“The best-laid plans of men and mice gang aft agleg.”
“The best-laid plans of men and mice gang aft agleg.”
And Papa Francoise has not anticipated the spirited outbreak with which Leslie has astonished him. Startled by this, and fearful that; by a false move, he should entirely lose his power over her, he has made feeble efforts to stay the flow of her speech and neglected to give the signal for which the concealed sneak thieves have waited, until it was too late.
Crouched on the floor near the stairway, the two thieves have heard the entrance of Leslie, heard the hum of conversation, low and indistinct at first, until the voice of Leslie, rising high and clear, startled Siebel into a listening attitude. Touching Nance on the arm, he begins slowly to drag himself along the floor to where a faint ray of light tells him there is a place of observation.
The floor is exceedingly dilapidated, and the ceiling below warped and sieve-like; and, having reached the chink in the floor, Siebel finds himself able to look directly down upon Leslie as she stands near the table.
In another moment Nance is beside him, and then the two faces are glued to the floor, their eyes taking in the scene below, their ears listening greedily.
At first they listen with simple curiosity; then with astonished interest; then with intense satisfaction at Papa’s evident discomfiture, for they hate him as the slave ever hates his tyrant.
When the veil falls from Leslie’s head, Siebel’s quick eye is the first to catch the shine of the diamonds in her ears. He stifles an exclamation, looks again, and then grasps the arm of his confederate:
“Nance,” he whispers eagerly, “Nance, look—in her ears.”
The girl peers down, and fairly gasps.
“Shiners!” she whispers; “ah, they make my eyes water!”
“They make my fingers itch,” he returns; “d’ye twig, gal?”
“Eh?”
Drawing her away from the aperture, he says, in a hoarse whisper:
“Gal, I’ve got a plan that’ll lay over old Beelzebub’s down there, if we kin only git the chance ter play it. See here, Nance, are ye willin’ to make a bold stroke fer them shiners?”
“How?”
“By surprisin’ ’em. If I’ll floor the old man, can’t you tackle the gal?”
Nance takes a moment for consideration; they exchange a few more whispered words and then begin to creep stealthily toward the stairway.
While the thieves are gazing upon her from above, Leslie Warburton, unconscious of this new danger that threatens her, replaces her veil and continues to address the old man.
“Once more, and for the last time,” she pleads, “I ask you to tell me the truth. Give up this claim of kinship. Ifyou were my father, something in my heart would tell me so; God has not created me lower than the brutes. What do you know of my parentage? You must possess some knowledge. Man, I would go upon my knees to you to learn the truth!”
Papa is silent a moment, then he begins to cough violently. It is the signal for the two thieves to enter, but they do not respond as promptly as Papa could wish.
“My child,” he begins feebly, but leaves the sentence unfinished at the sound of a double knock upon the door.
“Ah-h-h!” he cries with evident relief, “here comes your mother; she can tell you how wrong you are.”
And he hastens to admit an old woman, literally lost in an ample old-fashioned cloak, and bearing in her arms a long and apparently heavy bundle.
“Ah,” says the old hypocrite, “here you are at last, after being at the toil of the poor. Come in, old woman, here is our proud girl come to see us.” Then as his eyes rest upon the bundle, he grasps her wrist and hisses in her ear: “You old fool! to bringthathere.”
“I had to do it,” she retorts in a whisper; “there are cops in the alleys.”
With a fierce gesture toward the rear door, Papa seizes the bundle, saying:
“Why, it is very heavy; old iron, I suppose; and how horrid those old rags smell. We must take them away, old woman.”
And with a jerk of the head which, evidently, she understands, he turns toward the aforementioned door, and they bear the big bundle out between them.
Perhaps it is the flickering light, perhaps it is her disordered fancy, but as they bear their burden through the doorway,Leslie Warburton half believes that she sees it move. A moment later she starts forward, her face blanched, her eyes distended.
“Oh, am I losing my senses?” she cries, “ordidI hear a child’s voice, a voice like my little Daisy’s, calling ‘mamma?’”
A moment she listens, but no child’s voice breaks the stillness; even Papa and Mamma Francoise are silent in the room without.
A sudden feeling of terror possesses Leslie.
“Oh, these wicked people are driving me mad!” she murmurs brokenly. “Anythingis better than this. I will go home and confess all to my husband. I will brave the worst, rather than be so tortured!”
Drawing her cloak about her, she makes a step toward the door.
Only a single step, for strong hands seize her from behind, and, uttering a shriek of terror, she sees a ferocious face close to her own, feels a clutch upon her throat, and is struggling between two fierce assailants.
“Get on to the shiners, gal,” commands Siebel, as he pinions her arms with his powerful hands.
Again Leslie utters a cry for help, and what follows is the work of a moment.
The outer door, left unbarred after the entrance of Mamma Francoise, is dashed open and a man attired as a sailor bounds into the room. At the same moment Papa and Mamma Francoise rush upon the scene.
“Stop, Josef, you demon, stop!” cries Papa wildly, and scarce noticing the stranger in their midst; while the sailor, without uttering a word, hurls himself upon Leslie’s assailants.
Then follows a moment of confusion, a wild struggle for the mastery, which ends soon in a horrible tableau.
Near the door stands Papa Francoise, his face livid, his teeth chattering, his foot poised for instant flight. In the corner, borne down by the force and fury of Mamma Francoise, the girl, Nance, lies prostrate, her throat still in the clutch of the virago, whose face bears bloody evidence that Nance has not succumbed without a struggle. In the center of the room stands Alan Warburton, one arm supporting the half fainting form of Leslie, the other hanging limp by his side; and at his feet, ghastly and horrible, lies the form of Josef Siebel, his skull crushed out of all semblance to humanity, and a bar of rusty iron lying close beside him.
There is a moment of awful stillness in the room.
Then Leslie Warburton’s strong nature asserts itself. Withdrawing from Alan’s supporting arm, she fixes her eyes upon his face.
“Oh, Alan,” she says, “you followed—”
“I followed you? Yes,” he answers sternly. “Hush!” as she is about to speak, “this is no time for words.”
There is a shout from the street, and the sound of approaching footsteps. Papa Francoise seems galvanized into new life.
“The police!” he cries, springing through the door by which he has lately entered. Mamma Francoise, releasing her hold upon the girl, Nance, bounds up in affright, and hurries after her partner in iniquity; while Nance, who evidently fears her less than she dreads the police, loses no time in following the pair, leaving Alan and Leslie alone, with the dead man at their feet.
Alan and Leslie, Mamma Francoise and Nance, and Papa Francoise“There is a moment of awful stillness in the room.”—page 130.
“There is a moment of awful stillness in the room.”—page 130.
The approaching footsteps come nearer, and Alan, seizingLeslie by the arm, drags her toward the door by which the others have escaped.
“Go!” he says fiercely, “the police are coming; go, for the sake of the name you bear, for your husband’s sake, go!go!go!”
As he forces her resisting form across the threshold she turns upon him a face of piteous appeal.
“Alan! And you—”
His lip curls scornfully.
“I am not awoman,” he says impatiently; “go, or—”
Some one is entering at the outer doorway. He pushes her fiercely out into the rear room, from which he knows there is a means of exit, closes the door, and turns swiftly to face the intruders.
Silly Charlie has crossed the threshold just in time to see Leslie as she disappears through the opposite door. He has one swift glimpse of the fair vanishing face, and then turns suddenly, and with a sound indicative of extreme terror, brings himself into violent contact with Van Vernet who is close behind.
Before he has so much as obtained a glimpse of the scene, Vernet finds his legs flying from under him, and in another moment is rolling upon the floor, closely locked in the embrace of Silly Charlie, who, in his terror, seems to mistake him for an enemy.
When he has finally released himself from the grasp of the seeming idiot, and is able to look about him, Van Vernet sees only a dead man upon the floor, and a living one standing at bay, with his back against a closed door, a deal table before him serving as barricade, and, in his hand, a bar of rusty iron. There is no trace of the Francoises, and nothing to indicate the recent presence of Leslie Warburton.
Struggling away from the embrace of Silly Charlie, and bringing himself slowly to his feet, Vernet says angrily:
“You confounded idiot, what do you mean?”
But the “idiot” only sits upon the floor and stares stupidly, and Vernet turns from him to glance about the room. At sight of the dead man he starts eagerly forward.
“What’s this?” he queries sharply, glancing down at the body and drawing a pistol with a quick movement. “A murder!” And he levels the weapon at Alan, dropping upon one knee, at the same instant, and with the unoccupied hand touching the face of the dead man. “A murder! yes; and just committed. Don’t you stir, my man,” as Alan makes a slight movement, “I’m a dead shot. This is your work, and it seems that we heard this poor fellow’s death-cry. Skull crushed in. Done by that bar of iron in your hand, of course. Well, you won’t crack any more skulls withthat.”
While Vernet delivers himself thus, Alan Warburton is thinking vigorously, his eyes, meanwhile, roving about the room in search of some avenue of escape other than the door over which he stands guard, and through which, he is resolved, the detective shall not pass, at least until Leslie has made good her escape from the vicinity. He is unarmed, save for the bar of iron, but he is no coward, and he resolves to make a fight for Leslie’s honor and his own liberty.
Gazing thus about him he sees the seeming idiot rise from his crouching posture and creep behind Vernet, beginning, over that officer’s shoulder, a series of strange gestures.
Shaking his fist defiantly behind Vernet’s left ear, in token, Alan conjectures, of his opposition to that gentleman, he makes a conciliatory gesture towards Alan. And then, placing his fingers upon his lips, he shakes his head, and points again toVernet, who now rises from his examination of the body, and calls over his shoulder:
“Charlie, come here.”
Leering and laughing, Charlie comes promptly forward.
“Ugh!” he says, making a detour around the body of Siebel, “Charlie was scared. Charlie don’t like dead folks.” And he plants himself squarely before Vernet, grinning and staring at Alan the while.
“Out of my range, fool!” cries Vernet angrily. And then, as Charlie springs aside with absurd alacrity, he says to Alan: “Fellow, throw down that iron.”
But Alan Warburton gives no sign that he hears the command. He has not recognized the voice of Vernet, and is not aware of the man’s identity, but he has an instinctive notion that his address will not be in keeping with his nautical costume, and he is not an adept at dissimulation.
“You won’t eh?” pursues Vernet mockingly. “You are very mum? and no wonder.”
“Mum, mum,” chants Silly Charlie, approaching Alan with gingerly steps, and peering curiously into his face.
Then bending suddenly forward he whispers quickly: “Keep mum!” and bursting into an idiotic laugh,pirouettesback to the side of Vernet.
“Charlie,” says Vernet suddenly, and without once removing his eyes from Alan’s face, “put your hand in my side pocket—no, no! the other one,” as Charlie makes a sudden dive into the pocket nearest him. “That’s right; now pull out the handcuffs, and take out the rope.”
Charlie obeys eagerly, and examines the handcuffs with evident delight.
“Charlie” says Vernet, “you and I have got to make thisman a prisoner. If we do, you will get your star and uniform.”
“Hooray!” cries Charlie, fairly dancing with delight. “Gimme, gum—gimme knife!”
“Why, the blood-thirsty fool!” exclaims Vernet. “No, no, Charlie; we must put on these handcuffs, and rope his feet.”
“Hoop la!” cries Charlie; “gimme rope.”
Seizing the rope from Vernet’s hand, he advances toward Alan, gesticulating savagely. Suddenly Alan raises the iron bar and menaces him. Charlie stops a moment, then flinging aside the rope he makes a swift spring, hurling himself upon Alan with such sudden force that the latter loses his guard for a moment, and then Van Vernet is upon him. He makes such resistance as a brave man may, when he has a single hand for defence and two against him, but he is borne down, handcuffed, and bound.
As he lies fettered and helpless, in close proximity to the murdered sneak thief, Alan Warburton’s eyes rest wonderingly upon Silly Charlie, for during the struggle that strange genius has contrived to whisper in his ear these words:
“Don’t resist—keep silence—we are gaining time for her!”
“Charlie,” says Vernet, “that’s a good bit of work, and I’m proud of you. Now, let’s make our prisoner more comfortable.”
Together they lift Alan, and place him in a chair near the centre of the room. Then, finding it impossible to make him open his lips, Van Vernet begins a survey of the premises.
“We must get one or two of my men here,” he says, after a few moments of silent investigation. “Charlie, can I trust you to go back to the place where we left them?”
Charlie nods confidently, and makes a prompt movement toward the door. Then suddenly he stops and points upward with a half terrified air.
“Some one’s up there,” he whispers.
“What’s that, Charlie?”
“Somebody’s there. Charlie heard ’em.”
Van Vernet hesitates a moment, looks first at the prisoner, then at Charlie, and slowly draws forth his dark lantern.
“I’ll go up and see,” he says half reluctantly, and making his pistol ready for use. “Watch the prisoner, Charlie.”
But Silly Charlie follows Vernet’s movements with his eyes until he has passed through the low door leading to the stairway. Then, gliding stealthily to the door, he assures himself that Vernet is already half-way up the stairs. The next moment he is standing beside the prisoner.
“Hist, Mr. Warburton!”
“Ah! who—,” Alan Warburton checks himself suddenly.
“Hush!” says this strangest of all simpletons, in a low whisper, at the same moment beginning to work rapidly at the rope which binds Alan’s feet. “Be silent and act as I bid you; I intend to help you out of this. There,” rising and searching about his person, “the ropes are loosened, you can shake them off in a moment. Now, the darbies.”
He produces a key which unlocks the handcuffs.
“Now, you are free, but remain as you are till I give you the signal,—ah!”
The tiny key has slipped through his fingers and fallen to the floor. It is just upon the edge of the scrap of dirty carpet; as he stoops to take it up, it catches in a fringe, and in extricating it the carpet becomes a trifle displaced.
Something underneath it strikes the eye of the seemingidiot. He bends closer, and then drags the carpet quite away, seizes the candle, and springs the trap which he has just discovered. Holding the candle above the opening, he looks down, and then, with a low chuckle, spreads the carpet smoothly over it, rises to his feet, and listens.
He hears footsteps crossing the rickety floor above. Van Vernet, having failed to find what he sought for aloft, is about to descend.
Stepping quickly to Alan’s side, Silly Charlie whispers:
“Fortune favors us. We have got Vernet trapped.”
“Vernet!” Alan Warburton starts and the perspiration comes out on his forehead.
Is this man who is his captor, Van Vernet? Heavens! what a complication, what a misfortune! And this other,—this wisest of all idiots, who calls him by name; who knows the reason for his presence, then, perhaps, knows Leslie herself; who, without any motive apparent, is acting so strange a part, who ishe?
Mentally thanking the inspiration which led him to retain his incognito while negotiating with Van Vernet, Alan’s eyes still follow the movements of Silly Charlie.
As he gazes, Vernet enters the room, a look of disappointment and disgust upon his face.
“Charlie, you were scared at the rats,” he says; “there’s nothing else there.”
The trap is directly between him and the prisoner, and as he walks toward it, Silly Charlie fairly laughs with delight.
“What are you—”
The sentence is never finished. Vernet’s foot has pressed the yielding carpet; he clutches the air wildly, and disappears like a clown in a pantomine.
“Now,” whispers Silly Charlie, “off with your fetters, Warburton, and I will guide you out of this place. You are not entirely safe yet.”
Up from the trap comes a yell loud enough to waken the seven sleepers, and suddenly, from without, comes an answering cry.
“It’s Vernet’s men,” says Silly Charlie. “Now, Warburton, your safety depends upon your wind and speed. Come!”
Guided by Silly Charlie, Alan Warburton finds himself hurrying through crooked streets and dismal alleys, for what seems to him an interminable distance. Now they run forward swiftly; now halt suddenly, while Charlie creeps ahead to reconnoiter the ground over which they must go. At last they have passed the Rubicon, and halting at the corner of a wider street than any they have as yet traversed, Alan’s strange guide says,
“You are tolerably safe now, Mr. Warburton; at least you are not likely to be overtaken by Vernet or his men. You are still a long distance from home, however, and possibly the way is unfamiliar. I would pilot you further, but must hurry back to see how Vernet is coming out.”
Vernet drops through the floor“Vernet’s foot has pressed the yielding carpet; he clutches the air wildly, and disappears.”—page 137.
“Vernet’s foot has pressed the yielding carpet; he clutches the air wildly, and disappears.”—page 137.
For the first time Alan Warburton, the self-possessed,polished man of society, is at a loss for words. Society has given him no training, taught him no lessons applicable to such emergencies as this.
“Of one thing you must be warned,” continues the guide. “Van Vernet is a sleuth-hound on a criminal secret, and he considers you a criminal. He has seen you standing above that dead man with a bar of iron in your hand—did you know that bar of iron was smeared with blood, and that wisps of human hair clung to its surface? Never mind;Ido not accuse you. I do not ask you to explain your presence there. You have escaped from Van Vernet, and he will never forgive you for it. He will hunt you down, if possible. You know the man?”
“I never saw his face until to-night.”
“What! and yet, two hours ago, he was at your brother’s house, a guest!”
“True. My dear sir, I am deeply indebted to you, but just now my gratitude is swallowed up in amazement. In Heaven’s name, who are you, that you know so much?”
“‘Silly Charlie’ is what they call me in these alleys, and I pass for an idiot.”
“But you are anything but what you ‘pass for.’ You have puzzled me, and outwitted Van Vernet. Tell me who you are. Tell me how I can reward your services.”
“In serving you to-night, Mr. Warburton, I have also served myself. As to who I am, it cannot matter to you.”
“That must be as you will,”—Alan is beginning to recover his conventional courtesy—“but at least tell me how I may discharge my obligations to you.Thatdoes concern me.”
Alan’s companion ponders a moment, and then says:
“Perhaps we had better be frank, Mr. Warburton. You are a gentleman, and, I trust, so am I. If you owe me anything, you can discharge your debt by answering a single question.”
“Ask it.”
“Van Vernet was a guest at your masquerade—why was he there?”
The question startles Alan Warburton, but he answers after a moment’s reflection:
“He came at my invitation, and on a matter of business.”
“And yet you say that you never saw his face before?”
“True; our business was arranged through third parties, and by correspondence. He came into my presence, for the first time, masked. Until I saw his face in that hovel yonder, I had never seen it.”
“And you?”
“A kind fortune has favored me. This dress I wore as a masquerade costume; over it I threw a black and scarlet domino. Van Vernet saw me in that domino, and with a mask before my face.”
“You may thank your stars for that, and for your silence at the hovel. If you had opened your lips then, your voice might have betrayed you.”
“It would have betrayed the fact that I was no seaman, at the least, and that is why I had resolved upon silence as the safest course.”
“You have come out of this night’s business most fortunately. But you still have reason to fear Vernet. Your very silence may cause him to suspect you of playing a part. Your features are photographed upon his memory; alter the cut of your whiskers or, better still, give your face a cleanshave; crop your hair, and above all leave the city until this affair blows over.”
“Thank you,” Alan replies; “I feel that your advice is good.” Then, after a struggle with his pride, he adds:
“I could easily clear myself of so monstrous a charge as that which Vernet would prefer against me, but, for certain reasons, I would prefer not to make a statement of the case.”
“I comprehend.”
Again Alan is startled out of his dignity. “You were the first to arrive in response to that cry for help to-night?” he begins.
“The first, after you.”
“You saw those who fled?”
“I saw only one fugitive. Mr. Warburton, I know what you would ask. I saw and recognized your brother’s wife. I understood your actions; you were guarding her retreat at the risk of your own life or honor. You are a brave man!”
Alan’s tone is a trifle haughty as he answers:
“In knowing Mrs. Warburton and myself, you have us at a disadvantage. In having seen us as you saw us to-night, we are absolutely in your power, should you choose to be unscrupulous. Under these circumstances, I have a right to demand the name of a man who knowsmeso intimately. I have a right to know why you followed us, or me, to that house to-night?”
His companion laughs good-naturedly.
“In spite of your airs, Mr. Warburton,” he says candidly, “you would be a fine fellow if you were not—such a prig. So you demand an explanation. Well, here it is, at least as much as you will need to enlighten you. Who am I? I am a friend to all honest men. Why did I follow you? NeitherVernet nor myself followed you or the lady. Vernet was there as the leader of an organized Raid. I was there—ahem! as a pilot for Vernet.Youwere there as a spy upon the lady. Mrs. Warburton’s presence remains to be accounted for. And now, Mr. Warburton, adieu. You are out of present danger; if I find that Mrs. Warburton has not fared so well, you will hear from me again. If otherwise, you look your last upon Silly Charlie.”
With a mocking laugh he turns, and pausing at the corner to wave his hand in farewell, he darts away in the direction whence he came.
Puzzled, chagrined, his brain teeming with strange thoughts, Alan Warburton turns homeward.
What is it that has come upon him this night? Less than two hours ago, an aristocrat, proud to a fault, with an unblemished name, and with nothing to fear or to conceal. Now, stealing through the dark streets like an outcast, his pride humbled to the dust, his breast burdened with a double secret, accused of murder, creeping from the police, a hunted man! To-morrow the town will be flooded with descriptions of this escaped sailor. To-morrow he must change his appearance, must flee the city.
And all because of his zeal for the family honor; all because of his brother’s wife, and her horrible secret! To-night charity hath no place in Alan Warburton’s heart.
Meanwhile, Van Vernet, covered with rags and dust, sickened by the foul smell of the vault into which he has been precipitated, and boiling over with wrath, is being rescued from his absurd and uncomfortable position by three policemen, who, being sent forward to ascertain if possible the causeof their leader’s prolonged absence, have stumbled upon him in the very nick of time.
As he emerges from the trap, by the aid of the same rope with which not long before he had secured Alan Warburton’s feet, he presents a most ludicrous appearance. His hat has been lost in the darkness of the cellar, and his head is plentifully decorated with rags and feathers, which have adhered tenaciously to his disarranged locks. He is smeared with dirt, pallid from the stench, nauseated, chagrined, wrathful.
Instinctively he comprehends the situation. The simpleton has played him false, the prisoner has escaped.
On the floor lie the handcuffs which Alan Warburton has shaken off as he fled. He picks them up and examines them eagerly. Then an imprecation breaks from his lips. They have beenunlocked!And by whom? Not by the man who wore them; that was impossible.
Suddenly, flinging down the handcuffs, he turns to the policemen.
“Two men have escaped from this house, after throwing me into that cellar,” he says rapidly. “They must be overtaken—a sailor and a pretended simpleton tricked out in rags and tinsel. After them, boys; out by that door. They can’t be far away. Capture themalive or dead!”
The door by which Alan and his rescuer made their exit stands invitingly open, and the three officers, promptly obeying their leader, set off in pursuit of the sailor and the simpleton.
Left alone, Van Vernet plucks the extempore adornments from his head and person, and meditates ruefully, almost forgetting the original Raid in the chagrin of his present failure.
He goes to the side of the murdered man, who still lies as he had fallen, and looks down upon him.
“Ah, my fine fellow,” he mutters, “you give me a chance to redeem myself. If I have been outwitted to-night by a sailor and a fool, you and I will have fine revenge. A sailor! Ah, it was no common sailor, if I may trust my eyes and my senses. The hands were too white and soft; the feet too small and daintily clad; the face, in spite of the low-drawn cap and the tattooing, was too aristocratic and tooclean. And the fool! Ah, it is no common fool who carries keys that unlock our new patent handcuffs, and who managed this rescue so cleverly. For once, Van Vernet has found his match! But the scales shall turn. The man who killedyou, my lad, and the man who outwittedme, shall be found and punished, or Van Vernet will have lost his skill!”
While the discomfited Vernet kept watch alone with the dead, his men were running up and down the alleys, listening, peering, searching in by-places, in the hope of finding the hiding-place, or to overtake the flight, of the fugitive sailor and his idiot guide.
More than an hour they consumed in this search, and then they returned to their superior officer to report their utter failure.
“It is what I expected,” said Vernet, with severe philosophy. “Those fellows are no common rascals. They have spoiled our Raid; before this, every rogue in the vicinity has beenwarned. I would not give a copper for all we can capture now.”
And Vernet was right, the Raid was a failure. Mustering his men, he made the tour of the streets and alleys, but everywhere an unnatural silence reigned. The Thieves’ Tavern was fast shut and quite silent; the drinking dens, the streets and cellars, where riot and infamy reigned, were under the influence of a silent spell.
It was only the yelp of a dog, heard here and there as Silly Charlie and Alan Warburton sped through the streets and lanes, but its effect was magical. It told the rioters, the crooks and outlaws in hiding, that there was danger abroad,—that the police were among them. And their orgies were hushed, their haunts became silent and tenantless; while every man who had anything to fear from the hands of justice—and what man among them had not?—slunk away to his secret hiding-place, and laid a fierce clutch upon revolver or knife.
The Raid was an utter failure; and Van Vernet, as he led his men ruefully homeward, little dreamed of the cause of the failure.
This night’s work, which had been pre-supposed a sure success, had been spoiled by a fool. A most unusual fool,—of that Vernet was fully aware; only a fool as he played his part. But he had played it successfully.
Vernet had been duped by this seeming idiot, and foiled by the sailor-assassin. Of this he savagely assured himself, in the depths of his chagrin.
But, shrewd man as he was, he never once imagined that under the rags and tinsel, the dirt and disfigurement of the fool, the strong will and active brain ofRichard Stanhopewere arrayed against him; nor dreamed that “Warburton, thearistocrat,” the man who had wounded his pride and looked down upon him as an inferior, had escaped from his clutches in the garb of a common sailor.
Arrived at head-quarters, Vernet laid before his Chief a full report of the night’s misadventures, and concluded his narrative thus:
“It has never before been my misfortune to report so complete a failure. But the affair shall not end here. I have my theory; I intend to run down these two men, and I believe they will be worth the trouble I shall take on their account. They were both shams, I am sure. The sailor never saw a masthead; he could not even act his part. The other—well, he played the fool to perfection, and—he outwittedme.”
One thing troubled Vernet not a little. Richard Stanhope did not make a late appearance at the Agency. He did not come at all that night, or rather that morning. And Vernet speculated much as to the possible cause of this long delay.
It was late in the day when Stanhope finally presented himself, and then he entered the outer office alert, careless,debonnaireas usual; looking like a man with an untroubled conscience, who has passed the long night in peaceful repose.
Vernet, who had arrived at the office but a moment before, lifted his face from the newspaper he held and cast upon hisconfrerean inquiring glance.
But Dick Stanhope was blind to its meaning. With his usual easy morning salutation to all in the room, he passed them, and applied for admittance at the door of his Chief’s private office. It was promptly opened to him, and he walked into the presence of his superior as jauntily as if he had not, by his unaccountable absence, spoiled the most important Raid of the season.
It was a long interview, and as toward its close the sounds of uproarious laughter penetrated to the ears of the loungers in the outer room, Van Vernet bit his lip with vexation. Evidently the Chief was not visiting his displeasure too severely upon his dilatory favorite.
Vernet’s cheeks burned as he realized how utterly he had failed. Not only had he heaped confusion upon himself, but he had not succeeded in lessening Stanhope’s claim to favoritism by bringing upon him the displeasure of the Agency.
While he sat, still tormented by this bitter thought, Stanhope re-entered the room, and walking straight up to Vernet brought his hand down upon the shoulder of that gentleman with emphatic heartiness, while he said, his eyes fairly dancing with mischief, and every other feature preternaturally solemn:
“I say, Van, old fellow, how do you like conducting a Raid?”
It was a moment of humiliation for Van Vernet. But he, like Stanhope, was a skilled actor, and he lifted his eyes to the face of his inquisitor and answered with a careless jest, while he realized that in this game against Richard Stanhope he had played his first hand, and had lost.
“It shall not remain thus,” he assured himself fiercely; “I’ll play as many trumps as Dick Stanhope, before our little game ends!”
When Walter Parks returned from his two days’ absence, and called at the office to receive the decisions of the two detectives, the Chief said:
“You may consider yourself sure of both men, after a little. Dick Stanhope, whose case promised to be a very short one,has asked for more time. And Van Vernet is in hot chase after two sly fellows, and won’t give up until they are trapped. You may be sure of them both, however. And in order that they may start fair, after their present work is done, I have arranged that you meet them here to-night, and let them listen together to your statement.”
“I like the idea,” said Walter Parks earnestly, “and I will be here at the appointed time.”
That evening, Vernet and Stanhope,—the former grave, courteous, and attentive; the latter cool, careless, and inconsequent as usual,—sat listening to the story of Arthur Pearson’s mysterious death, told with all its details.
As the tale progressed, Van Vernet became more attentive, more eager, his eyes, flashing with excitement, following every gesture, noting every look that crossed the face of the narrator. But Dick Stanhope sat in the most careless of lounging attitudes; his eyes half closed or wandering idly about the room; his whole manner that of an individual rather more bored than interested.
“It’s a difficult case,” said Van Vernet, when the story was done. “It will be long and tedious. But as soon as I have found the man or men I am looking for, I will undertake it. And if the murderer is above ground, I do not anticipate failure.”
But Stanhope only said:
“I don’t know when I shall be at your disposal. The affair I have in hand is not progressing. Your case looks to me like a dubious one,—the chances are ninety to one against you. But when I am at liberty, if Van here has not already solved the mystery, I’ll do my level best for you.”
It was a long road for a woman to travel at that unconventional hour, but Leslie Warburton was fleet-footed, and fear and excitement lent her strength.
Necessity had taught her how to enter and escape from the dangerous maze where the people who claimed a right in her existence dwelt. And on being forced to flee by her haughty brother-in-law, she bowed her head and wrapping herself in her dark cloak sped away through the night.
She had little fear of being missed by her guests,—a masquerade affords latitude impossible to any other gathering, and contrary to the usual custom, the maskers were to continue theirincognitountil the cotillion began. If her guests missed her, she would be supposed to be in some other apartment. If she were missed by Winnie, that little lady would say: “She is with Archibald, of course.”
Nevertheless, it was an unsafe journey. But she accomplished it, and arrived, panting, weary, and filled with a terrible dread at the thought of the exposure that must follow her encounter with Alan.
They were dancing still, her light-hearted guests, and Leslie resumed her Sunlight robes, and going back to her place among them forced herself to smile and seem to be gay, while her heart grew every moment heavier with its burden of fear and dire foreboding.
Anxiously she watched the throng, hoping, yet dreading, tosee the sailor costume of Alan, fearing lest, in spite of his high courage, disaster had overtaken him.
It was in the grey of morning, and her guests were dispersing, when Alan Warburton reappeared. He was muffled as at first, in the black and scarlet domino, and he moved with the slow languor of one utterly exhausted or worn with pain.
At length it was over; the last guest had departed, the house was silent, and Leslie and Alan stood face to face under the soft light of the library chandelier.
During the ceremonies of departure, he had remained constantly near her. And when they were left, at last, with only Winnie French beside them, Leslie, seeing that the interview was inevitable, had asked Winnie to look in upon little Daisy, adding, as the girl, with a gay jest, turned to go:
“I will join you there soon, Winnie, dear; just now Alan and I have a little to say about some things that have occurred to-night.”
Tossing a kiss to Leslie, and bestowing a grimace upon Alan as he held open the door for her exit, Winnie hadpirouettedout of the room, and sped up the broad stairway as fleetly as if her little feet were not weary with five hours’ dancing.
Then Leslie, with a stately gesture, had led the way to the library.
Silently, and as if by one accord, they paused under the chandelier, and each gazed into the face of the other.
His eyes met hers, stern, accusing, and darkened with pain; while she—her bearing was proud as his, her face mournful, her eyes resolute, her lips set in firm lines. She looked neither criminal nor penitent; she was a woman driven to bay, and she would fight rather than flee.
Looking him full in the face, she made no effort to breakthe silence. Seeing which, Alan Warburton said:
“Madam, you play your part well. You are not now the nocturnal wanderer menaced by a danger—”
“From which you rescued me,” she interrupts, her face softening. “Alan, it was a brave deed, and I thank you a thousand times!”
“I do not desire your gratitude, Madam. I could have done no less, and would do yet more to save from disgrace the name we bear in common. Was your absence noted? Did you return safely and secretly?”
“I have not been missed, and I returned as safely and as secretly as I went.”
Her voice was calm, her countenance had hardened as at first.
“Madam, let us understand each other. One year ago the name of Warburton had never known a stain; now—”
He let the wrath in his eyes, the scorn in his face, finish what his lips left unsaid.
But the eyes of his beautiful opponent flashed him back scorn for scorn.
“Now,” she said, with calm contempt in her voice, “now, the proudest man of the Warburton race has stepped down from his pedestal to play the spy, and upon a woman! I thank you for rescuing me, Alan Warburton, but I have no thanks to offer forthat!”
“A spy!” He winced as his lips framed the word. “We are calling hard names, Mrs. Warburton. If I was a spy in that house,whatwere you! Ihavebeen a spy upon your actions, and I have seen that which has caused me to blush for my brother’s wife, and tremble for my brother’s honor. More than once I have seen you leave this house, and returnto it, clandestinely. It was one of these secret expeditions, which I discovered by the merest chance, that aroused my watchfulness. More than once have letters passed to and fro through some disreputable-looking messenger. To-night, for the first time, I discoveredwhereyou paid your visits, but not towhom. To-night I traced you to the vilest den in all the city. Madam, this mystery must be cleared up. What wretched secret have you brought into my brother’s house? What sin or shame are you hiding under his name? What is this disgrace that is likely to burst upon us at any moment?”
Slowly she moved toward him, looking straight into his angry, scornful face. Slowly she answered:
“Alan Warburton, you have appointed yourself my accuser; you shall not be my judge. I am answerable to you for nothing. From this moment I owe you neither courtesy nor gratitude. Ihavea secret, but it shall be told to my husband, not to you. If I have done wrong, I have wronged him, not you. You have insulted me under my own roof to-night, for the last time. I will tell my story to Archibald now; he shall judge between us.”
She turned away, but he laid a detaining hand upon her arm.
“Stop!” he said, “you must not go to Archibald with this; you shall not!”
“Shall not!” she exclaimed scornfully; “and who will prevent it?”
“I will prevent it. Woman, have you neither heart nor conscience? Would you add murder to your list of transgressions?”
“Let me go, Alan Warburton,” she answered impatiently; “I have done with you.”
“But I have not done with you! Oh, you know my brother well; he is trusting, confiding, blind where you are concerned. He believes in your truth, and he must continue so to believe. He must not hear of this night’s work.”
“But he shall; every word of it.”
“Every word! Take care, Mrs. Warburton. Will you tell him of the lover who was here to-night, disguised as a woman, the better to hover about you?”
“You wretch!” She threw off his restraining hand and turned upon him, her eyes blazing. Then, after a moment, the fierce look of indignation gave place to a smile of contempt.
“Yes,” she said, turning again toward the door, “I shall tell him of that too.”
“Then you will give him his death-blow; understand that! Yesterday, when his physician visited him, he told us the truth. Archibald’s life is short at best; any shock, any strong emotion or undue excitement, will cause his death. Quiet and rest are indispensable. To-morrow—to-day, you were to be told these things. By Archibald’s wish they were withheld from you until now, lest they should spoil your pleasure in the masquerade.”
The last words were mockingly uttered, but Leslie paid no heed to the tone.
“Are you telling me the truth?” she demanded. “Must I play my part still?”
“I am telling you the truth. You must continue to play your part, so far as he is concerned. For his sake I ask you to trust me. You bear our name, our honor is in your keeping. Whatever your faults, your misdeeds, have been, they must be kept secrets still. I ask you to trust me,—not thatI may denounce you, but to enable me to protect us all from the consequences of your follies.”
If the words were conciliatory, the tone was hard and stern. Alan Warburton could ill play the role he had undertaken.
The look she now turned upon him was one of mingled wonder and scorn.
“You are incomprehensible,” she said. “I am gratified to know that it was not my life nor my honor, but your own name, that you saved to-night,—it lessens my obligation. Being a woman, I am nothing; being a Warburton, disgrace must not touch me! So be it. If I may not confide in my husband, I will keep my own counsel still. And if I cannot master my trouble alone, then, perhaps, as a last resort, and for the sake of the Warburton honor, I will call upon you for aid.”
There was no time for a reply. While the last words were yet on her lips, the heavy curtains were thrust hastily aside and Winnie French, pallid and trembling, stood in the doorway.
“Leslie! Alan!” she cried, coming toward them with a sob in her throat, “we have lost little Daisy!”
“Lost her!”
Alan Warburton uttered the two words as one who does not comprehend their meaning. But Leslie stood transfixed, like one stunned, yet not startled, by an anticipated blow.
“We have hunted everywhere,” Winnie continued wildly. “She is not in the house, she is not—”
She catches her breath at the cry that breaks from Leslie’s lips, and for a moment those three, their festive garments in startling contrast with their woe-stricken faces, regard each other silently.
Then Leslie, overcome at last by the accumulating horrors of this terrible night, sways, gasps, and falls forward, pallid and senseless, at Alan Warburton’s feet.
Little Daisy Warburton was missing. The blow that had prostrated Leslie at its first announcement, struck Archibald Warburton with still heavier force. It was impossible to keep the truth from him, and when it became known, his feeble frame would not support the shock. At day-dawn, he lay in a death-like lethargy. At night, he was raving with delirium. And on the second day, the physicians said:
“There is no hope. His life is only a thing of days.”
Leslie and Alan were faithful at his bedside,—she, the tenderest of nurses; he, the most sleepless of watchers. But they avoided an interchange of word or glance. To all appearance, they had lost sight of themselves in the presence of these new calamities—Archibald’s hopeless condition, and the loss of little Daisy.
No time had been wasted in prosecuting the search for the missing child. When all had been done that could be done,—when monstrous rewards had been offered, when the police were scouring the city, and private detectives were making careful investigations,—Leslie and Alan took their places at the bedside of the stricken father, and waited, the heart of each heavy with a burden of unspoken fear and a new, terrible suspicion.