sailor that night.”
“I won’t try, for it was Warburton. I shall not explain his presence there, however; it was a mistake on his part,but he meant well. It was not he who did the killing.”
“You are bent on clearing Warburton, but how will you prove his innocence?”
“By a witness who saw Papa Francoise strike the blow.”
“Who?”
“A girl known as Rag-picker Nance. She was in the custody of the Francoises when I made my appearance among them, in the character of Franz. They were afraid of her and kept her drugged and drunk constantly. They wanted to be rid of her, and I took her off their hands one dark night—the same night, by the by, that came so near being your last, in that burning tenement. Heavens! but that old woman is a tigress! In spite of me, she managed to fire the building. It came near being the end of you.”
Vernet turned and eyed him sharply.
“Was it you,” he asked, “who brought me out?”
Stanhope blushed, and then laughed carelessly to conceal his embarrassment.
“Well, yes,” he admitted; “I’m sorry to say that it was. It was a great piece of impertinence on my part; but, you see, I had the advantage over the others of knowing that you were up there.”
Vernet wore the look of a man who sees what he cannot comprehend.
“You’re a riddle to me,” he said. “You upset a man’s plans and boast of it openly. You do him a monstrous favor, you save his life, and admit it with the sheepishness of a chicken-thief.”
“Well, you see, I feel sheepish,” confessed Stanhope flippantly. “I blush for so such Sunday-school sentiment. This habit of putting in my oar to interfere with the designs ofProvidence, is a weakness in a man of my cloth. Don’t give me away, Van;I’llnever tell of it.”
Light as were the words, Vernet well understood their meaning. The episode of the blazing tenement—his burnt-cork essay, with its ludicrous beginning and its almost tragical end—was to be kept a secret between them. When he could, in justice to others, Stanhope would spare his defeated rival.
Vernet’s is not the only mind that would find it difficult to comprehend this generous nature, turning, for the sake of a less fortunate companion, his own brave deeds into a jest.
For some moments they walked on in silence. Then Vernet said:
“Of course, I see that there is a mystery between Alan Warburton and these Francoises, and that you intend to keep the mystery from publicity. But I don’t see how you can prosecute this case without bringing Warburton into court.”
“What case?”
“Papa Francoise, for the murder of the Jew.”
“Say, the killing of the Jew; it was only manslaughter. We shall not press that case.”
“What!”
“There is an older charge against Papa Francoise, and a weightier one.”
“What is that?”
“It’s the end of your search and mine, Van. When I arrested Papa Francoise to-day, I arrestedthe murderer of Arthur Pearson!”
“What!”
Van Vernet stopped short and faced his companion, his face growing ashen white.
Vernet and Stanhope walking down the street, discussing the situation“When I arrested Papa Francoise to-day, I arrestedthe murderer of Arthur Pearson!”—page 434.
“When I arrested Papa Francoise to-day, I arrestedthe murderer of Arthur Pearson!”—page 434.
“It’s true, Van. In trying to relieve the sufferings of adying man, I stumbled upon the clue I might have sought after, and failed to find, for an hundred years.”
They had halted at a street corner, and Van Vernet wheeled sharply about and made a step forward.
“Vernet, where are you going?”
“Nowhere; never mind me; we part here.”
“Not yet, Van, I want to say—”
“Not now,” broke in Vernet huskily. “You—have said enough—for once.”
And he strode hurriedly down the side street.
“Poor Van,” soliloquized Stanhope, as he gazed after the retreating figure. “Poor fellow; defeat and loss of fortune are too much for him.”
And he turned and went thoughtfully on toward his own abode.
Again we are in the office of the Chief of the detectives; in his private office, where he sits alone, looking bored and uncomfortable.
“Everybody late,” he mutters, “and I hoped Follingsbee would come first.”
He consults his watch, and finds that it is four o’clock. Four o’clock, and his interviews with the lawyer, the Australian, and the Englishman, yet to come.
Ten minutes more of waiting. Then the boy enters to announce Messrs. Parks and Ainsworth.
The Chief rises to receive them, and accepts their excuses in silence.
“We drove about the city,” says Walter Parks, “to pass away a portion of the time. An accident to our vehicle detained us.”
Then the two men sit down and look expectantly at the Chief.
“Mr. Ainsworth,” he says gravely, “I have news for you of Thomas Uliman and his wife; bad news, I regret to say.”
“Bad news!” The Australian’s face pales as he speaks. “Tell it at once, sir.”
“Thomas Uliman and his wife are both dead.”
The Australian bows his head upon his hand and remains silent.
“I can furnish you with dates and addresses that will enable you to make personal investigation. In fact, I am every moment expecting a visit from the gentleman who was Mr. Uliman’s legal adviser.”
“Ah,” sighs the Australian, “he may tell me where to find my little daughter.”
“I have also,” resumes the Chief, “a brief report from Mr. Vernet.”
At these words Walter Parks leans forward.
“May we hear it?” he asks anxiously.
“Mr. Follingsbee, sir,” says the office-boy at the door, in obedience to orders. And then Mr. Follingsbee enters.
“I think,” says the Chief, after performing the ceremony of introduction, “I think that we may waive all other business until Mr. Ainsworth’s anxiety has been, in a measure, relieved.”
“By all means,” acquiesced Walter Parks, suppressing hisown feelings and withdrawing his chair a little into the background.
Then John Ainsworth turns to the lawyer an anxious face.
“I am told that you knew Thomas Uliman and his wife,” he begins abruptly.
“The late Thomas Uliman,” corrects the lawyer; “yes, sir.”
“How long have they been dead?”
“More than three years. They died in the same year.”
“Allow me”—the Chief interrupts. “This gentleman, Mr. Follingsbee, is the only brother of the late Mrs. Uliman. He has just been informed of her death.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Follingsbee rises and extends his hand. “I have heard her speak of her brother John,” he says. “She grew to believe that you were dead.”
“And my daughter, my little girl—didshethink that, too?”
“Your daughter?” Mr. Follingsbee turns an inquiring look upon the Chief. “Pardon me, I—I don’t understand.”
“My child—I sent my child to her aunt—twenty years ago.”
Again Mr. Follingsbee looks from one face to the other inquiringly, and an expression of apprehension crosses the face of the Chief.
“Mr. Ainsworth’s daughter was less than three years old when she was sent to Mr. Uliman’s care. In searching out the history of this family, I learn that they left an adopted daughter,” the Chief explained.
Mr. Follingsbee coughs nervously.
“They left such a daughter,” he says, hesitatingly, “but—shewasan adopted daughter—the child of unknown parents.”
Slowly John Ainsworth rises to his feet, his eyes turning appealingly from one to the other.
“My God!” he exclaims hoarsely, “where then is my child?”
In silence the three who sympathize with this father, look at one another helplessly. And as they sit thus silent, from the outer office comes the sound of a clear, ringing, buoyant laugh.
Instantly the Chief starts forward, but the door flies open in his face, and Richard Stanhope stands upon the threshold.
“Stanhope!” exclaims the Chief; “why, Dick!”
“It’s me,” says Stanhope, seizing the proffered hand and giving it a hearty pressure. “Oh, and here’s Mr. Follingsbee. Glad you are here, sir.”
As he grasps the hand of the lawyer he notes, with a start of surprise the presence of Walter Parks.
“Mr. Parks!” he exclaims, “this is better than I hoped for.”
And then his eyes rest upon John Ainsworth’s disturbed countenance.
“Mr. Stanhope,” the Chief says gravely, “this is Mr. Ainsworth, late of Australia. He is interested in your search almost equally with Mr. Parks.”
The detective starts, and scans the face of the Australian with strange eagerness. Evidently his impressions are satisfactory for his face lights up as he asks:
“Not—not Mr. John Ainsworth, once the friend of Arthur Pearson?”
“The same,” replies Walter Parks, for John Ainsworth seems unable to speak.
“Then,” and he extends his hand to Mr. Ainsworth, “thisis indeed a most opportune meeting. My lack of knowledge concerning you, sir, was my one anxiety this morning.”
The four office-chairs being occupied, Stanhope perches himself upon the corner of the desk, saying, as the Chief makes a movement toward the bell:
“Don’t ring, sir; I’m quite at home here.”
And he looks “quite at home;” as cool, careless, and inconsequent as on the day when, in that same room, he had accepted with reluctance his commission for the masquerade.
He had, on leaving Vernet, taken time to wash the stains and pencilings from his face, and to don an easy-fitting business-suit. Stanhope is himself again: a frank, cheery, confidence-inspiring presence.
“It seems to me,” he says, gazing from one to the other, “that there must be a special Providence in this meeting together, at the right time, of the very men I most wish to see. Of course, your presence is not mysterious,” nodding toward his Chief, “and Mr. Follingsbee—”
“Is here at my request,” interposed the Chief.
“Is he?” queries Stanhope. “I thought he was here at mine.”
“I believe,” says the lawyer, smiling slightly, “that your invitation did come first, Mr. Stanhope.”
“I had a reason for desiring Mr. Follingsbee to be present at this interview,” explains Stanhope. “And as I don’t want to be unnecessarily dramatic, nor to prolong painful anxiety, let me leave my explanations to the last. Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson’s murderer.”
“Oh!”
The Chief, Stanhope, Follingsbee, Ainsworht and Parks discuss the case“Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson’s murderer!”—page 440.
“Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson’s murderer!”—page 440.
Walter Parks springs up with a hoarse cry. John Ainsworth leans back in his chair, pale and panting. The Chiefclutches at Stanhope’s knee in excited eagerness, and waits breathlessly for his next words.
Only Mr. Follingsbee, who has never heard of Arthur Pearson, remains unmoved.
“Are you sure?” articulates the excited Englishman. “Where is he? Who is he?”
“He is in a good, strong cell by this time, in the city jail.”
“Oh!” gasps John Ainsworth.
“And his name is Franz Krutzer, although for many years he has been known as Papa Francoise.”
“Good heavens!” cries Walter Parks. “Franz Krutzer! why, Stanhope—why, Ainsworth, it was that man’s wife who had the care of your little girl!”
“Precisely,” confirms Stanhope.
John Ainsworth leans forward and extends two trembling hands.
“You know,” he whispers, “what do you know of my child?”
And then as Stanhope hesitates, he cries piteously: “Oh, tell me, is she alive?”
“I have not a doubt of it,” says Stanhope, smiling. “She was alive half an hour ago.”
“And safe and well?”
“And safe and well.”
“Thank God! Oh, thank God!”
A moment he bows his head upon his hands, then lifts it and exclaims eagerly:
“Half an hour, you said; then—she must be near?”
“Yes; she is very near.”
“Take me to her—tell me where to find her—at once.”
“Mr. Ainsworth—” Stanhope drops from the desk and extendshis hand to the anxious father—“your daughter is near and safe, but she has lately passed through a terrible ordeal. She is exhausted in body and mind. More excitement just now might do her serious harm. I beg you to be patient. When you have heard what I am about to tell these gentlemen and yourself, you will feel assured that you have a daughter to be proud of.”
With a sign of assent, the Australian sinks back upon his chair, making a visible effort to control his impatience. And Stanhope resumes his perch upon the desk.
“I must begin,” he said, “with Mr. Follingsbee; and I must recall some things that may seem out of place or unnecessary. It was nearly six weeks ago,” addressing himself to his Chief, “that you gave me a commission from Mr. Follingsbee.”
The Chief nodded; and the lawyer stared as if wondering why that business need be recalled.
“I was to attend a masquerade,” resumes Stanhope, “and to meet there the lady who desired my services. I was to be escorted by Mr. Follingsbee, and I decided to wear, for the sake of convenience, a dress I bought in Europe, and which I had there worn at a masquerade that I attended in company with Van Vernet. After accepting this commission, and receiving my instructions, I put on a rough disguise, and went to a certain locality which we had selected as the place for a Raid that would move the following night. I was to leave the ball at a very early hour, in order to conduct this Raid. And to make sure that none of my birds should slip through my fingers, I went, as I have said, on the night before, to reconnoitre the grounds. In a sort of Thieves’ Tavern, where the worst of criminals assembled, I found a young fellow,evidently an escaped convict, in a hot fight with some of the roughs. I brought him out of the place, and as he seemed dying, I took him to a hospital, and left him in the care of the Sisters. The next day I prepared for the Raid, and the Masquerade.”
He pauses for a moment, and then resumes his history, telling first, how in company with Mr. Follingsbee, he had entered the Warburton Mansion; had been presented to Leslie and learned from her lips that she had a secret to keep; how Van Vernet had discovered his presence there, and the means the latter had taken to detain him, and to secure the leadership of the Raid.
Through the scenes of that night he led his amazed listeners; telling of Leslie’s advent among the Francoise gang; of Alan’s pursuit; the killing of Siebel; and the manner in which he had outwitted Vernet. Then on through the days that followed; relating how, disguised as Franz Francoise, he had appeared before the two old plotters; been accepted by them as the real Franz, and so dwelt among them.
“It was an odd part to play, and oddly suggested,” he said. “It was just after Vernet’s discovery of Alan Warburton’s picture, when I was at a loss how to make my next move, that I went to visit my wounded ex-convict—the one, you will remember, whom I rescued from the Thieves’ Tavern. I found him very low; indeed dying. He was in a stupor when I came, but soon passed into delirium, and his ravings attracted my attention, for he repeated over and over again the name of Krutzer, Franz Krutzer. Now, I had obtained from Mr. Parks here, a list of the names of all who composed that wagon-train, and I remembered the name of Franz Krutzer. And as he raved on, I gathered material enough to arouse mysuspicions. He talked of a child whom they wished to keep; of money hoarded and strangely gotten; of beatings because of his eavesdropping. One moment he defied them in wild, boyish bravado, and babbled gleefully of what he had overheard. The next, he writhed in imaginary torture under the lash, vowing that he did not listen; that he would never tell. Then he was frightened by an approaching thunder-storm; he was crouching beneath his blankets, and crying out: ‘Oh, don’t make me go out—don’t; I’m afraid. I won’t! I won’t!’ Then he seemed to have returned from somewhere. ‘Let me in!’ he cried. ‘I’m wet and cold; let me in, quick! Yes, he’s there; up by the big rock. He’s fast asleep and I didn’t wake him.’ Then, ‘where is dad going?’ he said. ‘Oh, I don’t, I don’t; I didn’t have the hammer.’ Then, after more random talk: ‘I won’t tell; don’t beat me. I’ll never tell that I saw him there asleep. Oh, maybe he was dead then!’
“I had not intended to remain, but I did. I never left him until his ravings ceased; until the end came. In his last moments, consciousness returned. For a time he was strong, as the dying sometimes are. He was very grateful to me because I had not taken him back to the prison to die, and he willingly answered a few questions concerning himself and his parents. I had entered him at the hospital under a false name, and under that name he was buried.
“Immediately after his death, I came and announced my readiness to devote myself exclusively to the Arthur Pearson case. And as soon as he was buried, I notified the prison-officials of his death, and asked them to keep my information a secret for a time. I then made minute inquiries into the character and history of Franz Francoise, and learned enough from the penitentiary-officials, and from his imprisoned comrades—someof them, not knowing of his death, were very anxious to have him recaptured—to enable me to personate him as I did.
“When I presented myself to the Francoises, it was with the double purpose of solving the Pearson mystery and finding Daisy Warburton, for I agreed with Mrs. Warburton in thinking that they had stolen the child. I could not then foresee the complications which would arise, nor did I dream of the formidable and fox-like enemy I was to encounter in Mamma Francoise. It had been my intentions to draw them into my net by letting them see that I knew, or remembered, too much about that Marais des Cygnes affair. But a few days of the old woman’s society convinced me that this would be a false move, and so I never once alluded to the days so far gone by. But the girl, Nance, was there, and although they would have concealed it if they could, they were obliged to tell me what I guessed before, that she was dangerous to them. Then I grew blood-thirsty, and professed a dislike for the girl. She was an encumbrance, and I offered to remove her. I took her away one night, and they imagined her at the bottom of the river, when in reality she was in the hands of merciful women, who brought back her senses, and who still have charge of her, until such time as I may want her to testify against Papa. My investigation was progressing slowly, when Mrs. Warburton appeared among us one night, and announced her purpose to remain until they gave back little Daisy. I had not planned for this; and during the night I thought the matter out and resolved in some way to make myself known to her, and to persuade her to return home and leave the rest to me. But in the morning she was in a raving delirium.”
He paused for a moment and then resumed, drawing a graphic picture of Leslie’s life among the Francoises; telling how Mamma had suddenly conceived her famous scheme of marrying Leslie to her son; of Leslie’s illness, and how he had contrived to make Dr. Bayless—who was really a good physician, albeit he had been implicated in some very crooked business—useful, and his abettor; giving a full account of all that had transpired.
“Mrs. Warburton’s condition,” he concluded, “was such that I dared not confide in her, as I had intended. She was too ill and weak to exercise self-control, and we had too much at stake to run any risk. Indeed, I had begun to realize what an enemy we had to deal with, and to fear that we could only succeed by playing our desperate game to the end. In fact, there seemed no alternative. From the moment of Mrs. Warburton’s coming among us, Mamma’s watch was lynx-like. I could not have removed the lady or interposed to save her one moment’s uneasiness, without being myself betrayed. And then our situation would have been worse than ever; Mamma would have revenged herself upon us through the little girl. At every point, that vile old woman was a match for me. When she proposed the marriage, I pretended to withhold my consent until she should tell everything concerning the lady’s prospective fortune. For two long weeks I enacted the part of a blustering, drunken ruffian; cursing, quarrelling, threatening; before I extorted the truth from her. Some papers, that had accidentally fallen into her hands, had informed her that Mrs. Warburton—or the child, Leschen, she called her—was the daughter of one John Ainsworth. These same papers—they were those confided to her by Arthur Pearson—gave a specific account of the fortune John Ainsworth possessed at the time he left the mines.”
Again he paused, and the Australian lifted his head, speaking quickly.
“I comprehend,” he said; “I sent such memoranda in a letter to my sister, and also told her of investments I proposed to make in Australia. I wanted her to understand my business affairs for little Lea’s sake.”
“And through these documents,” resumed Stanhope, “the shrewd old woman traced your Australian career, and knew that your fortune, in the twenty years of your exile, had swollen immensely. When she saw the advertisement of your lawyer, she took alarm. She must act promptly or, perhaps, lose her game. So she stole the little girl, hoping to use her as a means by which to compel Mrs. Warburton to yield up a large slice of her prospective wealth. And had her first plan been carried out, she would not have hesitated to find means to remove from her path the greatest obstacle to her ambition—yourself, Mr. Ainsworth.”
“I see,” said the Australian gravely. “Yes, it is quite probable.”
“The unexpected coming of myself, as Franz Francoise, and of Mrs. Warburton so soon after, caused them, or rather Mamma, to reconstruct her plan, as I have told you. And she reached the height and depth of her cunning by effectually concealing, from first to last, the hiding-place of the little girl. Nothing could wring this secret from her; on that subject she was absolutely dangerous. She never visited the child, so nothing was learned by shadowing her. Indeed, when she brought the child to the house to-day, she eluded the two men whom I had set to watch her, and did it so cleverly that they could not even guess, after her first feint, which way she went. And I was playing my last card without knowingthat the child was in the house, when her pitiful prayer betrayed her presence.
“Until then I had not intended to reveal myself; the men were to arrest Papa Francoise, and to try and make terms through him for the ransom of the child. One of my men was disguised as a Priest, and of course we had arranged to make Papa’s arrest cut short the wedding ceremony. Holt, Beale and the others have aided me wonderfully, though they do not yet know what it was all about.”
“They shall be generously rewarded,” breaks in Walter Parks; “every man of them who has in any way assisted you.”
Let the reader imagine all that followed: the praises showered upon Stanhope; the congratulations of each to all; the eager questions of Walter Parks; the desire of John Ainsworth to hear of his daughter’s courage and devotion over and again; the general jubilation of the Chief.
“But,” queried Walter Parks, when question and comment had been exhausted, “are you sure that we have, even now, evidence enough to convict Krutzer, or Francoise, as you call him?”
“He has called himself Francoise from the day he and his worthy wife left the wagon-train,” rejoined Stanhope. “He has never been Krutzer since. As for proof, we shall not lack that; but I think the old villain, if he lives to come to trial,will plead guilty. His wife possesses all the courage; he is cunning enough, but cowardly. He will not be allowed to see or consult with her; and free from her influence, he can be made to confess. Besides, the old woman has been wearing about her person a belt, which, if I am not mistaken, is the one stolen from the body of Arthur Pearson. It is of peculiar workmanship, and evidently very old. It contains papers and money.”
“If it is Pearson’s belt,” interposed Walter Parks, “I can identify it, and so could some others of the party if—”
“Was a certain Joe Blakesley a member of your band?” asked the Chief quickly.
“Yes.”
“And could he identify this belt?”
“He could.”
“Then Vernet has done something; he has found this Blakesley.”
“Where?” asked the Englishman, eagerly.
“In California.”
“Good!” cried Stanhope; “Van shall have the full benefit of his discovery.”
And in the final summing-up, he did have the benefit, not only of this, his one useful exploit, but of all Stanhope’s magnanimity. Through his intercession, Vernet was retained in the service he had abused; but he was never again admitted to the full confidence of his Chief, nor trusted with unlimited power, as of old. The question of supremacy was decided, and to all who knew the true inwardness of their drawn battle Richard Stanhope was “the Star of the force.”
In regard to Papa Francoise, as we will still call him, Stanhope had judged aright.
He was possessed of wondrous cunning, and all his instincts were evil, but he lacked the one element that, sometimes, makes a successful villain: he was an utter coward. Deprived of the stimulus of the old woman’s fierce temper and piercing tongue, he cowered in his cell, and fell an easy victim to his inquisitors. He was wild with terror when confronted by the girl Nance, risen, as it seemed to him, from the grave to denounce him. And when, after Nance had withdrawn, he faced Stanhope and his Chief, Walter Parks and John Ainsworth, he was as wax in their hands.
Up to that moment the name of Arthur Pearson, and that long-ago tragedy of the prairies, had not been mentioned, and Papa believed that the killing of Siebel, with, perhaps, the stealing of little Daisy, were, in the eyes of the law, his only crimes. But when Walter Parks stood forth and pierced him through and through with his searching eyes, Papa recognized him at once, and fairly shrieked with fear.
And when he learned from Richard Stanhope, how Franz Francoise met his death, and that it was his son’s dying words which condemned him, he threw himself before his accusers in a paroxysm of abject terror, and confessed himself the murderer they already knew him to be.
But Mamma was made of other timber. When consigned to her cell, she was silent and sullen until, in compliance with Stanhope’s instructions, they attempted to take from her the belt she wore. Then her rage was terrible, and her resistance damaging to the countenances and garments of those who sought to control her.
She received Richard Stanhope with such a burst of fury, that restraint became necessary; and even when she sat bound and helpless before her accusers, her struggles were furious,and her imprecations, shrieked out between frothing lips, were horrible to hear.
When she saw Walter Parks, she seemed to guess why he was there. And when she knew all: that Franz Francoise was surely dead, and how he died; that Papa had confessed everything; that John Ainsworth had come back to claim his daughter, and lavish upon her his love and fortune—her ravings broke out afresh. She was frightful to see, and dangerous to all who ventured to approach. So they treated her as a mad woman, and for many days Mamma hurled unheard imprecations at her cowardly spouse, and cursed Richard Stanhope, arrayed in a strait-jacket.
But she was non-committal, baffling, from first to last. She would admit nothing, explain nothing, confess nothing. She defied them all.
On the following morning, at the Warburton Mansion, a happy group assembled to hear, from Mr. Follingsbee, all that was not already known to them of Stanhope’s story.
How it was told, let the reader, who knows all, and knows Mr. Follingsbee, imagine.
Leslie was there, fair and pale, robed once more in the soft, rich garments that so well became her. Alan was there, handsome and humble. He had made, so far as he could in words, manly amends to Leslie, and she had forgiven him freely at last. Winnie too, was there, obstinately avoiding Alan’s glance, and keeping close to Leslie. Mrs. French was there, smiling and motherly. And little Daisy was there, the centre of their loving glances.
In her childish way, the little one had told all that she could of her captivity.
She had gone to sleep upon the balcony of her Papa’s house and in the arms of “Mother Goose.” She had awakened in a big, dark room, whose windows were tightly shuttered, and where she could see nothing but a tiny bit of sky. A negress, who frightened her very much, had brought her food, and sat in the room sometimes. She had been lonely, terrified, desolate.
The little that she could tell threw no light upon the mystery of her hiding-place, but it was all that they ever knew.
“I used to pray and pray,” said Daisy, “but God didn’t seem to hear me at all. And when I woke in that little room that smelled so bad—it was worse than the other—I just felt I mustmakeGod hear, so I prayed, oh, so loud, and then the door broke in, and that nice, funny man picked me up, and there was Mamma; and only think! God might have let me out long before if I had only prayed loud enough.”
When Leslie learned her own story, and was brought face to face with her father, her cup of joy was full indeed. She was at anchor at last, with some one to love her beyond all others; with some one to love and to render happy.
“Oh,” she said, “to know that my dear adopted parents were after all my own kindred; my uncle and my aunt! What caprice of their evil natures prompted those wretches to do me this one kindness?”
“They knew where to find the Ulimans,” said her father, “and knew that they were wealthy. It was the easiest way to dispose of you.”
“I suppose so,” she assented, sighing as she thought of those dear ones dead; smiling again as she looked in the face of her new-found father.
In the present confidence, the happiness and peace, thatsurrounded her, Winnie French could not continue her perverserole, nor, indeed, was Alan the man to permit it. She had let him see into her heart, in that moment when he had seemed in such deadly peril, and he smiled down her pretty after-defiance.
“You shall not recant,” he said laughingly; “for your own sake, I dare not allow it. A young woman who so rashly espouses the cause of a swain, simply because he has the prospect of a pair of handcuffs staring him in the face, is unreliable, sadly out of balance. She needs a guardian and I—”
“Need an occupation,” retorted Winnie, maliciously. “Don’t doom yourself to gray hairs, sir; repent.”
“It’s too late,” he declared; and they ceased to argue the question.
They would havefetedStanhope and made much of him at Warburton Place, for Alan did not hesitate to pronounce such a man the peer of any. But the young detective was perversely shy.
He came one day, and received Leslie’s thanks and praises, blushing furiously the while, and conducting himself in anything but a courageous manner. Once he accepted Alan’s invitation to a dinner, in which the Follingsbees, Mr. Parks and Mr. Ainsworth participated. But he took no further advantages of their cordially-extended hospitality, and he went about his duties, not quite the same Dick Stanhope as of yore.
On her part, Leslie was very reticent when Stanhope and his exploits were the subject of discussion, although, when she spoke of him, it was always as the best and bravest of men.
“Parks talks of returning to England,” said her father oneday at luncheon, “and he wants Stanhope to go with him.”
“Will he go?” asked Alan, in a tone of interest.
“I hope not; at least not until I have time to bring him to his senses.”
“Why, Papa!” ejaculates Leslie.
“Has our Mr. Stanhope lost his senses, uncle?” queries little Daisy anxiously.
“You shall judge, my dear. He has refused, with unyielding firmness, to accept from me anything in token of my gratitude for the magnificent service he has rendered us.”
“And,” added Alan, “he has refused my overtures with equal stubbornness.”
“But he has accepted the splendid reward promise by Mr. Parks, has he not?” queries Mrs. French.
“That, of course; he was bound to do that,” said Mr. Ainsworth, discontentedly. “And in some way I must make him accept something from me. Leslie, my dear, can’t you manage him?”
“I fear not, Papa.” And Leslie blushed as she caught Winnie’s laughing eye fixed upon her. “I don’t think Mr. Stanhope is a man to be managed.”
“Nonsense, Leslie,” cries Winnie. “He’s afraid of a woman; he blushes when you speak to him.”
“Did he blush,” queried Leslie maliciously, “when you embraced him that night of the masquerade?”
In the midst of their laughter, Winnie was mute.
One day, some weeks after thedenouement, Stanhope, sauntering down a quiet street, met Van Vernet.
“Stop, Van,” he said, as the other was about to pass; “don’tgo by me in this unfriendly fashion, if only for appearance’s sake. How do you get on?”
“As usual,” replied Vernet indifferently, and looking Stanhope steadily in the face. “And you? somehow you look too sober for a man who holds all the winning-cards.”
“I don’t hold all the winning-cards, Van. Indeed, I’m inclined to think that I’ve lost more than I’ve won.”
Vernet continued to regard him steadily and after a moment of silence, he said quietly:
“Look here, Dick, I’m not prepared to say that I quite forgive you for outwitting me—I don’t forgive myself for being beaten—but one good turn deserves another, and you did me a very good turn at the end. You’ve won a great game, but I’m afraid you are going to close it with a blunder.”
“A blunder, Van?”
“Yes, a blunder. You have devoted yourself, heart and soul, to a pretty woman, and you are just the man to fall in love with her.”
“Take care, Van.”
“Oh, I know what I am saying. On the day of our meeting at Warburton Place—the last meeting, I mean, when you figured as Franz Francoise—I saw what you missed. You may think that I was hardly in a state of mind for taking observations, but, in truth, my senses were never more intensely alert than while I stood there dumbly realizing the overthrow of all my plans. And I saw love, unmistakable love, shining upon you from a woman’s eyes.”
“Van, you are mad!”
“Not at all. It’s a natural termination to such an affair. Why, man, you are deservedly a hero in her eyes. Don’t be overmodest, Dick. If you care for this woman, you can win her.”
He turned with these words, passed his amazed listener, and walked on. And Stanhope resumed his saunter, looking like a man in a dream.
That evening he made his first voluntary call at Warburton place.
Alan and Winnie, two months later, were married, and Stanhope was among the wedding-guests.
“Warburton Place will have a new mistress, Mr. Stanhope,” Leslie said to him. “I am going to abdicate in Winnie’s favor.”
“Entirely, Mrs. Warburton?”
“Entirely; I have fought it out, and I have conquered, after a hard struggle. Alan and Winnie, when they return, will reign here. Papa and I are already preparing our new home. We shall not be far away, and we will divide Daisy between us.”
Later in the evening, Mrs. Follingsbee captured him and inquired:
“Have you heard Leslie’s last bit of Quixotism?”
“No, madam.”
“She has made this house over to Winnie as a bridal gift. And every dollar of her husband’s legacy she has set aside for Daisy Warburton.”
“I’m glad of it,” blurted out Stanhope; and then he colored hotly and bit his lips.
When Alan and his fair little bride were installed as master and mistress of Warburton Place, Leslie and her father received their friends in a new home. It was not so large as the mansion Leslie had “abdicated;” not so grand and stately; but it was elegant, dainty, homelike.
“It suits me better,” said Leslie to Stanhope. “The other was too grand. Winnie can throw upon her mother the burden of its stateliness, and Mrs. French will make a charming dowager. I am going to leave my past behind in the old home; and begin a new life in this.”
“Are you going to leave me behind, with the rest of your past?” he asked.
“No,” she said smilingly, “you have not lost your value; and if I should turn you out, fresh troubles would arise. I should have to contend with Daisy, and Papa too.”
And indeed Daisy had given him a prominent place in her affections.
“Some of my friends,” he said after a pause, “are advising me to abandon the Agency, and embark in some quieter enterprise.”
“Do you mean that they wish you to give up your profession? to cease to be a detective?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you answer?”
“I am seeking advice; give it me.”
“Any man may be a tradesman,” she said slowly. “Nine tenths of mankind can be or are doctors, lawyers, clergymen. The men who possess the skill, the sagacity, and the courage to do what you have done, what you can do again, are very few. To restore lost little ones; to reunite families; to bring criminals to justice, and to defeat injustice,—what occupation can be nobler! If I were such a detective as you, I would never cease to exercise my best gifts.”
“I never will,” he said, taking her hand in his.
Stanhope and Leslie discuss their common future“A man of your calling should have guessed that long ago!”—page 461.
“A man of your calling should have guessed that long ago!”—page 461.
Months passed on; winter went and summer came. WalterParks lingered in America, his society dearly valued by John Ainsworth and Mr. Follingsbee, his presence always a welcome one in Leslie’s dainty parlors, and at Warburton Place. Winnie, who had been a saucy sweetheart and piquant bride, had become a sweetly winsome wife. John Ainsworth was renewing his youth; and Leslie, having passed the period of her widowhood, once more opened her doors to society.
Richard Stanhope had become a frequent and welcome guest at Leslie’s home, and all his visits little Daisy appropriated at once to herself. Indeed she and Stanhope stood upon a wondrously confidential footing.
“Next month comes Mamma’s birthday,” said Daisy to him one day, when she sat upon his knee in Leslie’s pretty flower-decked room. “We’re going to have a festival, and give her lots of presents. Are you going to give her a present, Mr. Stanhope?”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking over at Leslie; “your Mamma is such a very particular lady, Daisy, that she might be too proud to accept my offering.”
“Why,” cried the child, “that’s just what Uncle Ainsworth says about you: that you are too proud to take a gift from him, and it vexes him, too.”
“Daisy, Daisy!” cried Leslie, holding up a warning finger.
“Your uncle is a very unreasonable man, Daisy,” laughed Stanhope. “Now tell me, do you think I had better offer your Mamma a birthday present?”
“Why”—and Daisy opened wide her blue eyes—“Uncle Alan says that everybody who loves Mamma will remember her birthday. Don’t you love my Mamma?”
“Yes,” said Stanhope slowly, and fixing his eyes upon Leslie’s face, “I love her very much.”
Leslie’s cheeks were suffused with blushes, and she sat quite silent, with downcast eyes.
“Daisy,” said Stanhope, putting the child down quickly, “go to your uncle Ainsworth, and tell him that I have changed my mind; that I want the best part of his fortune. Run, dear.”
And as the child flew from the room, he rose and stood before Leslie.
“If your father yields to my demand,” he said softly, “what will be your verdict?”
A moment of stillness. Then she lifts her brown eyes to his, a smile breaking through her blushes.
“A man of your calling,” she said, “should have guessed that long ago!”
Papa Francoise never came to trial. His terror overcame his reason, and in his insanity he did what he never would have found the courage to do had he retained his senses. He hanged himself in his prison cell.
But Mamma lived on. Through her trial she raved and cursed; and she went to a life-long imprisonment raving and cursing still. Her viciousness increased with her length of days. She was the black sheep of the prison. Nothing could break her temper or curb her tongue. She was feared and hated even there. Hard labor, solitary confinement, severe punishment, all failed, and she was at last confined in a solitary cell, to rave out her life there and fret the walls with her impotent rage.
Millie, the faithful incompetent, remained in Leslie’s service until she went to a home of her own, bestowed upon her by a good-looking and industrious young mechanic.
Nance, the one-time drunkard, became the object of Leslie’s pitying care, and did not relapse into her former poverty and evil habits.
The Follingsbees, the Warburtons—all these who had been drawn together by trials and afflictions—remained an unbroken coterie of friends, who never ceased to chant Stanhope’s praises.
And little Daisy passed the years of her childhood in the firm belief that,
“God will do anything you want him to, if you only pray loud enough.”
THE END.
Madeline Payne, the Detective’s Daughter.
ByLawrence L. Lynch, author of “Shadowed by Three,” “Out of a Labyrinth,” etc. Illustrated with 44 original engravings. Price, $1.50.“One of the most fascinating of modern novels. It combines the excitement that ever attends the intricate and hazardous schemes of a detective, together with the development of as carefully constructed and cunningly elaborated a plot as the best of Wilkie Collins’ or Charles Reade’s.”
ByLawrence L. Lynch, author of “Shadowed by Three,” “Out of a Labyrinth,” etc. Illustrated with 44 original engravings. Price, $1.50.
“One of the most fascinating of modern novels. It combines the excitement that ever attends the intricate and hazardous schemes of a detective, together with the development of as carefully constructed and cunningly elaborated a plot as the best of Wilkie Collins’ or Charles Reade’s.”
The Gold Hunters’ Adventures in Australia.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Illustrated with 41 engravings. Price, $1.50.An exciting story of adventures in Australia, in the early days, when the discovery of gold drew thither a motley crowd of reckless, daring men.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Illustrated with 41 engravings. Price, $1.50.
An exciting story of adventures in Australia, in the early days, when the discovery of gold drew thither a motley crowd of reckless, daring men.
Running the Blockade.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.A tale of adventures on a Blockade Runner during the rebellion, by a Union officer acting in the Secret Service of the United States. The nature of this hazardous mission necessarily involves the narrator in constant peril.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.
A tale of adventures on a Blockade Runner during the rebellion, by a Union officer acting in the Secret Service of the United States. The nature of this hazardous mission necessarily involves the narrator in constant peril.
The Bushrangers; or, Wild Life in Australia.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Illustrated. Price, $1.50.The record of a second voyage to that land of mystery and adventure—Australia—by the “Gold Hunters,” and replete with exciting exploits among the most lawless class of men.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Illustrated. Price, $1.50.
The record of a second voyage to that land of mystery and adventure—Australia—by the “Gold Hunters,” and replete with exciting exploits among the most lawless class of men.
A Slaver’s Adventures on Sea and Land.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.A thrilling story of an exciting life on board a slaver, chased by British gunboats, and equally interesting adventures in the wilds of Africa and on the Island of Cuba.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.
A thrilling story of an exciting life on board a slaver, chased by British gunboats, and equally interesting adventures in the wilds of Africa and on the Island of Cuba.
The Gold Hunters in Europe, or, The Dead Alive.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.The heroes of “The Gold Hunters’ Adventures” and “The Bushrangers” seek excitement in a trip through Europe, and meet, in England, France and Ireland (among the Fenians), with a constant succession of perilous adventures.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.
The heroes of “The Gold Hunters’ Adventures” and “The Bushrangers” seek excitement in a trip through Europe, and meet, in England, France and Ireland (among the Fenians), with a constant succession of perilous adventures.
A Whaleman’s Adventures on Sea and Land.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.A vivid story of life on a whaler, in the Pacific Ocean, and of adventures in the Sandwich Islands, and in California in the early days, when the discovery of gold electrified the whole world and attracted bold men to wrest the mines of wealth from the possession of Mexicans and Indians.
ByWm. H. Thomes. Profusely illustrated. Price, $1.50.
A vivid story of life on a whaler, in the Pacific Ocean, and of adventures in the Sandwich Islands, and in California in the early days, when the discovery of gold electrified the whole world and attracted bold men to wrest the mines of wealth from the possession of Mexicans and Indians.
These most fascinating Tales of Adventure on Sea and Land are for sale on all Railroad Trains, by all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by The Publishers.
ALEX. T. LOYD & CO.,
CHICAGO.
Author of “Shadowed by Three,” “Out of a Labyrinth,” etc., etc.Illustrated with 45 Original Engravings.
CONTENTS.—The Lovers’ Meeting. The Serpent In Eden. A Sudden Departure. What the Old Tree Revealed. Two Heartless Plotters. The Story of a Mother’s Wrongs and a Husband’s Crimes. Turns her Back on the Old Home, and Trusts the Future and Lucian Davlin. Nurse Hagar is “Out of Sorts.” Madeline Defies her Enemies. “You are her Murderer!” The Railway Station at Night. A Disappointed Schemer Rejoiced. Madeline’s Flight. The Night Journey to New York. A Friendly Warning Unheeded. “Take it;in the Name of your Mother I ask it!” Alone in the Great City. A Shrewd Scheme. An Ever-Present Face. Olive Gerard’s Warning. The Cruel Awakening. The Bird in a Golden Cage. The Luxurious Apartments of Lucian Davlin, the Man of Luck. A Dissatisfied Servant. The Man of Luck Defied. A Well-Aimed Pistol Shot. “Little Demon, I will kill you before I will lose you now!” Doctor Vaughn Summoned. A Charming Widow at Bellair. “The Danger is Past!” Gone! “When Next we Meet I Shall Have Other Weapons!” Bonnie, Bewitching Claire. A Tell-tale Photograph. “Cruel, Crafty, Treacherous.” Madeline and Olive in Conference. “Kitty, the Dancer, will Die!” The Story of an Old Crime Retold. “Percy! Percy! Percy!” A Message from the Dead. “May God’s Curse fall on all who Drove her to her Doom!” Miss Arthur’s French Maid. Cora Growing Weary of Dissembling. Celine Leroque Overhears an Important Conversation. Mr. Percy startled. Cora Shares this Feeling. Percy Turns the Tables. “And yet you are on the Earth!” Celine Manages to Play the Spy to some Purpose. Cora and Celine Measure Swords. Cora’s Cunning Plot. “Celine looked Cautiously about her.” An Intercepted Telegram. Face to Face. A Midnight Appointment. “I am Afraid for you; but give It up now? never!” An Irate Spinster. Celine’s Highly Probable Story. Gathering Clues. A Hurried Visit. The Hand of Friendship Wields the Surgeon’s Knife. Claire Keith Placed Face to Face with Trouble. A Dual Renunciation. An Astonishing Disclosure. “I am not Worthy of him, andsheis!” Struggling Against Fate. “Ah, how Dared I think to Become one of you?” A Fiery Fair Champion. Hagar and Cora have a Meeting. Cora gets a Glimmer of a False Light. “To be, to do, to Suffer.” A Troubled Spinster. An Aggravating French Maid. “Won’t there be a Row in the Castle!” Setting some Snares. Cora and Celine form an Alliance. A Veritable Ghost Awakens Consternation in the Household. “If ever you want to make him feel what it is to Suffer, Hagar will help you!” Doctor Vaughn Visits Bellair. Not a Bad Day’s Work. Henry Reveals his Master’s Secrets. Claire Turns Circe. A Mysterious Tenant. Celine Hurries Matters a Trifle. The Curtain Rises on the Mimic Stage. Celine Discharged by the Spinster, takes Service with Cora. The Sudden Illness. The Learned “Doctor from Europe.” “I am Sorry, very Sorry.” The Plot Thickens. A Midnight Conflagration. The Mysterious House in Flames, and its Mysterious Tenant takes Refuge with Claire. The Story of a Wrecked Life. “Well, it is a Strange Business, and a Difficult.” Letters from the Seat of War. Mr. Percy Shakes Himself. A Fair Invalid. “Two Handsomer Scoundrels Never Stood at Bay!” A Silken Belt Worth a King’s Ransom. A Successful Burglary. Cross Purposes. A Slight Complication. A new Detective on the Scene. Clarence Vaughn seeks to Cultivate him. Bidding High for First-Class Detective Service. “Thou shalt not Serve two Masters” set at naught. Mr. Lord’s Letter. Premonitions of a Storm. “The—fellow is Dead!” A Thunderbolt. “I have come back to my own!” A Fair, but Strong. Hand. Cora Restive under Orders. “You—you are——?” “Celine Leroque, Madam.” A Madman. A Bogus Doctor Uncomfortable. “Don’t you try that, sir!” Lucian Davlin’s “Points” are False Beacons. Cora’s Humiliation. An Arrival of Sharp-Eyed Well-Borers. Rather Strange Maid Servants. The Cords are Tightening and the Victims Writhe. A Veritable Sphynx. Sleeping with Eyes Open. A Savage Toothache. A Judicious Use of Chloroform. A Bold Break for Freedom. An Omnipresent Well-Borer. “No Nonsense, Mind; I’m not a Flat.” “For God’s sake,whatare you?” “A Witch!” The Doctor’s Wooing. Mrs. Ralston Overhears Something. A Fresh Complication. “He is very Handsome; so are Tigers!” An Astounding Revelation. Mrs. Ralston’s Story. “No,” gasped Olive, “I—I—.” A Movement In Force. Cora stirs up the Animals. A Wedding Indefinitely Postponed for Cause. Nipped in the Bud. Ready for Action. “Be at the Cottage to-night.” A Plea for Forgiveness. Sharpening the Sword of Fate. The Weight of a Woman’s Hand. “Officers, take him; he has been my Prisoner long enough!” “Man, you have been a Dupe, a Fool!” Cora’s Confession. “The Pistol is Aimed at Madeline’s Heart!” “It Is a Death Wound!” “The Goddess you Worship has Deserted you!” The Death-bed of a Hypocrite. “And then comes Rest!” The World is Clothed in a New White Garment.“God’s greatness shines around our incompleteness,Round our restlessness His rest!”
CONTENTS.—The Lovers’ Meeting. The Serpent In Eden. A Sudden Departure. What the Old Tree Revealed. Two Heartless Plotters. The Story of a Mother’s Wrongs and a Husband’s Crimes. Turns her Back on the Old Home, and Trusts the Future and Lucian Davlin. Nurse Hagar is “Out of Sorts.” Madeline Defies her Enemies. “You are her Murderer!” The Railway Station at Night. A Disappointed Schemer Rejoiced. Madeline’s Flight. The Night Journey to New York. A Friendly Warning Unheeded. “Take it;in the Name of your Mother I ask it!” Alone in the Great City. A Shrewd Scheme. An Ever-Present Face. Olive Gerard’s Warning. The Cruel Awakening. The Bird in a Golden Cage. The Luxurious Apartments of Lucian Davlin, the Man of Luck. A Dissatisfied Servant. The Man of Luck Defied. A Well-Aimed Pistol Shot. “Little Demon, I will kill you before I will lose you now!” Doctor Vaughn Summoned. A Charming Widow at Bellair. “The Danger is Past!” Gone! “When Next we Meet I Shall Have Other Weapons!” Bonnie, Bewitching Claire. A Tell-tale Photograph. “Cruel, Crafty, Treacherous.” Madeline and Olive in Conference. “Kitty, the Dancer, will Die!” The Story of an Old Crime Retold. “Percy! Percy! Percy!” A Message from the Dead. “May God’s Curse fall on all who Drove her to her Doom!” Miss Arthur’s French Maid. Cora Growing Weary of Dissembling. Celine Leroque Overhears an Important Conversation. Mr. Percy startled. Cora Shares this Feeling. Percy Turns the Tables. “And yet you are on the Earth!” Celine Manages to Play the Spy to some Purpose. Cora and Celine Measure Swords. Cora’s Cunning Plot. “Celine looked Cautiously about her.” An Intercepted Telegram. Face to Face. A Midnight Appointment. “I am Afraid for you; but give It up now? never!” An Irate Spinster. Celine’s Highly Probable Story. Gathering Clues. A Hurried Visit. The Hand of Friendship Wields the Surgeon’s Knife. Claire Keith Placed Face to Face with Trouble. A Dual Renunciation. An Astonishing Disclosure. “I am not Worthy of him, andsheis!” Struggling Against Fate. “Ah, how Dared I think to Become one of you?” A Fiery Fair Champion. Hagar and Cora have a Meeting. Cora gets a Glimmer of a False Light. “To be, to do, to Suffer.” A Troubled Spinster. An Aggravating French Maid. “Won’t there be a Row in the Castle!” Setting some Snares. Cora and Celine form an Alliance. A Veritable Ghost Awakens Consternation in the Household. “If ever you want to make him feel what it is to Suffer, Hagar will help you!” Doctor Vaughn Visits Bellair. Not a Bad Day’s Work. Henry Reveals his Master’s Secrets. Claire Turns Circe. A Mysterious Tenant. Celine Hurries Matters a Trifle. The Curtain Rises on the Mimic Stage. Celine Discharged by the Spinster, takes Service with Cora. The Sudden Illness. The Learned “Doctor from Europe.” “I am Sorry, very Sorry.” The Plot Thickens. A Midnight Conflagration. The Mysterious House in Flames, and its Mysterious Tenant takes Refuge with Claire. The Story of a Wrecked Life. “Well, it is a Strange Business, and a Difficult.” Letters from the Seat of War. Mr. Percy Shakes Himself. A Fair Invalid. “Two Handsomer Scoundrels Never Stood at Bay!” A Silken Belt Worth a King’s Ransom. A Successful Burglary. Cross Purposes. A Slight Complication. A new Detective on the Scene. Clarence Vaughn seeks to Cultivate him. Bidding High for First-Class Detective Service. “Thou shalt not Serve two Masters” set at naught. Mr. Lord’s Letter. Premonitions of a Storm. “The—fellow is Dead!” A Thunderbolt. “I have come back to my own!” A Fair, but Strong. Hand. Cora Restive under Orders. “You—you are——?” “Celine Leroque, Madam.” A Madman. A Bogus Doctor Uncomfortable. “Don’t you try that, sir!” Lucian Davlin’s “Points” are False Beacons. Cora’s Humiliation. An Arrival of Sharp-Eyed Well-Borers. Rather Strange Maid Servants. The Cords are Tightening and the Victims Writhe. A Veritable Sphynx. Sleeping with Eyes Open. A Savage Toothache. A Judicious Use of Chloroform. A Bold Break for Freedom. An Omnipresent Well-Borer. “No Nonsense, Mind; I’m not a Flat.” “For God’s sake,whatare you?” “A Witch!” The Doctor’s Wooing. Mrs. Ralston Overhears Something. A Fresh Complication. “He is very Handsome; so are Tigers!” An Astounding Revelation. Mrs. Ralston’s Story. “No,” gasped Olive, “I—I—.” A Movement In Force. Cora stirs up the Animals. A Wedding Indefinitely Postponed for Cause. Nipped in the Bud. Ready for Action. “Be at the Cottage to-night.” A Plea for Forgiveness. Sharpening the Sword of Fate. The Weight of a Woman’s Hand. “Officers, take him; he has been my Prisoner long enough!” “Man, you have been a Dupe, a Fool!” Cora’s Confession. “The Pistol is Aimed at Madeline’s Heart!” “It Is a Death Wound!” “The Goddess you Worship has Deserted you!” The Death-bed of a Hypocrite. “And then comes Rest!” The World is Clothed in a New White Garment.
“God’s greatness shines around our incompleteness,Round our restlessness His rest!”
Lion and rhinoceros at night“We saw many species of wild animals.” Page 89.
“We saw many species of wild animals.” Page 89.
Author of “The Gold Hunters’ Adventures in Australia,” “The Bushrangers,” “Running the Blockade,” etc., etc.
ILLUSTRATED WITH FORTY ELEGANT ENGRAVINGS.
SOLD ON ALL RAILWAY TRAINS AND BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
the bushrangers
as I turned, I managed to keep my eyes on the shelf overhead, so that I could note all the movements that took place. I was repaid for my trouble, for as I fell back and pressed my hand on my side, as though fatally wounded, I had the satisfaction of hearing a triumphant laugh issue from the thicket overhead; and the next instant the repulsive features of Moloch were thrust through the branches of the trees, and he seemed to enjoy the appearance which I presented.
“Bah! you fools!” cried the rascal, in a mocking tone, “do yer think that yer can take me? I vos too quick for yer. Had yer come an hour sooner, yer might have caught me nappin’. But now I jist spits at yer. Ah, fools, I has the voman, and I means to keep her.”
I seldom miss with a revolver, especially when the object at which I aim is within reasonable distance; but I must confess that I was nervous and full of revengeful feelings, or perhaps I was too hasty; for I suddenly raised my pistol and fired at the fiend who was grinning at me from amid the branches of the balsam trees. I missed the scoundrel, and yet I would have given a thousand dollars to have sent a bullet crushing through his brain, and killed him on the spot.
“Ho, ho! yer didn’t come it,” laughed the fiend. “Vait a minute and I’ll make yer see somethin’ that’ll open yer eyes.”
He disappeared, and while he was gone I changed position, so that he could not single me out for another shot, in case he desired to test his old horse-pistols.
“You ain’t hit, is you?” whispered Hackett and Hopeful in anxious tones.
“No,” I answered.
Before they could congratulate me, Moloch, the devil, appeared, bearing in his arms the almost lifeless form of poor, dear Amelia Copey, whose dress was torn and soiled, and whose hair was hanging down in tangled masses, neglected and uncared for.
“Look!” yelled the fiend, in a triumphant tone; “‘ere’s the girl vot I loves, and she vill love me afore long, or I’ll know the reason vy.”
As he spoke he held the fair form in such a manner that
Author of“The Gold Hunters in Australia,” “The Bushrangers,” “Running the Blockade,”etc., etc.