Winnie French thinks Stanhope is Mrs. Follingsbee“Don’t you think your dress muffles your figure a little too much, Follingsbee?”—page 94.
“Don’t you think your dress muffles your figure a little too much, Follingsbee?”—page 94.
“I hope you don’t resentmycriticisms, Follingsbee; you’ve pickedmeto pieces often enough. Or are you still vexed becauseIwon’tfall in love with your favorite Alan? There, now,”—as Stanhope, grown desperate, seems about to speak,—“I know just what you want to say, and you need not say it. Follingsbee,” lowering her voice to a more confidential tone, “if I everhada scrap of a notion of that sort, I have been cured of it since I came into this house to live. Oh! I know he’s your prime favorite, but you can’t tellmeanything about Alan; I’ve got him all catalogued on my ten fingers. Here he is pro and con; pro’syouridea of him, you know. You say he is rich. Well, that’s something in these days! He’s handsome. Bah! a man has no business with beauty; it’s woman’s special prerogative. He came of a splendid blue-blooded family. Fudge! American aristocracy is Americanrubbish. He’s talented. Well, that’s only an accident for whichhedeserves no credit. He’s thoroughly upright and honorable. Well, he’stoobolt upright for me.”
“So,” murmurs Stanhope to his inner consciousness, “I am making a point in personal history, but—it’s a tight place for me!” And as Winnie’s arms give him a little hug, while she pauses to take breath, he feels tempted to retort in kind.
“Now, then,” resumes Winnie, absorbed in her topic; and releasing her victim to check off her “cons” on the pretty right hand; “here’smyopinion of Mr. Warburton. He’sproud, ridiculously proud. He worships hisname, if not himself. He is suspicious, uncharitable, unforgiving. He’shard-hearted. If Leslie were not an angel she would hate him utterly. He treats her with a lofty politeness, a polished indifference, impossible to resent and horrible to endure,—and all because he chooses to believe that she has tarnished the great Warburton name, by taking it for love of the Warburton fortune instead of the race.”
Up from the ball-room floats the first strains of a delicious waltz. Winnie stops, starts, and turns toward the door.
“That’s my favorite waltz, and I’m engaged to Charlie Furbish—he dances like an angel. Follingsbee, bye, bye!”
She flits to the mirror, gives two or three dainty touches to her coquettish costume, tosses a kiss from her finger tips, and is gone.
“Thank Heaven,” mutters Stanhope. “I considerthatthe narrowest escape of my life! What a little witch it is, and pretty, I’ll wager.”
He draws from beneath his flowing robe a tiny watch such as ladies carry, and consults its jewelled face.
“My time is up!” he ejaculates. “Twenty minutes delay, now, will ruin my Raid. Ah! here’s Follingsbee.” And he moves forward at the sound of an approaching step.
But it is not Follingsbee who appears upon the threshold. It is, instead, Stanhope’s too-obsequious, too-attentive admirer, the Celestial, who has voted the prospect of a flirtation with a mysterious mask, a thing of spice.
In such an emergency, when every moment has its value, to think is to act with Richard Stanhope. And time just now is very precious to him.
This importunate fellow is determined to solve the mysteryof his identity, to see him unmask. Ten minutes spent in an attempt to evade him will be moments of fate for the ambitious detective.
And, for the sake of his patroness, he cannot leave the house at the risk of being followed. This difficulty must be overcome and at once.
These thoughts flash through his mind as if by electricity; and then, as the Celestial approaches, he turns languidly toward the open window and rests his head against the casement, as if in utter weariness.
“‘Mellican lady slick?” queries the masker solicitously; “‘Mellican lady walm? Ching Ling flannee, flannee.”
And raising his Japanese fan, he begins to ply it vigorously.
Mentally confiding “Ching Ling,” to a region where fans are needed and are not, Stanhope sways, as if about to faint, and motions toward a reclining chair.
The mask propels it close to the window, and the detective sinks into it, with a long drawn sigh.
Then, plying his fan with renewed vigor, the Celestial murmurs tenderly:
“‘Mellican lady slick?”
“Confound you,” thinks Stanhope; “I will try and be tooslickfor you.” Then, for the first time, he utters a word for the Celestial’s hearing. Moving his head restlessly he articulates, feebly:
“The heat—I feel—faint!” Then, half rising from the chair, seeming to make a last effort, he reels and murmuring: “Water—water,” sinks back presenting the appearance of utter lifelessness.
“Water!” The Celestial, utterly deceived, drops the fanand his dialect at the same moment, and muttering: “She has fainted!” springs to the door.
It is just what Stanhope had hoped for. When the Celestial returns with the water, the fainting lady will have disappeared.
But Fate seems to have set her face against Stanhope. The Celestial does not go. At the very door he encounters a servant, none other than the girl, Millie, who, having for some time lost sight of little Daisy, is now wandering from room to room in quest of the child.
“Girl,” calls the masker authoritatively, “get some water quick; a lady has fainted.”
Uttering a startled: “Oh, my!” Millie skurries away, and the Celestial returns to the side of the detective, who seems just now to be playing a losing game.
But it is only seeming. The case, grown desperate, requires a desperate remedy, and the Goddess of Liberty resolves to do what, probably, no “‘Mellican Lady” ever did before.
Through his drooping eyelids he notes the approach of the Celestial, sees him fling aside his fan to bend above him, and realizes the fact that he is about to be unmasked.
The Celestial bends nearer still. His hands touch the draped head, searching for the secret that releases the tightly secured mask. It is a sentimental picture, but suddenly the scene changes. Sentiment is put to rout, and absurdity reigns.
With indescribable swiftness, the body of the Goddess darts forward, and the head comes in sudden contact with the stomach of the too-devoted Celestial, who goes down upon the floor in a state of collapse, while Stanhope, bounding to his feet and gathering up his trailing draperies, springs through the open window!
When Millie returns with water and other restoratives, she finds only a disarranged masker sitting dolefully upon the floor, with one hand pressed against his stomach and the other supporting his head; still too much dazed and bewildered to know just how he came there.
When he has finally recovered sufficiently to be able to give a shrewd guess as to the nature of the calamity that so suddenly overcame him, he is wise enough to see that the victory sits perched on the banner of the vanished Goddess, and to retire from the field permanently silent upon the subject of “spicy flirtations” and mysterious ladies.
Meantime, Stanhope having alighted, with no particular damage to himself or his drapery, upon a balcony which runs half the length of the house, is creeping silently along that convenient causeway toward the gentlemen’s dressing-room, situated at its extreme end.
Foreseeing some possible difficulty in leaving the house unnoticed while attired in so conspicuous a costume, the Goddess had come prepared with a long black domino, which had been confided to Mr. Follingsbee, who, at the proper moment, was to fetch it from the gentlemen’s dressing-room, array Stanhope in its sombre folds, and then see him from the house, and safely established in the carriage which the detective had arranged to have in waiting to convey him to the scene of the Raid.
Owing to his little encounter with the Celestial, Stanhope knows himself cut off from communication with Mr. Follingsbee, and he now creeps toward the dressing-room wholly intent upon securing the domino and quitting the house in the quickest manner possible.
As he approaches the window, however, he realizes that there is another lion in his path.
The Goddess of Liberty escapes from the friendly Chinese“Stanhope, bounding to his feet, springs through the open window”—page 99.
“Stanhope, bounding to his feet, springs through the open window”—page 99.
The room is already occupied; he hears two voices speaking in guarded tones.
“Be quick, Harvey; some one may come in a moment.”
“I have locked the door.”
“But it must be opened at the first knock. There must be no appearance of mystery, no room for suspicion, Harvey.”
At the sound of a most familiar voice, Richard Stanhope starts, and flushes with excitement underneath his mask. Then he presses close against the window and peers in.
Two men are rapidly exchanging garments there; the one doffing a uniform such as is worn by an officer of Her Majesty’s troops, the other passing over, in exchange for said uniform, the suit of a common policeman.
With astonished eyes and bated breath, Stanhope recognizes the two. Van Vernet, his friend, and Harvey, a member of the police force, who is Vernet’s staunch admirer and chosen assistant when such assistance can be of use.
How came Vernet at this masquerade, of all others? And what are they about to do?
He is soon enlightened, for Van Vernet, flushed with his success, present and prospective, utters a low triumphant laugh as he dons the policeman’s coat, and turns to readjust his mask.
“Ah! Harvey,” he says gayly; “if you ever live to execute as fine a bit of strategy as I did to-night, you may yet be Captain of police. Ha! ha! this most recent battle between America and England has turned out badly for America—all because shewillwear petticoats!”
America! England! petticoats! Stanhope can scarcely suppress an exclamation as suddenly light flashes upon his mental horizon.
“I’ve done a good thing to-night, Harvey,” continues Vernetwith unusual animation, “and I’ve got the lead on a sharp man. If I can hold my own to-night, you’ll never again hear of Van Vernet as only ‘oneof our best detectives.’ Is your mask adjusted? All right, then. Now, Harvey, time presses; there’s a big night’s work before me. You are sure you understand everything?”
“Oh, perfectly;mywork’s easy enough.”
“And mine begins to be difficult. Unlock the door, Harvey, I must be off.” Then turning sharply he adds, as if it were an after-thought: “By the way, if you happen to set your eye on a Goddess of Liberty, just note her movements; I would give something to know when she contrives to leave the house and,” with a dry laugh, “andhow.”
In another moment the dressing-room is deserted.
And then Richard Stanhope steps lightly through the window. With rapid movements he singles out his own dark domino, gathers his colored draperies close about him, and flings it over them, drawing the hood down about his head, and the long folds around his person. Then he goes out from the dressing-rooms, hurries down the great stairway, and passing boldly out by the main entrance, glances up and down the street.
Only a few paces away, a dark form is hurrying toward a group of carriages standing opposite the mansion, and Stanhope, in an instant, is gliding in the same direction. As the man places a foot upon the step of a carriage that has evidently awaited his coming, Stanhope glides so near that he distinctly hears the order, given in Vernet’s low voice:
“To the X—street police station. Drive fast.”
A trifle farther away another carriage, its driver very alert and expectant, stands waiting.
Having heard Vernet’s order, Stanhope hurries to this carriage, springs within, and whispers to the driver:
“The old place, Jim; and your quickest time!”
Then, as the wheels rattle over the pavement, the horses speeding away from this fashionable quarter of the city, a strange transformation scene goes on within the carriage, which, evidently, has been prepared for this purpose. The Goddess of Liberty is casting her robes, and long before the carriage has reached its destination, she has disappeared, there remaining, in her stead, a personage of fantastic appearance. He is literally clothed in rags, and plentifully smeared with dirt; his tattered garments are decorated with bits of tinsel, and scraps of bright color flutter from his ragged hat, and flaunt upon his breast; there is a monstrous patch over his left eye and a mass of disfiguring blotches covers his left cheek; a shock of unkempt tow-colored hair bristles upon his head, and his forehead and eyes are half hidden by thick dangling elf-locks.
If this absurd apparition bears not the slightest resemblance to the Goddess of Liberty, it resembles still less our friend, Richard Stanhope.
Suddenly, and in an obscure street, the carriage comes to a halt, and as its fantastically-attired occupant descends to the ground, the first stroke of midnight sounds out upon the air.
One more scene in this night’s fateful masquerade remains to be described, and then the seemingly separate threads of ourplot unite, and twine about our central figures a chain of Fate.
While Van Vernet is setting snares for the feet of his rival, and while that young man of many resources is actively engaged in disentangling himself therefrom,—while Leslie Warburton, tortured by a secret which she cannot reveal, and dominated by a power she dare not disobey, steals away from her stately home—and while Alan Warburton, soured by suspicion, made unjust by his own false pride, follows like a shadow behind her—a cloud is descending upon the house of Warburton.
Sitting apart from the mirthful crowd, quite unobserved and seemingly wholly engrossed in themselves, are little Daisy Warburton and the quaintly-attired Mother Goose, before mentioned.
It is long past the child’s latest bedtime, but her step-mamma has been so entirely preoccupied, and Millie so carelessly absorbed in watching the gayeties of the evening, that the little one has been overlooked, and feels now quite like her own mistress.
“Ha! ha!” she laughs merrily, leaning, much at her ease, upon the knee of Mother Goose; “ha! ha! what nice funny stories you tell; almost as nice as my new mamma’s stories. Only,” looking up with exquisite frankness, “your voice is not half so nice as my new mamma’s.”
“Because I’m an old woman, dearie,” replies Mother Goose, a shade of something like disapproval in her tone. “Do you really want to see Mother Hubbard’s dog, little girl?”
“Old Mother Hubbard—she went to the cupboard,” sings Daisy gleefully. “Of course I do, Mrs. Goose. Does Mother Hubbard look like you?”
“A little.”
“And—you said Cinderella’s coach was down near my papa’s gate?”
“So it is, dearie.” Then looking cautiously about her, and lowering her voice to a whisper: “How would you like to ride to see Mother Hubbard in Cinderella’s coach, and come right back, you know, before it turns into a pumpkin again?”
The fair child clasps two tiny hands, and utters a cry of delight.
“Oh!couldwe?” she asks, breathlessly.
“Of course we can, if you are very quiet and do as I bid you, and if you don’t get afraid.”
“I don’t get afraid—not often,” replies the child, drawing still closer to Mother Goose, and speaking with hushed gravity. “When I used to be afraid at night, my mamma, my new mamma, you know, taught me to say like this.”
Clasping her hands, she sinks upon her knees and lifts her face to that which, behind its grotesque mask, is distorted by some unpleasant emotion. And then the childish voice lisps reverently:
“Dear God, please take care of a little girl whose mamma has gone to Heaven. Keep her from sin, and sickness, and danger. Make the dark as safe as the day, and don’t let her be afraid, for Jesus’ sake. Amen.”
Something like a smothered imprecation dies away in the throat of the listener, and then she says, in honeyed accents:
“That’s a very nice little prayer, and your new mamma is a very fine lady. When you come back from your ride in Cinderella’s carriage, you can tell your new mamma all about it.”
“Oh! how nice!”
“It will be charming. Come into the conservatory, dearie. I think we can see Cinderella’s lamps from there.”
With the confidence born of childish innocence, the little one places her hand in that of Mother Goose, and is led away.
The conservatory is all aglow with light and color and rich perfume, and it is almost tenantless. The broad low windows are open, and a narrow balcony, adorned with tall vases and hung with drooping vines, projects from them scarce three feet from the ground.
Out upon this balcony, and close to the railing, the child follows the old woman confidently. Then, as she peers out into the night, she draws back.
“It’s—very—dark,” she whispers.
“It’s the light inside that makes it seem so dark, dearie. Ah! I see a glimmer of Cinderella’s lamp now; look, child!”
Stooping quickly, she lifts the little one and seats her upon the railing of the balcony. Then, as the child, shading her eyes with a tiny hand, attempts to peer out into the darkness, something damp and sickening is pressed to her face; there is an odor in the air not born of the flowers within, and Daisy Warburton, limp and unconscious, lies back in the arms of her enemy.
In another moment, the woman in the garb of Mother Goose has dropped from the balcony to the ground beneath, and, bearing her still burden in her arms, disappeared in the darkness.
And as her form vanishes from the balcony, a city clock, far away, tolls out the hour:midnight.
At this same hour, with the same strokes sounding in theirears, a party of men sally forth from the X—street Police station, and take their way toward the river.
They are policemen, mostly dressed in plain clothes, and heavily armed, every man. They move away silently like men obeying the will of one master, and presently they separate, dropping off by twos and threes into different by-ways and obscure streets, to meet again at a certain rendezvous.
It is the Raiding Party on its way to the slums, and, contrary to the hopes of the Chief of the detectives and the Captain of the police, it is led, not by Dick Stanhope, but by Van Vernet.
Contrary to all precedent, and greatly to the surprise of all save Vernet, Richard Stanhope has failed to appear at the time appointed; and so, after many doubts, much hesitation, and some delay, Van Vernet is made leader of the expedition.
“I shall send Stanhope as soon as he reports here,” the Chief had said as a last word to Vernet. “His absence to-night is most reprehensible, but his assistance is too valuable to be dispensed with.”
Mentally hoping that Stanhope’s coming may be delayed indefinitely, Van Vernet bites his lip and goes on his way, while the Chief sits down to speculate as to Stanhope’s absence, and to await his coming.
But he waits in vain. The long night passes, and day dawns, and Richard Stanhope does not appear.
Meanwhile, Van Vernet and the two men who accompany him, arrive first of the party at their rendezvous.
It is at the mouth or entrance to a dark, narrow street, the beginning of that labyrinth of crooked by-ways, and blind alleys, from the maze of which Richard Stanhope had rescuedhimself and the wounded convict, on the night previous.
Halting here Van Vernet waits the arrival of his men, and meditates. He is tolerably familiar with this labyrinth; knows it as well, perhaps, as most men on such a mission would deem necessary, but he has not given the locality and its denizens the close study and keen investigation that Stanhope has considered essential to success. And now, as he peers down the dark street, thinking of the maze beyond, and the desperate character of the people who inhabit it, he involuntarily wishes for that closer knowledge that only Stanhope possesses.
He knows that Stanhope, in various disguises, has passed days and nights among these haunts of iniquity; that he can thread these intricate alleys in the darkest night, and identify every rogue by name and profession.
He thinks of these things, and then shrugs his shoulder with characteristic inconsequence. He has, and with good reason, unbounded confidence in himself. He has tact, skill, courage; what man may do,hecan do.
What are these miserable outlaws that they should baffle Van Vernet the skillful, the successful, the daring?
Some one is coming toward them from out the dark alley. They hear the fragment of an idiotic street song, trolled out in a maudlin voice, and then feet running, skipping, seeming now and then to prance and pirouette absurdly.
“What the—”
The exclamation of the policeman is cut short by the sudden collision of his stationary figure with a rapidly moving body. Then he grapples with his unintentional assailant only to release him suddenly, as Van Vernet throws up the slide of his dark lantern and turns its rays upon the new-comer.
Involuntarily all three utter sharp exclamations as they gather around the apparition.
What a figure! Ragged, unkempt, fantastic; the same which a short time ago we saw descending from a carriage only a few rods distant from this very spot.
It is the same figure; the same rags and tinsel and dirt; the same disfigured face, with its black patch and its fringe of frowzy hair; the same, yet worse to look upon; for now the under jaw is dropped, the mouth drivels, the eye not concealed by the patch leers stupidly.
Unmistakably, it is the face of an idiot.
“How!” ejaculates this being, peering curiously at the three. “How do? Where ye goin’?”
Van Vernet gazes curiously for a moment, then utters a sound expressive of satisfaction. He has heard of a fool that inhabits these alleys; Stanhope has mentioned him on one or two occasions. “A modernized Barnaby Rudge,” Stanhope had called him. Surely this must be him.
Turning to one of his men he says, in an undertone:
“If I’m not mistaken this fellow is a fool who grew up in these slums, and knows them by heart. ‘Silly Charlie,’ I think, they call him. I believe we can make him useful.”
Then turning to the intruder he says suavely:
“How are you, my man? How are you?”
But a change has come over the mood of the seeming idiot. Striking his breast majestically, and pointing to a huge tin star which decorates it, he waves his hand toward them, and says with absurd dignity:
“G’way—g’way!Charlie big p’liceman. Gittin’ late;g’way.”
Charlie accosted by Vernet and two policemen“G’way—g’way!Charlie big p’liceman. Gittin’ late;g’way!”—page 110.
“G’way—g’way!Charlie big p’liceman. Gittin’ late;g’way!”—page 110.
“We must humor him, boys,” says Vernet aside. Then toCharlie—“So you’re a policeman? Well, so am I; look.”
And turning back the lapel of his coat he displays, on the inner side, the badge of an officer.
Silly Charlie comes close, peers eagerly at the badge, fingers it curiously, then, grasping it firmly, gives a tug at the lapel, saying:
“Gimme it. Gimme it.”
Van Vernet laughs good-naturedly.
“Don’t pull so hard, Charlie, or you’ll have off my entire uniform. Do you want to do a little police duty to-night?”
Silly Charlie nods violently.
“And you want my star, or one like it?”
“Um hum!” with sudden emphasis.
Van Vernet lays a hand on the shoulder of the idiot, and then says:
“Listen, Charlie. I want you to help me to-night. Wait,” for Charlie has doubled himself up in a convulsion of laughter. “Now, if you’ll stand right by me, and tell me what I want to know, you and I will do some splendid work, and both get promoted. You will get a new star, big and bright, and a uniform all covered with bright buttons. Hold on,” for Charlie is dancing in an ecstasy of delight. “What do you say? Will you come with me, and work for your star and uniform?”
Charlie’s enthusiastic gestures testify to his delight at this proposition.
“Um hum,” he cries gleefully; “Charlie go; Charlie be big p’liceman.”
And as if suddenly realizing the dignity of his new employment, he ceases his antics and struts sedately up and down before Vernet and his assistants. Then turning to the detective,with a doleful whine, he extends his hand, saying;
“Gimme starnow.”
“Not now, Charlie; you must earn it first. I had to earn mine. Do you know the way to Devil’s alley?”
“Um hum!”
“Good: do you know where Black Nathan lives!”
“Um hum!”
“Can you take me to Nancy Kaiser’s lushing ken?”
“Um hum; Charlie knows.”
“Then, Charlie, you shall have that star soon.”
And Vernet turns to his men. “I will take this fellow for guide, and look up these places: they are most important,” he says rapidly. “I shall be less noticed in company with this fellow than if alone. Riley, I leave you in command until I return. Remain here, and keep the fellows all together; some of them are coming now.”
Riley’s quick ear detects the approach of stealthy feet, and as Vernet shuts his lantern, and utters a low “Come, Charlie,” the first installment of the Raiders appears, a few paces away.
Seizing Vernet by the arm, Silly Charlie lowers his head and glides down the alley, as stealthily as an Indian.
“Charlie,” whispers Vernet, imperatively, “you must be very cautious. I want you to take me first to where Black Nathan lives.”
“Hoop la!” replies Charlie in subdued staccato; “I’m takin’ ye; commalong.”
Cautiously they wend their way down the dark, narrow street, into a filthy alley, and through it to an open space laid bare by some recent fire.
Here they halt for a moment, Charlie peering curiouslyaround him, and stooping to search for something among the loose stones.
Suddenly a shriek pierces the silence about them—a woman’s shriek, thrice repeated, its tones fraught with agony and terror!
Silly Charlie lifts himself suddenly erect, and turns his face toward a dark building just across the open space. Then, as the third cry sounds upon the air, both men, as by one humane instinct, bound across the waste regardless of stones and bruises, Silly Charlie flying on before, as if acquainted with every inch of the ground, straight toward the dark and isolated building.
In order to comprehend the cause of the alarm which stimulated to sudden action both the wise man and the fool, Van Vernet and Silly Charlie, let us turn back a little and enter the dark house at the foot of the alley.
It is an hour before midnight. The place is dark and silent; no light gleams through the tightly boarded windows, there is no sign of life about the dwelling. But within, as on a previous occasion, there is light, life, and a measure of activity. The light is furnished by a solitary tallow candle, and the life supplied by the same little old man who, on a former occasion, was thrown into a state of unreasonable terror at sight of a certain newspaper advertisement.
It is the same room, its appointments unchanged; the samesqualor and dirt, the same bottle upon the same shelf, the same heap of rags in the corner, the same fragments of iron and copper on the floor. The same deal table and scrap of carpet are there, but not arranged as on a former occasion, for now the table is pushed back against the wall, the piece of carpet is flung in a wrinkled heap away from the place which it covered, exposing to view a dark gap in the floor, with a dangling trap-door opening downward. Beside this opening squats the little old man, his eyes as ferret-like and restless as usual, but his features more complacent and less apprehensive than when last we saw him.
By his side is the sputtering tallow candle, and in his hand a long hooked stick, with which he is lowering sundry bags and bundles down the trap, lifting the candle from time to time to peer into the opening, then resuming his work and muttering meanwhile.
“What’sthis?” he soliloquizes, lifting a huge bundle and scrutinizing it carefully. “Ah-h! a gentleman’s fine overcoat;thatmust have a nice, safe corner. Ah-h! there you go,” lowering the bundle down the aperture and poking it into position with his stick. “It’s amazin’ what valuables my people finds about the streets,” he chuckles facetiously. “‘Ere’s a—a little silver tea-pot; some rich woman must a-throwed that out. I will put it on the shelf.”
Evidently the shelf mentioned is in the cellar below, for this parcel, like the first, is lowered and carefully placed by means of the stick. Other bundles of various sizes follow, and then the old man rests from his labor.
“What a nice little hole that is,” he mutters. “Full of rags—nothin’ else. Suppose a cop comes in here and looks down, what ’ud he see? Just rags. S’pose he went down,ha! ha! he’d go waist-deep in a bed of old rags, and he wouldn’t like the smell overmuch; such anicesmell—for cops. He couldn’tseeanything, couldn’tfeelanything but rags, just rags.”
A low tap at the street-door causes the old man to drop his stick and his soliloquy at once. He starts nervously, listens intently for a moment, and then rises cautiously. A long, low whistle evidently reassures him, for with suddenly acquired self-possession he begins to move about.
Swiftly and noiselessly he closes the trap, spreads down the bit of carpet, and replaces the table. Then he shuffles toward the entrance, pulls out the pin from the hole in the door, and peeps out. Nothing is visible but the darkness, and this, somehow; seems to reassure him, for with a snort of impatience he calls out:
“Who knocks?”
“It’s Siebel,” replies a voice from without. “Open up, old Top.”
Instantly the door is unbarred and swung open, admitting a burly ruffian, who fairly staggers under the weight of a monstrous sack which he carries upon his shoulders.
At sight of this bulky burden the old man smiles and rubs his palms together.
“Ah! Josef,” he says, reaching out to relieve the new-comer, “a nice load that; a very nice load!”
But the man addressed as Josef retains his hold upon his burden, and, resting himself against it, looks distrustfully at his host.
“It’s been a fine evening, Josef,” insinuates the old man, his eyes still fixed upon the bag.
“Fair enough,” replies Josef gruffly, as he unties the bagand pushes it toward the old man. “Take a look at the stuff, Papa Francoise, and make a bid. I’m dead thirsty.”
Eagerly seizing the bag, Papa Francoise drags it toward the table, closely followed by Josef, and begins a hasty examination of its contents, saying:
“Rags is rags, you know, Josef Siebel. It’s not much use to look into ’em; there’s nothing here but rags, of course.”
“No, course not,” with a satirical laugh.
“That’s right, Josef; I won’t buy nothing but rags,—never. I don’t want no ill-gotten gains brought to me.”
Josef Siebel utters another short, derisive laugh, and discreetly turns his gaze toward the smoky ceiling while Papa begins his investigations. From out the capacious bag he draws a rich shawl, hurriedly examines it, and thrusts it back again.
“The rag-picker can be an honest man as well as another, Josef,” continues this virtuous old gentleman, drawing forth a silver soup-ladle and thrusting it back. “These are very good rags, Josef,” and he draws out a switch of blonde hair, and gazes upon it admiringly. Then he brings out a handful of rags, examines them ostentatiously by the light of the candle, smells them, and ties up the bag, seeing which Josef withdraws his eyes from the cobwebs overhead and fixes them on the black bottle upon the shelf.
Noting the direction of his gaze, Papa Francoise rests the bag against the table-leg, trots to the shelf, pours a scanty measure from the black bottle into a tin cup, and presents it to Josef with what is meant for an air of gracious hospitality.
“You spoke of thirst, Josef; drink, my friend.”
“Umph,” mutters the fellow, draining off the liquor at a draught. Then setting the cup hastily down; “Now, old Top, wot’s your bid?”
“Well,” replies Papa Francoise, trying to look as if he had not already settled that question with his own mind; “well, Josef I’ll give you—I’ll give you a dollar and a half.”
“The dickens you will!”
Josef makes a stride toward the bag, and lifts it upon his shoulder.
“Stop, Josef!” cries Papa, laying eager hands upon the treasure. “What do you want? That’s a good price for rags.”
“Bah!” snarls the burly ruffian, turning toward the door, “wot d’ye take me for, ye blasted old fence?”
But Papa has a firm clutch upon the bag.
“Stop, Josef!” he cries eagerly; “let me see,” pulling it down from his shoulder and lifting it carefully. “Why, it’sheavierthan I thought. Josef, I’ll give you two dollars and a half,—no more.”
The “no more” is sharply uttered, and evidently Siebel comprehends the meaning behind the words, for he reseats himself sullenly, muttering:
“It ain’t enough, ye cursed cantin’ old skinflint, but fork it out; I’ve got to have money.”
At this instant there comes a short, sharp, single knock upon the street-door, and Papa hastens to open it, admitting a squalid, blear-eyed girl, or woman, who enters with reluctant step, and sullen demeanor.
“Oh, it’syou, Nance,” says Papa, going back to the table and beginning to count out some money, eyeing the girl keenly meanwhile. “One dollar,—sit down, Nance,—two dollars, fifty; there! Now, Nance,” turning sharply toward the girl, “what have you got, eh?”
Josef and Papa Francoise examine the contents of the bag“The rag picker can be an honest man as well as another, Josef.”—page 117.
“The rag picker can be an honest man as well as another, Josef.”—page 117.
“Nothin’,” replies Nance sullenly; “nothin’ that will suit you. I ain’t had no luck.”
“Nobody left nothin’ lyin’ round loose, I s’pose,” says Siebel with a coarse laugh, as he pockets the price of his day’s labor. “Wal, ye’ve come ter a poor place for sympathy, gal.” And he rises slowly and shuffles toward the door.
But Papa makes a gesture to stay him.
“Hold on, Josef!” he cries; “wait Nance!”
He seizes the bag, hurries it away into an inner room, and returns panting for breath. Drawing a stool toward the table, he perches himself thereon and leers across at the two sneak thieves.
“So ye ain’t had any luck, girl?” he says, in a wheedling tone, “and Josef, here, wants money. Do ye want more than ye’ve got Josef?”
“Ha ha!DoI?” And Josef slaps his pockets suggestively.
“Now listen, both of you. Suppose, I could help you two to earn some money easy and honest, what then?”
“Easy andhonest!” repeats Siebel, with a snort of derision; “Oh, Lord!”
But the girl leans forward with hungry eyes, saying eagerly: “How? tell us how.”
“I’ll tell you. Suppose, just suppose, a certain rich lady—veryrich, mind—being a little in my debt, should come here to-night to see me. And suppose she is very anxious not to be seen by any body—on account of her high position, you know—”
“Oh, lip it livelier!” cries Siebel impatiently. “Stow yer swash.”
“Well; suppose you and Nance, here, was to come in suddenand see the lady face to face, why, for fear she might be called on by—say by Nance, she might pay a little, don’t you see—”
But Siebel breaks in impatiently:
“Oh, skip the rubbish! Is there any body to bleed?”
“Is it a safe lay?” queries Nance.
“Yes, yes; it’s safe, of course,” cries Papa, thus compelled to come down to plain facts.
“Then let’s get down to business. Do you expect an angel’s visit here to-night?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what’s yer plan? Out with it: Nance and I are with ye, if ye divvy fair.”
Beckoning them to come closer, Papa Francoise leans across the table, and sinking his voice to a harsh whisper, unfolds the plan by which, without danger to themselves, they are to become richer.
It is a pretty plan but—“Man sows; a whirlwind reaps.”
It is a half hour later. The light in the room is increased by a sputtering additional candle, and Papa Francoise, sitting by the deal table, is gazing toward the door, an eager expectant look upon his face.
“If that old woman were here!” he mutters, and then starts forward at the sound of a low hesitating tap.
Hurrying to the door he unbars it with eager haste, and a smile of blandest delight overspreads his yellow face as the new-comer enters.
It is a woman, slender and graceful; alady, who holds up her trailing black garments daintily as she steps across the threshold, repulsing the proffered hand-clasp with a haughty gesture, and gliding away from him while she says in a tone of distressful remonstrance:
“Man,whyhave you sent for me? Don’t you know that there is such a thing as a last straw?”
“A last straw!” His voice is a doleful whine, his manner obsequious to servility. “Ah, my child, I wanted to see you so much; your poor mother wanted to see you so much!”
The woman throws back her veil with a gesture of fierce defiance, disclosing the face of Leslie Warburton pale and woe-stricken, but quite as lovely as when it shone upon Stanhope, surrounded by the halo of “Sunlight.”
“You hypocrite!” she exclaims scornfully. “Parents do not persecute their children as you and the woman you call my mother have persecuted me. You gave me to the Ulimans when I was but an infant,—that I know,—but the papers signed by you do not speak of me asyour child. Besides, does human instinct go for nothing? If you were my father would I loathe these meetings? Would I shudder at your touch? Would my whole soul rise in rebellion against your persecutions?”
Her eyes flash upon him and the red blood mounts to her cheeks. In the excitement of the moment she has forgotten her fear. Her voice rises clear and ringing; and Papa Francoise, thinking of two possible listeners concealed not far away, utters a low “sh-h-h-h!”
“Not so loud, my child,” he says in an undertone; “not so loud. Ah! you ungrateful girl, we wanted to see you rich and happy, and this is how you thank us,” affecting profound grief. “These rich people have taught you to loathe your poor old father!”
He sinks upon the stool as if in utter dejection, wipes away an imaginary tear, and then resumes, in the same guarded tone:
“My dear child, when we gave you to the Ulimans we were very poor, and they were very rich,—a great deal richer than when they died, leaving you only a few thousands.”
“Whichyouhave already extorted from me! I have given you every dollar I possess and yet you live like beggars.”
“And wearebeggars, my child. Some unfortunate speculations have swept away all our little gains, and now—”
“And now you want more money,—the old story. Listen: you have called me to-night from my husband’s home, forced me to steal away from my guests like the veriest criminal, threatening to appear among them if I failed to come. At this moment you, who call yourself my father, stand there gloating and triumphant because of the power you hold over me. I knew you were capable of keeping your word, and rather than have my husband’s home desecrated by such presence as yours, I am here. But I have come for the last time—”
“No, my child, oh!—”
But she pays no heed to his expostulations.
“I have comefor the last time!” she says with fierce decision. “I have come to tell you that from this moment I defy you!”
“Softly, my dear; sh-h-h!”
His face, in spite of his efforts to retain its benign expression,is growing vindictive and cruel. He comes toward her with slow cat-like movements.
But she glides backward as he advances, and, putting the table between herself and him, she hurries on, never heeding that she has, by this movement, increased the distance from the outer door—and safety.
“You have carried your game too far!” she says. “When you first appeared before me, so soon after the loss of my adopted parents that it would seem you were waiting for that event—”
“So we were, my child,” he interrupts, “for we had promised not to come near you during their lifetime.”
“You had promisedneverto approach me,neverto claim me, as the documents I found among my mother’s—among Mrs. Uliman’s papers prove. Oh,” she cries, wringing her hands and lifting her fair face heavenward; “oh, my mother! my dear, sweet, gentle mother! Oh, my father! the truest, the tenderest a wretched orphan ever had on earth! that Death should takeyou, and Life bring me such creatures to fill your places! But they cannot, they never shall!”
“Oh, good Lord!” mutters Papa under his breath, “those fools upstairs will hear too much!”
But Leslie’s indignation has swallowed up all thought of caution, and her words pour out torrent-like.
“Oh, if I had but denounced you at the first!” she cries; “or forced you to prove your claim! Oh, if you had shown yourselvesthenin all your greed and heartlessness! But while I was Leslie Uliman, with only a moderate fortune, you were content to take what I could give, and not press what you are pleased to term yourclaimupon my affections. Affections! The word is mockery from your lips! In considerationof the large sums I paid you, you promised never to approach me in the future, and I, fool that I was, believing myself free from you, married David Warburton, only to find myself again your victim, to know you at last in all your baseness.”
Papa Francoise, unable to stem the tide of her eloquence, shows signs of anger, but she never heeds him.
“Since I became the wife of a rich man, you have been my constant torment and terror. Threatening and wheedling by turns, black-mailing constantly, you have drained my purse, you have made my life a burden. And I came here to-night to say, I will have no more of your persecution! All ofmymoney has been paid into your hands, but not one dollar of myhusband’swealth shall ever come to you from me. I swear it!”
The old man again moves nearer.
“Ah, ungrateful girl!” he cries, feigning the utmost grief; “ah, unkind girl!”
And his affectation of sorrow causes two unseen observers to grin with delight, and brings to Leslie’s countenance an expression of intense disgust.
Moving back as he approaches, she throws up her head with an impatient gesture, and the veil which has covered it falls to her shoulders, revealing even by that dim light, the glisten of jewels in her ears—great, gleaming diamonds, which she, in her haste and agitation, has forgotten to remove before setting out upon this unsafe errand.
It is a most unfortunate movement, for two pair of eyes are peering down from directly above her, and two pair of avaricious hands itch to clutch the shining treasures.
Obeying Papa’s instructions, Josef Siebel and the girlNance, had mounted the rickety stairway which they reached through a closet-like ante-room opening from the large one occupied by Papa and Leslie. And having stationed themselves near the top of the stairs they awaited there the coming of the lady who, surprised by their presence, was to proffer them hush-money with a liberal hand; but—