Mamma, Franz and Leslie arguing“Now mark my words: You will never find her. She will never see daylight again.”—page 354.
“Now mark my words: You will never find her. She will never see daylight again.”—page 354.
“Shet up, you! Ye’ve got somethin’ to do besides talk. D’ye mean to have her die on our hands?”
“‘Twon’t matter much, it seems.”
“I tell ye ’twill matter. Do ye think this thing’s settled? Not much. We’re goin’ ter bring her to terms yet, but she’s got ter be alive first.”
She turns upon him a look in which anger and admiration are curiously mingled.
“‘Tain’t no use, Franzy; that gal won’t give in now.”
“I tell ye she will. You’ve tried your hand; now I’ll try mine. Bring the girl out o’ this faint, an’ I’ll manage her. Do what ye can, then git yer doctor. Ye’d better not have him come here ef ye kin manage without him; but go see him, git what she needs, an’,” with a significant wink, “ye might say that she don’t rest well and git a few sleepin’ powders.”
“Franz,” chuckles Mamma, beginning her work of restoration with bustling activity, “ye ought to be a general. I’m proud of ye.”
Savage Mamma Francoise was not an unskillful nurse, and Leslie was soon restored to consciousness. But not to strength; the little that she had gained was spent by that long interview, with all its attendant conflicting emotions, and Leslie lay, strengthless once more, at the mercy of her enemies.
After much thinking, Mamma had decided that Franz hadoffered sound advice, and having exhausted her own resources, she set out to consult Doctor Bayless.
Her visit was in every way satisfactory. Doctor Bayless manifested no undue curiosity; seemed to comprehend the case as Mamma put it; prepared the necessary remedies, and spoke encouragingly of the patient.
“These relapses occur often after fevers,” he said; “the result of too much ambition. You understand about the drops, yes? These powders you will administer properly; not too often, remember. Careful nursing will do the rest. Ah, good-day.”
“Ye needn’t be afraid to take yer medicine,” said Mamma to her patient, coming to the bedside with a dose of the aforesaid “drops.” “‘Tain’t no part of my plans to let ye die. I intend to nurse ye through, but I tell ye plain that when ye’re better ye’ll have to settle this business with Franzy. When ye’re on yer feet agin, I’m goin’ to wash my hands of ye. But ye may not find Franz so easily got rid of, mind that.”
Realizing her helplessness, Leslie swallowed the drops and then lay back, pale and panting, upon her pillow. As the moments passed, she could feel the liquid coursing its way through her veins; her nerves ceased to quiver, a strange calm crept over her, her pulses throbbed quite steadily. She was very weak, but found herself able to think clearly.
Half an hour later, Doctor Bayless appeared upon the Francoise threshold, a small vial in his hand, a look of anxiety upon his countenance.
He pushed his way into the room, in spite of the less than half opened door, and Mamma’s lukewarm welcome. He seemed to notice neither. Still less did he concern himselfwith Papa and Franz, partaking of luncheon in the opposite corner of the room.
He addressed Mamma almost breathlessly.
Had the drops been administered?
Mamma replied in the affirmative.
Then he must see the patient at once. There had been a dangerous mistake. By some inadvertence he had exchanged two similar vials; he had given Mamma the wrong medicine. The resultmightprove fatal.
It was no time for parley or hesitation. Mamma promptly led the way to the inner room.
As Leslie greeted her visitor with a look of inquiry, Doctor Bayless, standing by the bedside, with his back to Mamma, put a warning forefinger upon his lips, his eyes meeting Leslie’s with a glance full of meaning.
“Keep perfectly quiet, young woman,” he said in his best professional tone. And as Mamma presented a chair, he seated himself close beside the bed and bent over his patient, seemingly intent upon her symptoms.
Presently he turned toward Mamma.
“I must have warm water; prepare it at once.” Then rising, he followed Mamma to the door, saying in a low tone: “Your patient must have perfect quiet; let there be no loud noise about the house. Now the water, if you please, and make haste.”
He turned and went back to the bedside, seated himself as before, and taking one of the patient’s hands, seemed intently marking every pulse-beat. A look of deep concern rested upon his face; and Mamma closed the door softly and went about her task.
“Old un,” began Franz, “ye’re gittin’ careless—”
“Sh!” whispered Mamma; “no noise.”
But Franz, with a crafty leer, left his place at the table and tiptoed to the door, where he crouched, applying alternately his eye and his ear to the keyhole, while Mamma busied herself at the fire.
But Franz caught no word from the inner room, for Doctor Bayless never once opened his lips. The watcher could see his large form bending over the bed, with one hand slightly upraised as if holding a watch, the other resting upon the wrist of the patient.
But Leslie saw more than this. Locked in that strange calm, she saw the doctor’s hand go to his side, and take from a pocket a card which quite filled his palm.
Holding this card so that Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face.
The card contained these words, closely written in a fine, firm hand:
Seem to submit to their plans. We can conquer in no other way. At the right time I shall be at hand, and no harm shall befall you. Let them play their game to the very last; it shall not go too far. Feign a continual stupor; they will believe it the result of drugs. Trust all to me, and believe your troubles almost over.Stanhope.
Seem to submit to their plans. We can conquer in no other way. At the right time I shall be at hand, and no harm shall befall you. Let them play their game to the very last; it shall not go too far. Feign a continual stupor; they will believe it the result of drugs. Trust all to me, and believe your troubles almost over.
Stanhope.
Three times did Leslie’s eyes peruse these words, and in spite of that powerful soothing draught, her composure almost forsook her. But she controlled herself bravely, and only by a long look of hopeful intelligence, and a very slight gesture, did she respond to this written message so sorely needed, so welcome, so fraught with hope.
When Mamma returned with the water, Leslie lay quiet among the pillows, her eyes half closed, and no trace of emotion in her face. But her heart was beating with a new impulse.That message had brought with it a comforting sense of protection, and of help near at hand.
The last instructions of Doctor Bayless, too, fell upon her ear with hopeful meaning, although they were spoken, apparently, for Mamma’s sole benefit.
“She is a trifle dull,” he said, turning from the bed and confronting Mamma. “It’s the result of that mistaken dose, in part. In part, it’s the natural outcome of her fever. It’s better for her; she will gain strength faster so. These powders”—depositing a packet of paper folds in Mamma’s hand,—“are to strengthen and to soothe. She must take them regularly. She will be a little dull under their influence, very docile and easy to manage, but she will gain strength quite rapidly. In a week, if she is not unnerved or excited, she should be able to be up, to be out.”
Once more he turned toward Leslie, and took her hand in his.
What Mamma saw, was a careful physician going through with a last professional formula. What Leslie felt, was a warm, reassuring hand-clasp, friendly rather than professional.
When he had gone, Leslie lay quiet, repeating over and over in her mind the words of Stanhope’s note, and feeling throughout her entire being a strong, new desire to live.
Dr. Bayless shows Leslie Stanhope's card“Holding this card so Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face.”—page 359.
“Holding this card so Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face.”—page 359.
Five weeks have passed since the fateful masquerade. Five weeks since Vernet and Stanhope entered, in rivalry, the service of Walter Parks, the bearded Englishman. Five weekssince that last named and eccentric individual set sail for far-off Australia.
Matters are moving slowly at the Agency. Van Vernet is seldom seen there now, and Stanhope is not seen at all.
In his private office the Chief of the detectives sits musing; not placidly, as is usual with him, but with a growing restlessness, and a dark frown upon his broad, high brow.
The thing which has caused the disquiet and the frown, lies upon the desk beside him, just under his uneasy right hand. A letter; a letter from California, from Walter Parks.
It was brief and business-like; it explained nothing; and it puzzled the astute Chief not a little.
John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine, and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the Arthur Pearson mystery.
John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine, and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the Arthur Pearson mystery.
Walter Parks had set out for Australia, drawn thither by an advertisement mentioning the name of Arthur Pearson. It had also contained the name of John Ainsworth; but this had seemed of secondary interest to the queer Englishman. He had distinctly stated that he knew nothing of John Ainsworth; had never seen him.
And yet here he was, if this letter were not a hoax, journeying eastward at that very moment, in company with this then unknown man.
Evidently, he had not visited Australia; that he could have done so was scarcely possible. And he was coming back with this John Ainsworth to urge on the search for the murderer of Arthur Pearson.
They would hope much, expect much, from Vernet and Stanhope. And what had been done?
Since the day when Stanhope had suddenly appeared in his presence, to announce his readiness to begin work upon the Arthur Pearson case, nothing had been heard from him.
“You will not see me again,” he had said, “until I can tell who killed Arthur Pearson.” And he was keeping his word.
Four weeks had passed since Stanhope had made his farewell announcement, and nothing was known of his whereabouts. Where was he? What was he doing? What had he done?
It was not like Stanhope to make sweeping statements. In proffering his services to Walter Parks, he had said: “I’ll do my level best for you.” But he had not promised to succeed. Why, then, had he said, scarce five days later: “I shall not return until I have found the criminal.”
What had he done, or discovered, or guessed at, during those intervening days?
Something, it must have been, or else—perhaps, after all, it was a mere defiance to Van Vernet; his way of announcing a reckless resolve to succeed or never return to own his failure. Dick Stanhope was a queer fellow, and hehadbeen sadly cut up by Vernet’s falling off.
The Chief gave up the riddle, and turned to his desk.
“I may as well leave Dick to his own devices,” he muttered, “but I’ll send for Vernet. He has kept shy enough of the office of late, but I know where to put my hand on him.”
As he reached out to touch the bell, some one tapped upon the door.
“Come in,” he called, somewhat impatiently.
It was the office-boy who entered and presented a card to the Chief.
“The gentleman is waiting?” queried the Chief, glancing at the name upon the bit of pasteboard.
“Yes, sir.”
“Admit him.”
Then he rose and stood to receive his visitor.
“Ah, Follingsbee, I’m glad it’s you,” extending his hand cordially. “Sit down, sit down.”
And he pushed his guest toward a big easy chair just opposite his own.
The little lawyer responded warmly to his friendly greeting, established himself comfortably in the chair indicated, and resting a hand upon either knee, smiled as he glanced about him.
“You seem pretty comfortable here,” he said, as his eye roved about the well-equipped private office. “Are you particularly busy just now?”
“I can be quite idle,” smiling slightly, “if you want a little of my leisure.”
The attorney gave a short, dry laugh.
“Do you talk at everybody over the top rail of a fence?” he asked. “I thought that belonged to us lawyers. The fact is that although this is not strictly a social call, it’s a call of minor importance. If you have business on hand, I can wait your leisure.”
The Chief leaned back in his chair and smiled across at his visitor.
“I don’t suppose you or I can ever be said to be free from business,” he responded. “I was just growing weary of my bit of mental labor; your interruption is quite welcome, even if it is not ‘strictly social.’ You are anxious to make an informal inquiry about the search for the lost child, I presume?”
“I should be glad to hear anything upon that subject, but that is not my errand.”
“Ah!” The Chief rested his head upon his hand, and looked inquiringly at hisvis-a-vis.
“I wanted,” said Mr. Follingsbee, taking out a huge pocket-book and deftly abstracting from it a folded envelope, “to show you a document, and ask you a question. This,” unfolding the envelope, “is the document.”
He smoothed it carefully and handed it to the other, who glanced over it blankly at first, then looked closer and with an expression of surprise.
“Did you write that letter?” queried Mr. Follingsbee.
“N-no.” He said it hesitatingly, and with the surprise fast turning to perplexity.
“Did you cause it to be written?”
The Chief spread the letter out before him on the desk, and slowly deciphered it.
“It’s my paper, and my envelope,” he said at last; “but it was never sent from this office.”
“Then you disown it?”
“Entirely. I hope you intend to tell me how it came into your possession.”
“It is written, as you see, to Mr. Warburton—”
“To Mr. Alan Warburton; yes.”
“Introducing one Mr. Grip, late of Scotland Yards.”
“I see.”
“Well, sir, Mr. Warburton received this note the day on which it was dated.”
The Chief glanced sharply at the date.
“And on that same day, Mr. Augustus Grip presented himself, stating that he was sent from this Agency, with full authorityto take such measures as he saw fit in prosecuting the search for the lost child.”
“Well?”
“The fellow began by being impertinent, ended by being insulting—and made his exit through the study window, his case closed.”
The Chief smiled slightly, then relapsed into meditation. After a brief silence, he said:
“Mr. Follingsbee, can’t you give me a fuller account of that interview between Mr. Warburton and this—this Mr. Grip?”
“No,” returns the lawyer, “no; I can’t—at present. There were some things said that made the visit a purely personal affair. The fellow gained access to the house through making use of your name, rather by seeming to. You see by that scrawl he was too clever to actually commit forgery.”
The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature and said:
“I see; sharp rascal.”
“I thought,” pursued the lawyer, “that it might interest you to hear of this affair. The fellow may try the trick again, and—”
“It does interest me, sir,” interrupts the other. “It interests me very much. May I keep this letter?”
“For the present, yes.”
“Thanks. I’ll undertake to find out who wrote it—very soon. And, having identified this impostor, I shall hope to hear more of his doings at Warburton Place.”
“For further information,” said Mr. Follingsbee, rising and taking up his hat, “I must refer you to Mr. Grip, or Mr. Warburton.”
Follingsbee shows the Chief Alan's letter“The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature, and said: “I see; sharp rascal.””—page 366.
“The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature, and said: “I see; sharp rascal.””—page 366.
And having finished his errand, Mr. Follingsbee made his adieu and withdrew.
When he was gone, the Chief sat gazing at the chair just vacated, and a curious smile crossed his lips.
“Follingsbee’s a clever lawyer,” he muttered; “maybe that’s why he is so poor a witness. There’s a stronger motive behind his friendly desire to warn me of poachers abroad. He was in a greater hurry to finish his errand than to begin it, and he was relieved when it was done. I wonder, now, why he didn’t ask me if therereally was such a person as Augustus Grip!”
After Mr. Follingsbee’s departure, the Chief of the detectives took up his work just where he had laid it down to receive his visitor.
Ringing the bell he summoned the bright-eyed boy who waited without, and said, as soon as the lad appeared in the doorway:
“You know where to look for Vernet, George?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to him as soon as possible; tell him I wish to see him at his earliest leisure; and you may wait a reasonable time, if he is out.”
When George had bowed and departed on his mission, the Chief opened his door and entered the outer office.
“Has Carnegie been in to-day?” he asked of a man seated at a desk between two tall windows.
“Not yet, sir.”
“Ah, then he will probably come soon. Send him in to me, Sanford.”
“Very well, sir.”
Others were seated about the room. He nodded silently to these, and went over to one of the windows near the desk occupied by the man he had addressed as Sanford.
For a few moments he seemed engaged with something going on in the street below, then he moved a step nearer, and leaned over Sanford’s desk.
“Find a pretext for coming to my room presently,” he said in a low tone. Then he took a careless survey of the letters and papers upon the desk, glanced out of the window once more, and went back to his den.
One or two of the loungers made some slight comment upon this quiet entrance and exit of their Chief.
But Sanford wrote on diligently for many minutes, folding and unfolding his letters and deeply absorbed in his task. Then something seemed to disturb him. He uttered an impatient syllable midway between a word and a grunt; read and re-read the contents of a sheet spread out before him; referred once and again to his book; and then, seemingly, gave it up, for he laid down his pen—at a less serious interruption, he would have stuck it behind his ear. He slid reluctantly off his stool, glanced once more over the troublesome sheet, and then, folding it carefully, carried it with a rueful face to the inner office.
Once within this apartment, the look of rueful reluctance vanished. He slipped the troublesome document into hisbreast-pocket, and smiled as he seated himself in the chair indicated by his superior.
“Sanford,” began the latter, “I want to ask about your office regulations, rather your habits. Our boys do much of their letter writing there, eh?”
“They do some of it; yes sir.”
“There is always stationery at the desk for their use?”
“Certainly, sir.” Sanford’s none too expressive face began to lengthen a trifle.
“Does any one not connected with the office, but who happens in upon some errand or some matter of business, ever find it convenient to write at the table or the desks?”
“I don’t think any one ever did so, except in cases where the writing was done at our requests, or in some way in the interests of business.”
“That is what I thought. Now, Sanford, our paper, that which is intended solely for business purposes and which has our letter head—is that accessible to any one in the office?”
“No, sir,” said Sanford, a trifle coldly; “your orders were otherwise.”
“Very good, Sanford. I am not about to find fault with you, my boy, but tell me if any one—any one connected with the office, I mean, who is there habitually, and is not supposed to need watching—could not one of our own people get possession of a sheet or two of our business tablets, if he tried?”
“If you mean our own fellows,” said Sanford slowly, “I suppose there are half a dozen of our boys who could steal that paper from under my very nose, if they liked, even if I stood on guard. But no stranger has access to my desk, and there’s no other way of getting it fromthatoffice.”
“Well,” responded his Chief, “it’s also the only way ofgetting it from mine. Nevertheless, Sanford, somebody has possessed himself of a sheet or two, and used it for fraudulent purposes.”
Sanford stared, but said nothing.
“Now,”—the chief grew involuntarily more brisk and business-like—“we must clear this matter up. You can give me samples of the handwriting of every one of our men, can’t you?”
“I suppose I can, sir, of one sort or another; letters, reports—”
“Samples of any sort will do, Sanford. Let me have them as soon as possible.”
Sanford arose, hesitated, and then said:
“If you would trust me, sir, I might—but you have sent for Carnegie?”
“Yes; it’s about this business. What were you going to say, Sanford?”
“I know all their hands so well, sir, I was about to offer my services, but—”
“It’s a good idea; thank you, thank you. I think I’ll give you both a chance at it. Now, bring me the specimens, Sanford. We will talk this over again.”
In half an hour, Carnegie presented himself. He was a small, old man, with a shrewd face and keen, intelligent eye.
“I’ve got some work for you, Carnegie,” began the Chief, waiving all ceremony. “It’s of the kind you like, too.”
“Ah!” Carnegie dropped his hat upon a chair, rubbed his hands softly together and smiled upon his patron, looking as if at that instant ready and anxious to pounce upon any piece of work that was “of the kind he liked.”
“It’s a forgery on this office,” went on the Chief, as quietlyas if he had said, it’s an invitation to tea. “And you’ll have a variety of handwritings to gloat over; Sanford is looking them up.”
“Ah!” said Carnegie, and that was all. Some men could not have said more in a folio.
As Carnegie passed out of the Chief’s office, the boy, George, entered it. He had found Mr. Vernet, and that gentleman would present himself right away.
And he did, almost at the heels of his herald; scrupulously dressed, upright, handsome, and courteous as usual.
Perfectly aware as he was that his Chief had not summoned him there without a motive, and tolerably sure that this motive was out of the regular business routine, his countenance was as serene as if he were entering a ball-room, his manner just as calm and courtly.
“I hope I have not interfered with any manœuvre of yours, Van,” said the Chief, smiling as he proffered his hand.
“Not at all, sir. I was just in and preparing for an hour or two of rest.” And Vernet pressed the outstretched hand. “I am glad of this opportunity, sir.”
“The fact is—” began the Chief, after Vernet had ensconced himself in the chair opposite his own—“the fact is, I want to talk over this Englishman’s business a little, in a confidential way.”
“Yes?” The change that crossed Vernet’s face was scarcely perceptible.
“You see, just between us, I have no report from Stanhope, and none from you. And I want, very much, to get some new idea on the subject, soon.”
Vernet scanned his face for a moment, then:
“You have heard something,” he said, withdrawing his gaze slowly.
The Chief laughed. This answer, put not as a question, but as a statement of a fact, pleased him.
“Yes,” he said, “I have heard something. The Englishman is coming back. I have a letter from him. It is somewhat mysterious, but it says that he is on his way here, accompanied by one John Ainsworth.”
“John Ainsworth?”
“Supposed to be the father of the child mentioned in the advertisement from Australia,”
“Yes; I see.”
“Well, Idon’tsee anything clearly, except this: These two men will come down upon us presently; they will want to hear something new—”
“Their affair is twenty years old; do they expect us to get to the bottom of it in five weeks?”
“Well, not that exactly, but I think they will expect us to have organized—to have hit upon some theory and plan of action.”
“Oh,” said Vernet, “as to that, I have my theory—but it is for my private benefit as yet. As to what I have done, it is not much, but it is—”
“Something? a step?”
“Yes; it is a step. I have found, or I know where to find, one of the ten men who composed that Marais des Cygnes party.”
“Good! I call that more than a step.”
“I may as well tell you that I have worked through a ’tracker.’ You know how much I am interested in that other affair.”
“The Sailor business? yes.”
“It seemed to me,” continued Vernet, “that I might succeed there by doing the hard work myself, and that this other matter, in its present stage, might be worked out by an intelligent ’inquirer.’ So I adopted this plan. I think my murder case is almost closed. I hope to have my hand upon the fellow soon. Then I can give all my time to this other case.”
“So!” gazing admiringly at the handsome face opposite him. “I’m glad of your success, Van. I suppose, at the right time, you will let me into the ‘true inwardness’ of the Sailor business?”
“I should have been under obligation to do that long ago, if you had not been so good as to leave it all to my discretion.”
“True. Well, I find that it’s not unsafe to leave these things to you and Stanhope. You both work best untrammelled. Has this fellow given you much trouble?”
Vernet smiled. “Plenty of it,” he said. “But in playing his last trick, he bungled. He had dodged me beautifully, and had left me under the impression that he had sailed for Europe.”
“Ah!”
“Of course I wired to the other side. He had sailed in company with a lady, handsome and young. He was also good-looking and a young man.”
“Well?”
“When the two arrived on the other side, they turned out to be—an old man aged sixty-five, and a child, aged ten.”
“Oh!” said the Chief, as though he enjoyed the situation; “a clever rascal!”
“Well, I know where to look for him now—when I need him. I want to run down an important witness; then I shall make the arrest.”
“Good! We will have the particulars at that time. And now about this Englishman’s case; put what your ‘tracker’ has done into a report—or do you intend to work in the dark, like Stanhope?”
“Ah, what is Stanhope about?”
“I don’t know. He took his time; has not been seen or heard of here for four weeks.”
Vernet tapped the desk beside him, and looked thoughtfully at hisvis-a-vis.
“Stanhope’s a queer fish,” he said abstractedly; “a queer fish.” Then, rising, he added: “I will send my report to-morrow.”
“Very good.”
“And I shall not follow Stanhope’s example. Once I am fairly entered into the case, I shall send my reports regularly.”
“I’m glad of that,” said his Chief, rising and following him to the door. “Under the circumstances, I’m glad of that.”
Late in the afternoon of the day following that on which Carnegie the Expert had received his commission from the Chief of the detectives, he appeared again in the presence of that personage.
He carried his “documents” in a small packet, which he laid upon the desk, and he turned upon the Chief a face as cheerful and as full of suppressed activity as usual.
“Well?” queried the Chief, glancing down at the packet, “have you done?”
“Yes;” beginning to open the packet with quick, nervous fingers.
“And you found—” He paused and looked up at the Expert.
Carnegie took from the packet the letter addressed to Alan Warburton, and written in the scrawling, unreadable hand. This he spread open upon the desk. Then he took another letter, written in an elegant hand, and with various vigorous ornamental flourishes. This he laid beside the first, pushing the remaining letters carelessly aside as if they were of no importance.
“I find—” he said, looking hard at the Chief, and putting one forefinger upon the elegant bit of penmanship, the other upon the unreadable scrawl;—“I find that these two were written by the same hand.”
The Chief leaned forward; he had not been able to see the writing from the place in which he sat. He leaned closer and fixed his eyes upon the two signatures. The one he had seen before; the other was signed—Vernet.
Slowly he withdrew his eyes from the signature, and turned them upon the face of the Expert.
“Carnegie,” he asked, “do you ever make a mistake?”
“I?” Carnegie’s look said the rest.
“Because,” went on the Chief, scarcely noticing Carnegie’s indignant exclamation, “if youevermade a mistake, I should say, I should wish to believe, that this was one.”
“It’s no mistake,” replied the Expert grimly. “I never saw a clearer case.”
Carnegie has examined the letter and discusses it with the Chief“Carnegie, do you ever make a mistake?”—page 376.
“Carnegie, do you ever make a mistake?”—page 376.
The Chief passed his hand across his brow, and seemed tomeditate, while the Expert gathered up the heap of letters and arranged them once more into a neat packet.
“If you are still in doubt,” he said tartly, “you might try—somebody else.”
“No, no, Carnegie,” replied the Chief, rousing himself, “you are right, no doubt. You must be right.”
Carnegie snapped a rubber band about the newly-arranged packet, and tossed it down beside the two letters.
“Then,” he said, taking up his hat, “I suppose you have no further use for me?”
“Not at present, Carnegie.”
The Expert turned sharply, and without further ceremony whisked out of the room.
For some moments the Chief sat wrinkling his brow and gazing upon the two letters outspread before him.
Then he took up the elegantly-written epistle, folded it carefully, and thrust it in among those in the rubber-bound packet. This done he rang his bell, and called for Sanford.
The latter came promptly, and stood mutely before his Chief.
“Sanford,” said that gentleman, pointing to the packet upon the table, “you may try your hand as an Expert.”
“How, sir?”
“Take those letters, and this,” pushing forward the outspread scrawl, “and see if you can figure out who wrote it.”
Sanford took up the packet, looked earnestly at his superior, and hesitated.
“Carnegie has given his opinion,” said the Chief, in answer to this look. “I want to see how you agree.”
Sanford took up the scrawl, scanned it slowly, folded it and slipped it underneath the rubber of the packet.
“Is that all, sir?” he asked quietly.
“That is all. Take your time, Sanford; take your time.”
Sanford bowed and went slowly from the room.
A few moments longer the Chief sat thinking, a look of annoyance upon his face. Then he slowly arose, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a small, thick diary, reseated himself.
“I must review this business,” he muttered. “There’s something about it that I don’t—quite—understand.”
He turned the leaves of the diary quickly, running the pages backward, until he reached those containing an account of the events of one or two days five weeks old upon the calendar. Here he singled out the notes concerning the Raid and its results, following which were the outlines of the accounts of that night as given him by Vernet and Stanhope.
Now, in giving his account of that night, Van Vernet had said little of his experience with Alan Warburton, and at the masquerade. And in giving his account of the Raid and its failure, he had omitted the fact that he had accepted and used “Silly Charlie” as a guide, speaking of him only as a spy and rescuer. Hence the Chief had gained anything but a correct idea of the part actually played by this bogus idiot.
On the other hand, Stanhope had described at length the events of the masquerade, as they related to himself, but had said little concerning Leslie and the nature of the service she required of him, referring to her only as Mr. Follingsbee’s client. He had related his misadventures with the Troubadour and the Chinaman, leaving upon their shoulders the entire blame of his failure and non-appearance at the Raid. And hehad never once mentioned Vernet’s presence, nor the part the latter had played to gain the precedence with his Chief.
In thus omitting important facts, each had his motive; and the omissions had not, at the time, been noted by the Chief. Now, however, as he read and re-read his memoranda—recalling to mind how he had shared with Vernet his chagrin at the failure of the Raid, and laughed with Stanhope over his comical mishaps—he seemed to read something between the lines, and his face grew more and more perplexed as he closed the diary, and sat intently thinking.
“There’s a mystery here that courts investigation,” he muttered, as he arose at last and put away the diary. “I’d give something, now, for twenty minutes’ talk with Dick Stanhope.”
Early on the following morning, Sanford presented himself before his Chief, the bundle of letters in his hand, and a troubled look upon his face.
“Well, Sanford, is it done?”
“I wish,” said Sanford, as he placed the packet upon the table, “I wish it had never been begun—at least by me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to believe the evidence of my senses.”
“There’s a sentiment for a detective! Out with it man; what have you found?”
Sanford took two papers from his pocket and held them in his hand irresolutely.
“I hope I am wrong,” he said; “if I am—”
“If you are, it will rest between us two. Out with it, now.”
“There’s only one man among us that I can trace this letter to,” beginning to unfold the troublesome scrawl, “and he—” He opened the second paper and laid it before his Chief.
The latter dropped his eyes to the vexatious paper and said, mechanically: “Vernet!”
“I’m sorry,” began Sanford, regretfully. “I tried—”
“You need not be,” interrupted the Chief. “It’s Carnegie’s verdict too.”
Sanford sat down in the nearest seat, and looked earnestly at his Chief, saying nothing.
After a moment of silence, the latter said:
“Sanford, I want Vernet shadowed.”
Sanford started and looked as if he doubted his own ears.
“I don’t want him interfered with,” went on the Chief slowly, “and watching him will be a delicate job; but I wish it done. I want to be informed of every move he makes. You must manage this business. I shall depend upon you.”
The Chief of the detectives was now furnished with ample food for thought, but the opportunity for meditation seemed remote.
While he sat pondering over the discovery of Carnegie and Sanford, two visitors were announced: Walter Parks, the English patron of Stanhope and Vernet, and John Ainsworth, the returned Australian.
An accident of travel had thrown these two together, almost at the moment when one was landing from, and the otherabout to embark for, Australia. And the name of John Ainsworth, boldly displayed upon some baggage just set on shore, had put Walter Parks on the scent of its owner. The two men were not slow in understanding each other.
As they now sat in the presence of the Chief, these two men with faces full of earnestness and strength, he mentally pronounced them fine specimens of bronzed and bearded middle age.
Walter Parks was tall and athletic, without one ounce of flesh to spare: with dark features, habitually stern in their expression; a firm chin, and well-developed upper cranium, that made it easy for one to comprehend how naturally and obstinately the man might cling to an idea, or continue a search, for more than twice twenty years; and how impossible it would be for him to abandon the one or lose his enthusiasm for the other.
John Ainsworth was cast in a different mould. Less tall than the Englishman, and of fuller proportions, his face was not wanting in strength, but it lacked the rugged outlines that distinguished the face of the other; his once fair hair was almost white, and his regular features wore a look of habitual melancholy. It was the face of a man who, having lost some great good out of his life, can never forget what that life might have been, had this good gift remained.
“I received your letter,” the Chief said, after a brief exchange of formalities, “but I failed to understand it, Mr. Parks, and was finally forced to conclude that you may have written a previous one—”
“I did,” interrupted the Englishman.
“Which I never received,” finished the Chief. “I supposed you voyaging toward Australia, if not already there.”
“I wrote first,” said Walter Parks, “to notify you of our accidental meeting, and that we would set out immediately for this city. And I wrote again to tell you of Mr. Ainsworth’s sudden illness, and our necessary delay.”
“Those two letters I never saw.”
“I shall be sorry for that,” broke in John Ainsworth, “if their loss will cause us delay, or you inconvenience.”
“The non-arrival of those two letters has made the third something of a riddle to me,” said the Chief. “But that being now solved, I think no further mischief has been or will be done.”
Then followed further explanations concerning the meeting of the two, and John Ainsworth’s fever, which, following his ocean voyage, made a delay in San Francisco necessary.
“It was a tedious illness to me;” said the Australian. “Short as it was, it seemed never-ending.”
And then, at the request of the Chief, John Ainsworth told his story: briefly, but with sufficient clearness.
“I was a young man,” he said, “and filled with the spirit of adventure, when I went West, taking my youthful wife with me. It was a hard life for a woman; but it was her wish to go and, indeed, I would have left her behind me very unwillingly. We prospered in the mining country. My wife enjoyed the novelty of our new life, and we began to gather about us the comforts of a home. Then little Lea was born.”
He paused a moment and sighed heavily.
“My wife was never well again. She drooped and faded. When Lea was six months old, she died, and I buried her at the foot of her favorite mountain. I put my baby into the care of one of the women of the settlement—it was the best I could do,—and I lived on as I might. But the place grewhateful to me. There was one man among the rest whose friendship I prized, and after the loss of my wife I clung to him as if he were of my own blood. His name was Arthur Pearson.”
Again the narrator paused, and the eyes of the two listeners instinctively sought each other.
“Pearson was younger than I, and was never rugged like most of the men who lived that wild life. And after a time I saw that he, too, was failing. He grew thin and began to cough dismally. Pearson was very fond of my baby girl; and sometimes we would sit and talk of her future, and wish her away from that place, where she must grow up without the knowledge and graces of refined civilization.
“As Pearson became worse, he began to talk of going back to the States, and much as I would miss him, I strongly advised him to go. At last when he had fully decided to do so, he made me a proposition: If I would trust my baby to him, he would take her back and put her in the care of my sister, who had no children of her own, and who was just the one to make of little Lea all that a woman should be. I knew how gladly she would watch over my daughter, and after I had thought upon the matter, I decided to send Lea to her, under the guardianship of Pearson. As I look back, I can see my selfishness. I should have gone with Arthur and the child. But my grief was too fresh; I could not bear to turn my face homeward alone. I wanted change and absorbing occupation, and I had already decided to dispose of my mining interest, and go to Australia.
“I found a nurse for my baby girl; a woman in our little community, who had lost her husband in a mine explosion a few months before. She was glad of an opportunity to returnto her friends, and I felt sure that I could trust her with Lea. So they set out for the East, and I made preparations for my journey, while waiting to hear that Pearson and the train were safely beyond the mountains and most dangerous passes.
“They had been gone some two weeks when a train came in from the East, and among them was Mrs. Marsh, the nurse. The two trains had met just beyond the range, and Mrs. Marsh had found among the emigrants some of her friends and towns-people. The attraction was strong enough to cause her to turn about, and I may as well dispose of her at once by saying that she shortly after married one of her new-found friends.
“She told me that Pearson had joined a train which crossed their trail the morning after the meeting of the first two parties, and before they had broken camp. This train was going through by the shortest route, as fast as possible; and Pearson had found among the women one who would take charge of little Lea. She brought me a letter from him.”
“Did you preserve the letter?” interrupted the Chief.
“I did; it has never been out of my possession, for it was the last I ever heard of Pearson or my little Lea, until—” He paused and glanced toward the Englishman.
“Until you met Mr. Parks?” supplemented the Chief.
“Yes.”
“I should like to see that letter,” said the Chief.
The Australian took from his breast an ample packet, and from its contents extracted a worn and faded paper. As he handed it to the Chief there was a touch of pathos in his voice.
“It is more than twenty years old,” he said.
The writing was in a delicate, scholarly hand, much faded, yet legible.