Professor Ruggles had not been remiss in his judgment. It was Madge Scarlet who stole his victim from his arms almost in the hour of his devilish triumph. She did not get on the train from the little way station, however. She was on the train when it drew out of the great city by the lake, but the scheming Ruggles knew it not.
She, too, wore a veil, and was otherwise disguised, and managed not to show herself to the man she had once called friend. Immediately on her release from jail she began to watch Ruggles, who kept himself out of the way, or walked the streets only in disguise.
She haunted the depots of the city, and was lucky enough to see him when he took passage. Quietly boarding the same train, she bided her time, intent on gaining possession of the detective's sister for purposes of her own.
The fires of insanity were already burning in the brain of the convict's wife.
Revenge for past wrongs seemed the sole object of her life now, and this was the incentive that placed her on the track of a fleeing villain and his intended victim.
Madge saw Ruggles when he left the car. She watched her opportunity, and lifting the partially insensible girl, bore her swiftly to the outside, as the train halted for a minute.
She gave vent to a chuckle as the train went thundering on its course.
She had passed from the cars on the opposite side from the depot, and consequently was able to elude the gaze of the depot agent.
Along the track she went, pausing at times to rest, until she was fully a mile from the station. In the shadow of a clump of trees the hag came to a halt and deposited her burden on the ground.
A moan from the drugged and helpless Nell reached her ears.
And then Mrs. Scarlet chuckled the louder.
"Good; she's coming out of her bad spell. I want her to realize her fate, else there wouldn't be the least bit of pleasure in my revenge."
Removing veil and light cloak, Mrs. Scarlet gazed down into the pallid face of poor Nell, with only hatred gleaming from her sunken, beady eyes.
"Ho! I've outwitted the master devil himself, and now I will have you all to myself, to deal with in a way that will cut to the quick when Dyke Darrel hears of it."
Nell had on only a light summer robe under the shawl. She looked very innocent and beautiful as she lay there under the gaze of that human hyena.
"Pretty's a picture," hissed the wicked Madge. "I'll all the more delight in seeing you suffer. Ah! she is coming out of her stupor. How do you feel, dear?"
Nell had opened her eyes and gazed at the wicked face above her, in a dazed semi-consciousness.
No answer was vouchsafed.
Then, in looking about, the gleam of steel lines under the moon's rays seemed to attract the notice of Mrs. Scarlet for the first time—the straight lines that marked the course of the Erie road.
Their glitter seemed to offer a diabolical suggestion to Madge Scarlet.
"Ha! I have it."
Springing to her feet, she laid her arms about the slender form of the helpless girl, and, lifting her, walked swiftly to the railway track. In the centre, between the rails, she deposited her burden.
"Revenge! sweet revenge!" cackled the hag in a blood-curdling voice.
Again the girl moved and moaned; yet she seemed unable to change her position.
"Rest yourself comfortably, my girl; you won't be in trouble long," muttered the demon woman, with a grin that was absolutely sickening.
Poor Nell! She lay quite still after that, between the fatal rails, only giving sign of life by a faint moan occasionally.
Mrs. Scarlet retired to her leafy covert to wait the outcome. She could see far beyond the track a farm-house, and near her a heap of ties, and a rude fence—the moonlight revealed everything plainly. Chuckling with hideous satisfaction, the she demon waited the coming of the express that could not be far distant. Morning was already brightening the East.
Far away was the sound of a moving train. The sullen, distant roar sent a thrill to the heart of the demon woman, who crouched in the bushes to await the completion of her unhallowed revenge.
The sullen jar seemed to act like a shock of electricity on the nerves of Nell Darrel. She felt a strange and awful numbness. With a mighty effort the girl roused herself to a consciousness of her awful position.
Louder and louder roared the train. It was but a mile distant now, and the road was straight.
Nell raised her head, and resting on her hands gazed down the track where, in the distance, gleamed the light of the locomotive.
"God help me!" moaned the poor girl. Then she tried to throw herself from the track, but she could not. Her limbs were numb, and refused to obey her will.
A wild laugh rang out on the moonlit air.
Madge Scarlet sprang up and glared through the bushes at her victim with maniacal delight.
"Ha' ha! You cannot escape! Them pretty limbs'll be crushed and torn asunder! the white flesh cut and gashed, and that delicate body made a horrid mass of blood and mangled fragments! THEN I will present them to you, Dyke Darrel. Ho! ho!"
Her voice was raised to a high pitch now, and even reached the ears of the startled Nell.
No help, no hope!
On thundered the iron monster.
On and on till the eye of the engineer catches sight of something on the track—SOMETHING!
Quickly the engine is reversed and the air brakes come into play.
Too late!
A moan of agonized terror falls from the lips of the half dead girl, and then she sank helplessly to the ground. At the same instant help came from an unexpected source.
A man dashed swiftly through the moonlight and flung a heavy oak tie in front of the slackened engine.
A rumble and a jar, and then the train came to a dead stop, within three feet of the prostrate girl!
It was a narrow escape.
The man who had come so unexpectedly out of the shadows dragged Nell from her dangerous position. The engineer and fireman came down and congratulated the young man on his presence.
"The brakes couldn't quite do it," said the engineer. "That tie saved the girl, with no damage to the train."
"It seems to be a lucky accident all round," said the young man, who had laid Nell on a safe spot, and now turned his attention to assisting in removing the obstruction from the rails.
"Yes. Who is she?"
"I can't say."
"Well, I must be on the way," uttered the engineer, "we are behind time now."
By this time the conductor was on the ground, but the train was running again, and he received a full explanation from the engineer afterward.
When the young man made a closer inspection of the girl he had rescued, a cry of surprise fell from his lips.
"As I live, it is Nell Darrel!"
But she could not speak to thank him for his act, since she had fainted.
Lifting her tenderly the young man turned his steps in the direction of the farm-house, where he had been stopping during the past two days.
"Curse you! curse you!" were the venomous words flung after the man by Madge Scarlet.
But she dared not interfere to prevent the rescue.
When Nell Darrel again opened her eyes, it was to find herself calmly resting on a couch in a little room, whose cozy appearance was like home indeed. And the face that bent over her was not that of a stranger. Could it be that she was dreaming?
"Thank Heaven!" murmured a manly voice, and then a mustached lip bent and pressed a clinging kiss to the cheek of poor Nell.
"Harry, dear Harry!"
Thus had the lovers met after many long months of separation.
A smile rested on the face of the fair girl as she held Harry's hand while he talked of the past.
She explained as best she could the strangeness of her situation; but everything was so much like a dream, it was a hard matter to reconcile some of the events of the past few weeks.
"The end draws nigh," assured young Bernard, after a time. "If the notorious man calling himself Ruggles was on the train, he will, on discovering his loss, turn back, and then I will capture him."
We left Dyke Darrel, the detective, in a critical position on the railroad track, with the roar of a freight engine in his ears. The rays of the rising sun touched the glittering rails as the long train swept around the bend upon doomed Dyke Darrel.
One more tremendous effort on the part of the detective, and he succeeded in throwing his body squarely across one of the rails. In this position he hung a helpless weight, with the hoarse roar of the engine making anything but sweet music to his fainting soul.
Ha! Look! A hand is outstretched to save at the last moment, and Dyke Darrel is jerked from under the smoking wheels, even as their breath fans his fevered cheek.
The train swept on.
A cheer greeted the man who had come opportunely to the rescue as the engine swept on its course.
And a little later a man, young, yet whose boyish face bore marks of dissipation, stood beside the detective and gazed into his face now for the first time.
"Great Caesar!"
The young man started as though cut by a knife, and bent low over the fallen detective, who was now struggling to a sitting posture.
When he looked into the face of his rescuer he uttered a great cry.
"My soul! how came you here, Martin Skidway?"
"I am a fugitive," answered the young convict. "It wasn't through your good will that I got out of prison, I can tell you that. Had I known who it was on the track, I might not have put out my hand to save."
The detective regarded the speaker in no little amazement. This was the second time he had escaped from the Missouri prison, which argued well for the man's keenness and capability, or else ill for the official management of the prison.
"It was from the St. Louis prison that I escaped," explained Martin Skidway a little later. "I never got inside the State institution a second time. I've had a sweet time of it thus far."
"Tell me how you made your escape," said Dyke Darrel, who sat with his back against a tree, and regarded the young counterfeiter in wonder.
"There isn't much to tell," returned Skidway. "I had no assistance, but it seems that a pair of burglars had broken out by filing off the grating to one of the corridor windows, and the opening had not been repaired when I was taken to the jail. I was left in the corridor a minute while the jailor was attending some other prisoners, and that minute gave me the opportunity. I mounted a chair, climbed through the window, and made my escape by the light of the moon. Of course there was a big search, but I remained hidden in an old cellar under a deserted house in a grove within the city limits, for several days, and finally made good my escape from the State."
"And now?"
"I am going to put the ocean between me and the beaks of American law."
Dyke Darrel regarded the speaker with mingled emotions. He saw in this daring young fellow much talent, that had it been rightly directed, might have made an honorable place in the world for Martin Skidway.
"I am helpless to arrest your steps just at present," groaned the detective. "Would you do it after what has happened, if you were in a condition to do so?" demanded the convict, bending over the man on the ground, regarding him with a menacing look.
"Duty often calls one to do that which is disagreeable," answered Dyke Darrel. A deep frown mantled the brows of the convict.
"I see that my mercy was misdirected," he said. "It seems that I have saved your life only to give you a chance to dog me to doom. Think you I am fool enough to permit this?"
There was a menace in the man's voice that Dyke Darrel did not like.
"I am at present helpless," he said. "I don't imagine you will harm a man who is in no condition to injure you if he would."
"But you can talk. The first man who comes along will hear from you that an escaped convict is in the rural districts of New York, and a telegram will set ten thousand officers on the lookout for me. Without such information I would not be recognized in this community. I am a desperate man, Dyke Darrel, and do not propose to sacrifice myself for your benefit."
"What will you do?"
"One of two things."
"Well?"
"You must solemnly swear that you will never reveal to another that I am in this region, and swear also to make no effort to capture me under a month, or else I shall have a painful duty to perform."
"Go on!"
"Will you take the required oath?'
"Certainly not."
"Then the other alternative is alone left me, Dyke Darrel."
"And that?"
"DEATH TO YOU!"
Straightening to his full height after uttering the three terrible words, Martin Skidway snatched a heavy iron bolt from the ground, that had lain long beside the track, and raised it above the head of helpless Dyke Darrel.
"Martin Skidway, hold!"
The words of the detective came forth in a thrilling cry.
An instant the would be assassin stayed his hand.
"You agree to my terms?"
"No; but—"
"Then you must die. It will be considered an accident, and no one will suspect my hand in the affair."
Again the young convict poised his weapon for deadly work. On the instant the rumble of wheels met the ears of Martin Skidway.
A wagon containing two men was in sight, moving down a road that ran parallel with the railway at this point. It was evident that the occupants of the vehicle had seen Skidway, and to strike now would but add to the vengeance of pursuit and punishment. With a curse, he dropped the iron bolt and turned to flee.
"Dyke Darrel, if you inform on me, I will kill you at another time!" hissed the convict.
Then he rushed from the spot and disappeared.
As the wagon came opposite it halted, and the cries of Dyke Darrel brought both men to his side.
"Hello! is this you?" cried a cheery voice, and the next instant Dyke Darrel was lifted to his feet by the strong hand of Harry Bernard.
It was a happy and unexpected meeting. Harry had good news to tell, and when Dyke Darrel, assisted by his friend, reached the farmhouse where Nell had found safety and shelter, the detective was strong enough to stand, and assist himself in no small degree.
Mutual explanations were entered into, and, as may be supposed, the meeting between brother and sister was a happy one indeed. Harry was the hero of the hour.
When Dyke Darrel spoke of Martin Skidway, and the part he had acted in saving his life, a word of admiration fell from the lips of Nell.
But when Dyke proceeded to the conclusion, the girl's face blanched, and she had no word of commendation left for the miserable convict, who, after all, possessed but little honor.
"So Aunt Scarlet is in the neighborhood; and also your abductor," mused the detective. "The trail is becoming hot, indeed."
"It is, for a fact," admitted Harry. "I believe, if the truth was known, this man Ruggles will prove to be the man we want. Have you that handkerchief with you, Dyke, that we found in the coat of the rascal who attempted your murder in St. Louis?"
This was several hours after the events of the morning, and Nell was now resting in a large wooden rocker, very weak, yet feeling remarkably well, considering the siege she had passed through during the past two weeks and more. Dyke Darrel and Harry were the only occupants of the room, the farmer being at his work in the field, and his good wife attending preparations for supper in the kitchen.
"I have kept the tell-tale handkerchief through it all," answered the detective, at the same time producing the article from a receptacle beneath, his shirt.
"It's a wonder this was not discovered when you were in the hands of the thugs of Chicago."
"I wasn't closely searched, I suppose. You and the boys were too close after them."
"You give me too much credit, Dyke," returned Harry Bernard, modestly. "I've a question to ask."
"Ask as many as you like."
"Was it the fact of my hand fitting this bloody imprint that so startled you in the St. Louis hotel?"
"Did I not so claim at the time?"
"Perhaps; but wasn't there another coincidence that gave you reason to suspect me?
"There might have been."
"I thought so. It was the imprint of a large wart, such as this on the handkerchief, that made you look with suspicion upon me. Is it not so?"
Harry held up his hand, so that a wart on the little finger was plainly revealed, and which, when he placed his hand against the tell-tale handkerchief, fitted the marks perfectly.
"Forgive me, Harry," cried the detective, quickly. "I know now that it was only a remarkable duplicate; the wart belonged to another hand than yours. The print of the wart was also on the bosom of Arnold Nicholson's white shirt bosom, where a bloody hand had fallen. I made this discovery when I examined the body of my dead friend. Circumstantial evidence pointed to you, and yet I doubted—"
"I understand," interrupted Harry. "My hand is indeed a duplicate of the assassin's. It is a wonder that I have not been arrested ere this by some of the detectives who are engaged in working up this case."
"Why so?"
"Because you are not the only one who made the discovery of the wart that adorned the hand of the assassin. A reporter got hold of the story and published it. Don't you remember?"
"I haven't read the papers closely since the murder."
"But I have, and so has the man who killed Nicholson."
"Indeed?"
"He soon learned that officers of the law were all looking for a man with a large wart on the second joint of the little finger of the right hand. This fact made him nervous, and one night he severed the wart, and flung it from him, since which time he has breathed easier."
A low exclamation from the lips of Nell startled both men.
"Nell, what is it?" questioned the surprised detective.
Harry regarded the girl with a queer smile. Perhaps he knew what had brought the exclamation to the lips of Miss Darrel.
"I know a man who has lost a wart," she said, slowly, a deepening pallor coming to her cheeks.
"His name?" questioned Dyke Darrel, eagerly.
But the girl did not immediately answer. It seemed that something moved her deeply.
"Was it Professor Ruggles?" questioned Harry, in order to help the young girl out.
"No," she said.
"Who then?"
"Harper Elliston!"
A grave look chased the smile from the face of Harry Bernard.
The girl's announcement seemed to prove a revelation to him, even as it did to Dyke Darrel.
"I did not know the man who severed the wart from his hand," said Harry Bernard, after a brief silence, "but suspected that it was Darlington Ruggles. It seems now that I was correct."
"How is that?"
"Have you not guessed the truth," queried Harry Bernard. "I made the discovery some time since that the red-haired man and Harper Elliston were one and the same."
This came as a revelation to both the detective and his sister.
"I have had suspicions," said Dyke Darrel, "but never anything definite regarding the villainy of this man Elliston. He has played his cards well, but I became undeceived not long after this great railroad crime. That he was not my friend I discovered, and then I resolved to watch him. I have reason to believe that it was to him I owe my arrest in Burlington, Iowa. I now see the truth, that under the assumed name of Hubert Vander, Elliston ruined a young girl of Burlington, and, it may be, murdered her father, wealthy Captain Osborne. It would be strange indeed, should the trail that ends with the capture of the express robber also bring to punishment the assassin of the Burlington Captain."
"It seems likely to end in that way," returned Harry.
"Let us hear what Nell has to say with regard to the wart," said the detective, turning to his sister.
"It will require but a few words to do that," said Nell Darrel. "I always noticed a peculiarly shaped wart on the finger of Mr. Elliston's shapely right hand, and once he remarked upon it to me, saying that it was a disfigurement, and that he meant to have it removed sometime. I think it was the first time I met Mr. Elliston after the terrible news of the mid night express tragedy that I noticed the absence of the wart, and a bit of surgeon's plaster covering the spot. I laughed over his having undergone such a severe surgical operation, and he seemed to take it in good part, assuring me that HE was the surgeon who amputated the excrescence with a razor. Of course I thought nothing strange of it at the time."
"You said the wart had a peculiar shape? How is that?" questioned Harry Bernard.
"It was large, and was composed of two crowns. I think, perhaps two warts had grown together at the roots."
"Exactly. Would you know the wart if you should see it again?"
"I think I should."
"So would I," cried the detective.
Then Harry Bernard drew a small vial from his pocket and held it up to view. A small object, submerged in alcohol, was visible. When placed in the hand of Nell, the girl at once exclaimed:
"That is certainly the wart that once disfigured the hand of Harper Elliston!"
"Where did you get it?" questioned Dyke Darrel, now deeply interested at the links that were being rapidly forged in the chain of evidence.
"Dyke, you know that when I left Woodburg some months ago, I went from among you under a cloud?"
"I will not dispute you—"
"No explanation is necessary on your part, Dyke. I imagine I was as much to blame as anybody. Nell and I quarreled, and I imagined that the handsome, elderly New Yorker had stepped into my shoes, so far as she was concerned. I did not like the man, and so I resolved to investigate for myself, and if I found that he was not worthy of Nell, whom I loved and should always love while life lasted, I determined to expose him, and save your sister. During the past few months I have been making this investigation, to find that the supposed immaculate Harper Elliston is known in Gotham in certain circles as a gambler and villain of the deepest dye. He has committed some crimes that are worse than murder. Now, as to the wart: It was soon after I had heard of the murder on the express train, that while riding in the smoking car of an emigrant train in Iowa, I saw an old man deliberately slice a huge wart from his little finger with a keen-edged knife. The wart fell under the seat and rolled at my feet. The old man made no effort to recover it, but wrapped his bleeding hand in a handkerchief and muttered: 'THAT witness will never come up to trouble me.' There was something in the man's voice that sounded familiar, and the strange whiteness of his hands aroused my suspicions, for in dress and appearance the man was a laborer of the lower class. Curiosity, if nothing stronger, prompted me to take possession of the severed wart that had rolled at my feet. Soon after that I read the notice in a newspaper, to the effect that the assassin of the express train had left the imprint of a wart on the bosom of the dead man's shirt. Since that time I have regarded hands with no little interest, and have looked for the old man of the emigrant car in vain."
"An interesting recital," said the detective, when Harry Bernard came to a pause. "Knowing all this, you kept it from me at St. Louis."
"My reason for that was, that I did not care to arouse any foolish theories. Of course, the reporter's story might have been false. The wart on my own hand, somewhat similar to this, led me to keep my own council as a matter of personal safety. Although I suspected Elliston, I had no proof, since I had forgotten the fact of his ever having a wart on the little finger of his right hand. My principal hope has been in finding the old man of the emigrant train."
"You have not found him?"
"Not unless Elliston is the man."
"Did you suspect this before now?"
"I did; now I am convinced."
Just then Harry Bernard chanced to raise his eyes and gaze out of the open window.
He came suddenly to his feet with a startled exclamation.
Dyke Darrel glanced out of the window to notice a bent old man, with white hair and beard, moving away from the vicinity of the house. Evidently he had been looking into the room, if not listening to the conversation of the trio.
"Saints of Rome! there is the old man of the emigrant train now!"
Dyke Darrel staggered to the window, while Harry Bernard rushed swiftly from the farm-house.
"Hello, old man!"
"Eh?"
The man stopped, stared at Harry Bernard as if puzzled, and then began to grin.
"I want to speak with you, sir."
"Sortin, sortin you can."
"Who are you?"
"Sam Wiggs o' Yonkers. Wat can I do for ye, mister?"
The old fellow seemed honest enough, and as Harry glanced at the dirty hands, he saw nothing to excite his suspicions.
"Are you a relative of Mr.—-?" naming the farmer who owned the place on which they stood.
"Wal, not as I knows on," drawled the old fellow, laughing until his old head seemed ready to topple from his shoulders. "No blood relation, any how, sir. You see, my wife's cousin's aunt's husband's brother Jerry was a cousin to Nicodemus Dunce, who, if I don't disremember, was related in some way to Isacker Pete's wife's sister, and she was this ere man's niece, or somethin' o' that sort, but we ain't blood related nohow."
"I should think not," answered Harry, and then he returned to the house, while the old man Wiggs proceeded unmolested on his way.
"At a first glance, he DID resemble the man of the emigrant train strongly," muttered Bernard, "but I see now that I was mistaken."
"Well, how did you make out, Harry?"
"This was from Dyke Darrel, who had been watching proceedings from the window.
"A case of mistaken identity," answered the young man, with a laugh. "I was sure I had found the right man when I saw that old chap crossing the yard, but it seems that I was mistaken."
"Are you sure of it?"
"I suppose I am."
Dyke Darrel watched the retreating form of the old man with no little curiosity, however, until his bent form was lost to view down the winding road. Naturally suspicious, the detective more than half believed that the seemingly aged man had not come to the farm-house for any good purpose.
"I can't help thinking that Wiggs, as he called himself, is destined to give us trouble, Harry," the detective said, at length.
"An inoffensive old man," asserted Bernard. At the same time, however, he was not fully content to let the matter rest as it was.
"It might be well enough to watch the old fellow, at any rate," said Dyke Barrel, rising and walking twice across the room, peering nervously out of the window in the direction in which old Wiggs had gone.
"Keep quiet, Dyke," said Bernard. "I will shadow the old fellow, and see if he is other than he seems."
Bernard was on the point of leaving the room, when a youth appeared, walking swiftly toward the farm-house from the direction of the station. One glance sufficed to show both men the genial face of the boy Paul Ender.
"So you have Paul with you, Harry?" said the detective with a pleased smile.
"He is my shadow, and I have found him true and brave," answered Harry, at the same time glancing toward Nell, who had told him of the lad's defense of her against the villain Elliston.
"I can testify to his bravery," said the girl. "Paul and I are great friends."
A minute later, young Ender entered the presence of the trio, and deposited a black satchel in the middle of the floor.
"I have committed a theft," said the boy, with a queer look on his face, "and am here to throw myself on the mercy of the court."
"You speak in riddles," said Bernard. "I've been on a bully lay, as the peelers say, and I believe have made a discovery, although it may amount to nothing after all."
"Go on."
"I've seen the man with the red hair and beard."
"When?"
"Where?"
"Over by the depot. I saw him go into an old out-house with this satchel in his hand."
"Indeed!"
"Go on."
"I was on the watch, and when he came out I saw, not Brother Ruggles, but a lean old man, with white locks and beard, who seemed to walk with great difficulty."
"Ah!"
"Indeed!"
"He hobbled away, and failed to take the satchel with him. At first I could not believe that the sorrel gent and the old chap were the same. I learned this by investigation. When, after waiting a spell, and no sunset-haired gent came forth, I proceeded to investigate, and found this satchel, which, under the law of military necessity, I proceeded to confiscate, that the ends of justice might be furthered. If I have done wrong, I am ready to throw myself on the mercy of the court, and be forgiven."
"You have done right," cried Dyke Barrel. "Have you opened the satchel?"
"No. It is locked, and I haven't a key that will fit."
Harry Bernard produced several keys, none of which fitted the lock to the satchel.
"What are we to do?" cried Bernard. "The satchel is securely locked, and its owner has the key."
"This is no time for ceremony or undue squeamishness!" uttered Dyke Darrel. "We are on the eve of an important discovery, and I propose to make no delays."
Then, drawing a knife from his pocket, the detective bent over the satchel and slit the sides at one stroke.
"That will open it if a key won't," he remarked, with grim satisfaction.
The contents of the satchel were a revelation.
Red wigs and a complete suit of clothes, besides paints and powders.
Harry uttered an exclamation.
"Just as I suspected," uttered Dyke Darrel. "You made no, mistake when you suspected that old man who just now left this vicinity. Doubtless he forgot his satchel, or else thought it safe until his return. Paul, my boy, you have done a good thing, and shall be promoted. We must now make it a point to intercept old Wiggs."
"Doubtless he has gone to the depot."
"How far is that from here?"
"Two miles."
"When does the train pass?" questioned Dyke Darrel.
"I cannot say."
"Nor I."
"Ask the farmer's wife."
Paul sped from the room.
"The New York express goes in ten minutes," said the boy, on his return.
"In ten minutes? Then we have no time to lose," cried Dyke, turning to the door.
"Dyke, what would you do?" demanded Nell at this moment.
"Capture your enemy and mine—-"
"But you are not strong enough to take the trail. Stay with me."
He interrupted her with:
"Nell, I never felt stronger in my life. I mean to put the bracelets on the villain's wrists with my own hands."
"Dyke, leave it to me," urged Harry Bernard.
But the detective's blood was up, and he would listen to no one. He was determined to be in at the death, and for the time his old strength seemed coursing in his veins. He hastened from the house, and ascertaining that a horse was in the barn, he at once sprang to the animal's back.
"You are unarmed?" said Bernard. "Yes, but—"
"Take this; I will quickly follow," and the young man thrust a revolver into the hand of Dyke Darrel. "Do nothing rash until help arrives, Dyke. Our game is desperate, and will fight hard if cornered."
"I am aware of that, but I do not fear him. Ha! what is that?"
"The roar of the train."
"Then time is short."
The horse and rider shot away down the country road like an arrow, or a bird. On and on, with the speed of the wind, and yet the lightning express made even greater speed than did the detective's horse.
With a roar and a rush the train swept past.
Too late!
Dyke Darrel drew rein at the depot just as the train swept madly away on its course to the great city, and on the rear platform stood the old man who had peered into the farm-house window but a short time before.
It was an aggravating situation.
"You can use the telegraph," suggested the depot agent, when Darrel unbosomed himself to him.
"Quick! Send word to the next station, and have the man detained."
The ticket agent went to his instrument and ticked off the desired information.
A little later came the reply:
"No such person on the train."
A malediction fell from the detective's lips. Was his enemy to thus outwit him always?
A tall, handsome man of middle-age stood picking his teeth with a jaunty air beside the desk of a down-town boarding-house, when his occupation, if such we may call it, was interrupted by a touch on his arm.
Looking down, the gentleman saw a small, ragged urchin standing near.
"It is yourn—10 cents, please."
The boy held out a yellow envelope, on which was scrawled the name "Harper Elliston."
The gentleman dropped the required bit of silver into the boy's hand with the air of a king, and then tore open the envelope.
"MR. ELLISTON: Meet me at Room 14, Number 388 Blank street, at seven this evening, SHARP. Business of importance."B."
The contents of the envelope puzzled Mr. Elliston, who had been but ten days in New York since his return from the West. He had several acquaintances whose names might with appropriateness be signed B. "I don't think there'll be any harm in meeting Mr. B. at the place mentioned. It may be of importance, as he says. If it should be a trap set by Dyke Darrel—but, pshaw! that man is dead. I had it from the lips of Martin Skidway, and he knew whereof he spoke. I will call at 388, let the consequences be what they may." Thus decided a cunning villain, and in so doing went to his own doom.
Ten days had Dyke Darrel and his friend Bernard searched the city of New York ere they found their prey. Once found, the detective resolved upon a novel manner of procedure for his capture. The sending of the letter was part of the scheme. Had this failed, then a bolder move would have been made.
But it did not fail.
When Mr. Elliston rapped at room 14, number 388 Blank street, the door was opened, admitting the visitor to a small room containing a bed, a few necessary articles of furniture, and a curtained alcove.
The door was suddenly closed and locked behind Elliston, light was turned on fully, and then the visitor found himself confronted by Harry Bernard, whom he had met once or twice in Woodburg, many months before.
"Eh!" ejaculated Elliston. "So you are the man who wrote that note requesting an interview? Well, I am glad to see you, Mr. Bernard," and Elliston held out his hand, with a smile wreathing his thin lips.
"I imagined you would be," returned the youth. "I am glad to see you so well. Fact is, you are badly wanted out in Illinois at the present time."
"I am sorry that I cannot accommodate my friends out there," returned Elliston, with a frown; "but it is wholly out of the question. I think I will bid you good evening, Mr. Bernard. I cannot waste precious time here."
He turned and grasped the door-knob. It did not yield to his touch.
"Not just yet, Mr. Elliston," said Harry. "I wish to ask you a few questions."
"Well?"
"What do you know of the murder of Arnold Nicholson on the midnight express, south of Chicago, some weeks ago?"
"I read of it, of course."
Mr. Elliston pulled nervously at his glove as he answered.
"What do you know of the disappearance of Captain Osborne and the death of his daughter?" persisted Bernard.
"Do you suppose I have nothing to do but answer such nonsensical questions?" demanded Elliston, angrily. "Open this door and let me pass out."
"Not yet. I wish to tell you a little story, Mr. Elliston."
"I haven't time to listen."
"Nevertheless, you must take the time," said Harry Bernard, sternly. "Don't attempt to make trouble, sir; you will get the worst of it if you do."
There was a glitter in the eyes of the speaker that was not pleasant to see.
Mr. Elliston sank to a chair, and with an air of resignation said:
"Well, well, this is impudent, but I will listen if it will gratify you."
"It certainly will. I wish to start out with the assertion that you DO know something about the crime on the midnight express, and I will try and convince you thatIknow what part you acted in the murder of one of the best men in the service of the express company. Don't lose your temper, sir, but listen?"
"I am listening."
There was a sullen echo in the man's voice that boded an outburst soon.
"A gentleman of your build and complexion boarded the train at a station just south of Chicago one night in April. At another station two companions joined this man, according to previous agreement. One was almost a boy in years, an escaped convict; and these three men during the night entered the express car, murdered the agent, and went through the safe. Just before reaching Black Hollow the three men left the car. One of the three was tall and had red hair and beard. This man, after the slaughter, left a trace behind that has led to his identity. He left the imprint of a bloody hand on a white handkerchief that he took from the pocket of his victim. That handkerchief was afterward found, and the bloody mark compared with the hand of the assassin."
"That could hardly be possible. Hands are many of them alike," articulated Mr. Elliston, nervously.
"True, but in this case a wart, of peculiar shape, gave the man away. The mark of his bloody hand, leaving the wart's impress, was not only on the handkerchief, but left against the white shirt-front of the murdered man as well. The man who committed the murder read of the clew in a Chicago paper, and, to obliterate the tell-tale evidence, he cut the wart from his hand and dropped it under the seat while journeying through Iowa in disguise, on an emigrant train."
The face of Elliston had become white as death, and he trembled from head to foot. If Bernard had doubted before, he doubted now no longer.
"A nice story," finally sneered Bernard's visitor. "When did you learn so much?"
"Weeks ago—"
"And you have permitted this villain to run at large so long!"
"Well, I propose to see that he does not flaunt his crimes in the face of the world longer."
Then, with a quick movement, the youth drew a vial from his pocket and held it up to view, exhibiting to the dilating eyes of the New Yorker a large wart with a double top.
"Just remove the glove from your right hand, Mr. Elliston. I think we will find a scar there that this wart will fit—"
"Furies! this is too much," cried Elliston, coming to his feet, white with rage and fear.
"Stop. Keep your temper," warned Bernard. "I wish to bring a witness; one that has been your companion in crime."
The curtain over the alcove was brushed aside, and a man stepped forth, a man with red whiskers and hair, the latter surmounted with a glossy plug hat.
Elliston stared like one bereft of sense and life.
"Allow me to introduce Professor Darlington Ruggles, Mr. Elliston," uttered Harry Bernard in a mocking voice.
"Hades! what does this mean?" and the trapped villain staggered, clutching the back of a chair for support.
"It means that your race of crime and diabolism is run, Harper Elliston!"
Red hair and beard were suddenly swept aside, a revolver was thrust into the startled countenance of Elliston; he looked, and could only utter:
"DYKE DARREL, THE DETECTIVE!"
"Do you deny your guilt, scoundrel?"
But Harper Elliston sank to a seat, and bowed his head, while drops of cold sweat covered his forehead.
The touch of cold steel and click of closing bracelets roused him.
He was helpless now, for his wrists were encircled by handcuffs. Black despair confronted the villain.
Dyke Darrel went through the pockets of his prisoner and found a revolver, an ugly looking clasp knife, and other articles of a nature that served to show that the owner was not pursuing an honest calling.
"Do you remember that night on the dock beside the river, Elliston?" questioned Bernard, bending suddenly over the prisoner.
But no answer came from the bloodless lips of the cornered villain.
"It was I who tore your mask of red hair from your head that night. I had mistrusted you for a villain, and I meant to unmask you to save Nell Darrel, whom I loved, from your wiles. You struck me with a knife and pushed me into the river. I, however, was not harmed. The point of your knife glanced on a small book that I carried in an inner pocket. I escaped from the river, and resolved to follow you to your doom. I overheard your plans of abducting Nell Darrel, when you fired at my masked face that night as I peered into Mother Scarlet's room. I then knew you to be a villain of the deepest dye. Since, I learned that you were the man in disguise on the emigrant train in Iowa, and this wart will, with other evidence, condemn you before an honest jury of your peers."
A groan alone answered the denouement made by Harry Bernard.
Dyke Darrel removed the glove from his prisoner's right hand, and exposed a scarcely-healed scar near the joint of the little finger. The chain of evidence was complete. The red hair in the clutches of the murdered Nicholson had evidently been torn from the false beard of the disguised assassin.
The New Yorker was removed from the house and taken at once to prison. From thence, on the following morning, Dyke Darrel set out on his return to the Garden City with Elliston in charge.
Harry Bernard remained over at the farm-house in New York State to see Nell, who had been left in the care of Paul Ender. Nell had almost entirely recovered from the shock of her recent treatment, and was overjoyed at the outcome of her friends' visit to New York.
"Elliston will be convicted and hanged," was Bernard's verdict.
On the very day of Harry's arrival at the farm-house, he, with the old farmer, was summoned to visit one who had met with a fatal accident and was about to die.
It proved to be Martin Skidway, who lay on a barn floor with his head in his mother's lap, gasping his life away, an ugly wound in his side.
He had accidentally shot himself and was rapidly sinking. A fugitive in hiding for weeks, his life had been an intolerable one. Now that he was dying, he made a full confession, admitting his own hand in the awful railroad crime, and implicating two others, Elliston and Nick Brower. Sam Swart had been one of them, but he was known to be dead.
"Without HIS urging I would never have stained my hands; in fact, it was Elliston who struck the blow that killed the express messenger."
Without this confession, there was evidence enough to convict the New Yorker; with it, both Brower and the principal were found guilty of murder in the first degree and sentenced to the gallows. Nick Brower was the only one of the four who expiated his crime on the gallows. Harper Elliston died in prison by his own hand.
He left a note admitting the express crime, and also confessing to the murder of Captain Osborne and the ruin of his daughter Sibyl. His was a fitting end to a career of unparalleled crime.
We now draw a veil over the scene.
Harry Bernard and Nell Darrel were, soon after the arrest and death of Elliston, happily married.
Dyke Darrel considers the events leading up to the capture and punishment of those engaged in the crime of the midnight express as among the most thrilling and wonderful of his detective experience. To Harry Bernard and Paul Ender he gives a large share of the credit, and with them shared the reward. Bernard has of late worked in conjunction with Dyke Darrel on other cases, and is fast winning a reputation second only to that of the great railroad detective himself.
THE END.