When the Yankee crept in upon his prey he felt sure of securing him.
There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, however.
Our Yankee friend failed to take into consideration the fact that there was a second person in the room.
The young man stared at the Yankee and his revolver as if more surprised than frightened.
"What's the matter, old chap?" uttered the man, with a sneer. "This is my house—"
"You are my prisoner," uttered the Yankee, sternly.
"Who are you?"
"You will learn soon enough, August Bordine."
"That isn't my name."
"You have a dozen. I know you, however, as the forger, Andrew Barkswell."
"Well, I suppose I may's well come."
He was going in without resistance.
The Yankee was keen, but he failed to notice the movement of the woman.
Of a sudden she sprang forward behind the Yankee, and flung her arms about him, pinioning his arms for an instant. He soon tore loose, but precious time had been lost.
With a sweep of his hand, the man, whom our Yankee friend had taken for August Bordine, dashed the lamp to the floor, leaving the room in total darkness.
"Good-by, Mr. Keene. I hope you'll have better success next time," chuckled a voice, and then the outer door slammed, denoting that the outlaw had passed out into the night.
All this was the work of less than a minute.
The detective, for he it was, wrenched himself from the woman's detaining arms, and dashed down the hall to the street. Darkness reigned outside, and it soon became evident that the outlaw had made good his escape.
The baffled detective went back to the house in no enviable mood.
"I'm a little out in my reckoning," he muttered. "That man was certainly Barkswell, and yet he resembled Bordine. Can it be that the two are identical? They certainly look enough alike to be twin brothers."
Once more the detective entered the house. Groping along the hall, he scratched a match, and entering the back room, soon had the lamp burning once more.
The woman was gone.
"I might have arrested her," muttered the detective, "had I not chased her husband into the darkness. I am confident that it's the same couple I saw in the carriage, yet then he was in disguise."
Sile Keene searched the house from top to bottom, but made no important discoveries. He was prone to believe, however, that Barkswell was the assassin of poor Victoria Vane.
"Is this man and Bordine identical? That is the question," mused the detective. "I am inclined to think they are."
Then he left the house and hurried swiftly away.
The city of Grandon was small, and it did not require much time to traverse its entire length.
In a little time the detective stood before an unpretending dwelling which had been pointed out to him as the house of the young engineer.
There was a cheerful glow in the windows, although the curtains were down. Keene had cast aside his Yankee togs, and appeared undisguised.
The bell was answered by the widow Bordine herself, who at once invited him into her cozy parlor.
No one was here.
The detective glanced keenly around and noted the comfort of the little house. How could the young man who had built such a snug nest turn his attention into criminal channels? The widow was but sixty, with a plump form, pleasant eyes and agreeable manners. Detective Keene was at once prepossessed in her favor.
Could the son of such a woman be the villain appearances indicated? or had there been a grand mistake somewhere?
"My name is Keene," said the detective, introducing himself. "I called to see your son."
"My son is not in."
"When will he return."
"Not until late. His business requires him to keep late hours sometimes."
"Which is unpleasant for you."
"Somewhat, but it won't long be so."
"Indeed?"
"When they are married, he will bring Rose here, and then he'll keep better hours."
"Rose?"
Detective Keen smiled at the simplicity of the old lady.
"Rose Alstine. They've been keepin' company a long time."
"The young lady is wealthy?"
"How do you know? Have you seen 'em?"
"No, but I've heard of the Alstines," returned Keene.
"Well, I suppose Rose is quite an heiress, especially if the old man's mine turns out well, he's been buying out in Colorado. He's out there now looking after it."
"Yes."
"I expect August'll be married as soon's he gets home."
"And that will be when?"
"Can't tell. It may be a month and it may be a year."
"Quite an uncertainty, indeed."
"Yes," heaving a deep sigh, "I'll be proper glad when they are settled."
"I should think so. You have friends in Ridgewood."
"None to speak of."
"The Vanes—"
"Oh, yes, I know. They wan't my friends in petic'lar. Victoria was a pretty girl, and some folks called her smart, but I never could see it. Poor thing, it was an awful end she came to at last," and the widow wiped away a sympathetic tear.
"It was, indeed," agreed the detective. "Your son thought much of the girl?"
"Of Victoria Vane?"
"Yes."
"Law, no. Didn't I tell you that August was keepin' company with theAlstine girl?"
"Yes; but young men sometimes have more strings than one, you know."
"But August ain't that kind."
"Artless, old mother!" thought Keene. "She knows nothing of the doings of this son of her's." Then, thinking of the forger whom he had come so near capturing that evening, Keene said: "You are from New York, I believe, Mrs. Bordine?"
"Formerly, yes."
"From the neighborhood of Rochester?"
"Yes."
"Do you know a family by the name of Barkswell?"
"Never heard of 'em."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I'm not given to telling wrong stories, Mr. Keene. Why should I?Our family was never ashamed of its name—"
"No, certainly not; but I knew the Barkswells, and I thought you might have forgotten. I am from York State myself."
"Glad to hear it. I think I heard August speak of you. He met you down toRidgewood?"
"Yes. I am quite anxious to see your son on important business."
"Come in to-morrow, then. I expect he'll be to home."
The detective rose to go.
It did not seem possible to him then that the villain Barkswell and Bordine could be one and the same, yet it was nevertheless certain that there was a strong resemblance between the two men, and Keene was determined to watch Bordine closely.
Detective Keene hurried away.
Soon he was traversing one of the narrowest streets of the city. Just ahead of him he saw a man standing so that the light from a saloon window flared in his face.
Silas Keene halted an instant and gazed fixedly at the man.
It was certainly the same person he had attempted to arrest that night—either Andrew Barkswell or August Bordine.
The detective suddenly advanced.
The sound of his step caused the young man to turn about.
Both men regarded one another fixedly, a surprised look shooting over the face of the younger.
"Ah, it is Mr. Keene. Glad to see you, sir. Will you come home with me?" cried August Bordine, as he grasped the detective warmly by the hand.
It will be remembered that the young hunter who had assisted the wounded Ransom Vane, was hailed on his way to the village by the tramp, who has so far occupied a prominent place in this narrative.
A curious smile flitted over the face of the hunter as he looked at the ragged creature before him.
"I am glad to see you, Andrew," said the tramp, extending his hand.
"Are you?"
The hunter refused to touch the dirty paw extended toward him.
"Won't you shake?"
"No. You have made a mistake. I am not Andrew Barkswell."
"Not Andrew Barkswell?"
"No."
"Who then?"
"My name is August Bordine."
"Lord, is that so?" cried Jounce with a grin. "Didn't you just come from the man I knifed down yonder?"
"Certainly, and you'll have that to answer for."
"Will he die?"
"I expect so."
"You wouldn't dare appear agin me?"
"I will, as you shall see."
The tramp fell back a step and made a move as if to draw a weapon, but the muzzle of a cocked rifle cooled his ardor a little.
"Now, see here, what's the use of fooling, pardner?" whined the tramp.
"No use of it. I am in deadly earnest I assure you," returned the hunter. "I am of the opinion that you murdered that poor girl last week, and do you know, sir, there's a big reward offered for you dead or alive?"
"No. How much?"
"Five thousand dollars."
"No-o!"
"It's true."
"Who makes the offer?"
"The proper officer—sheriff, I suppose. Come, now; I think I will take you into custody, and haul in that reward."
"But I ain't guilty, and you know it, Andrew."
"Andrew again—"
"No more foolin', old chap. I know you, though, by gum! youdolook a heap like the ingineer from Grandon. Mebbe you'n him's related. But see here, I kin tell you by that, allus."
With a quick movement, the tramp sprang forward and pushed up the hat of the hunter, revealing in the roots of the hair a red, ragged scar.
"Your loving wife made that, pardner, and I 'spose you'll acknowledge the corn now."
"Confound you!"
The hunter seemed angry enough to annihilate the tramp, but the latter stood back and grinned complacently in his face.
"Couldn't fool me, brother," chuckled Jounce. "I 'member when Iris gin ye that rap. She sticks to ye like a burr, pardner, and won't let ye play sweet on the ladies, as you'd like. Kinder mean fur a wife to keep sich a sharp eye out fur her lord, but I tell ye, Iris is grit to ther backbone, and she's jealous, too. But I won't tantalize yer, coz 'taint jest; but 'sposin' you gin me a little rhino? I'm busted—dead broke; out o' rocks, and wrecked on a lee shore."
The man uttered an imprecation.
"I see that you know me," he finally articulated. "I've fooled a good many, but it seems a loving relative can't be deceived. Don't you give me away, Perry, and I'll have money enough for all of us soon."
"No lying?"
"It's true as preaching"
"What lay are you on?"
"I make no confidants."
"Then you'll rue it mebbe."
"I certainly should if I did. I've got the softest snap but for one thing."
"Wal?"
"An infernal man-tracker from Gotham is out here on my lay. He may prove troublesome."
"I've seen him—Sile Keene."
"Yes. Put him off the track, Perry, and I'll make it an object."
Then the hunter laid a gold eagle in the hand of the tramp. An avaricious gleam filled the man's wicked eyes.
"You can count on me, brother."
"Never mind brothering me. I don't want you to trouble me again, you understand, until—"
"Till that man-tracker goes under?"
"Exactly."
"You bet I won't."
Then Barkswell moved on his way, and the tramp disappeared in the bushes.
"Ho! So Mr. Andy don't like for me to call him brother," uttered the tramp, gutterally. "Wonder if he's forgot that he married sister Iris. I must look up the old girl. Mebbe she can do something for me. I'm aware that she'd be ashamed of me in these togs but I reckin I kin sleek up a bit with a part o' this"—clinching the gold-piece as he spoke.
In the meantime Andrew Barkswell made his way to the village, and finding the village physician, sent him to the cottage of Ransom Vane to attend the wounded man.
It will be seen that the man in hunter's costume was not August Bordine, although he had deceived Ransom Vane into believing him to be the engineer. It was this close resemblance to Bordine that put a scheme into the head of a villain.
"I had no idea that I looked so much like somebody else," mused the young villain as he rode toward Grandon that night. "I'll profit by this, or I am a fool. If Iris had only remained away. She's so squeamish, I can't do anything. I really wish an accident would happen to her."
All this happened on the day before the adventures of Mr. Barkswell with the detective in the guise of a Yankee, already recorded.
We now return to the city.
Silas Keene was not a little puzzled as he found himself clasping the hand of the young man in front of the low saloon.
Was this the same man he had dogged to the house in the suburbs?
He looked like him, and yet there seemed to be a slight difference in the voice.
The detective was puzzled.
"Where do you stop, Mr. Keene?"
"At the Golden Lion."
"Good hotel; but I would like to have you accompany me home. I would talk of the late crime at Ridgewood. I notice that a large reward has been offered for the perpetrator."
"It seems so."
"Of course you will strive to win the reward."
"Certainly."
The two men were now walking away from the vicinity of the saloon.
"This is the hardest part of the city," said Bordine. "It's seldom that I come this way."
"What called you here to-night?"
The detective was suspicious now of the man, and had his revolver convenient to his hand.
"Well, simply because I saw a fellow coming this way that I recognized. The man entered that saloon. You see I brood continually over the murder of poor Victoria Vane."
"Yes; that is natural enough."
"Is it? I suppose it's because I was connected with it in such a way."
"You connected with the murder?"
Sile Keene seemed to think his companion was about to make a full confession, for he almost stopped in his walk to stare at the face of Bordine.
"I was connected with it, as you will remember. Sometimes I blame myself for not remaining until her brother returned, and not giving that tramp the opportunity he desired," said Bordine, in a solemn voice.
"So you think it was the tramp that committed the murder?"
The detective asked this question simply for the want of something better. He was now pretty thoroughly convinced that the real assassin walked at his side, and that it might be well to arrest him at once, when, if necessary, sufficient evidence could be hunted up afterward.
"I am almost sure of it."
"What motive?"
"Robbery and revenge."
"Indeed."
"Yes. Poor Victoria!"
"See here, Mr. Bordine, what was that girl to you?" demanded the detective, suddenly and sharply, laying his hand on the arm of his companion.
A dark form dogging their steps—had not been seen by either.
"She was nothing to me, sir."
"A friend?"
"Certainly, and nothing more. If you knew her you will bear me out in the statement that she was something of a coquette in her way."
"I know nothing about that."
"You hadn't met her in some years perhaps."
"I admit that I had not. See here, Mr. Bordine,aliasBarkswell, we may as well come to an understanding. I consider you a dangerous man, and propose to put you in a safe place."
At this moment a ring of cold steel touched the temple of Bordine, who regarded the detective in silent astonishment.
A revolver was against his temple.
"What does this mean?" demanded Bordine.
"That you are my prisoner, forger and assassin!" hissed Silas Keene.
The next instant a pair of handcuffs were snapped over the young engineer's wrists.
August Bordine stood handcuffed and a prisoner, his face the picture of utter astoundment.
It was too dark, however, for the detective to note the look on the face of the young engineer.
"I hope you will go with me peaceably," uttered Keene, as he clutched the arm of his prisoner to lead him away.
"Mr. Keene, this is astounding. I thought you were my friend," finally uttered the young engineer, in a voice quivering with emotion.
"You are a skilled and slippery villain, young man, but you cannot throw me off the scent by any such pretense as this. I've trapped too many criminals, and heard their smooth talk. Let me tell you that I heard your confession to your wife, that you murdered Victoria Vane and robbed the house."
Bordine trembled under the detective's hand.
"Come."
"But I tell you there is some mistake, sir. My name is Bordine, and—"
"I do not care to listen just now," interrupted Silas Keene. I know my duty."
"I doubt it," retorted Bordine angrily. "I will make you smart for this."
The young man walked on, however, and when in the vicinity of the city lockup, the detective turned from the street to cross a vacant lot. They were thus in a gloomy spot, and compelled to pass near the edge of a deep hollow, an excavation made a long time before for a cellar.
Just at this point a dark form glided up behind the detective and dealt him a stunning blow on the head, felling him to the ground.
"Thar, pardner, I reckon that beak won't git no furder with his pris'ner."
Bordine was dumbfounded.
Who was the rough-spoken man who had come to his rescue by perhaps dealing the detective a death-blow?
"He put the darbies on, did he?"
Bordine held up his manacled hands. The gruff-spoken individual fumbled with them a moment, and then, to his great joy, Bordine found his wrists free.
The stranger had done him a good turn indeed.
Now the young engineer was anxious about the detective's fate; who he realized, had been acting in good faith no matter how foolishly he had blundered.
"I'm allus on hand like a thumb," chuckled the man who had rescuedBordine.
"You had keys to fit the handcuffs?"
"Took 'em from the bloke's pocket."
"I see."
Then, as he cast the bracelets from him, August bent over the prostrate form of Silas Keene.
"I'm afraid you've seriously injured the man," said August lowly.
"Wal, nobody'll cry ef I have," grated the rescuer, "I expect we'd better make sure of the job and then I kin claim the reward."
"Reward."
"Why, confound it, the rhino you promised me ef I'd knife the cursed beak who was on yer trail."
"Oh yes, to be sure," returned the young engineer, who by this time began to "catch on" to the true situation.
It was evident that a grave mistake had been made, and Bordine resolved to carry on the deception with a view to learning something of the intentions of the villain or villains who had plotted the destruction of Keene.
"Let's see, how much was I to give you for this?"
"Durn it, that was fur you to say, Andy. I want you to be liberal now."
"Yes, you've done me a good turn to-night and I'm not unmindful of it, but I don't happen to have any money on my person just at present. Suppose you call 'round to-morrow evening about this time."
"When you'll be out of the kentry mebbe," retorted the other with a growl of dissatisfaction.
"You ought to know me better than that," rebuked the engineer.
"I know ye fur jest that caper, Andy Barkswell."
So that was the man he was supposed to represent. There was something familiar in the ring of the man's voice, too. Where had he heard it before?
"Well, sir, I can't pay you anything to-night. You appoint a place of meeting and I will be there, don't you fear," returned the young engineer, after a moment given to reflection.
"Wal, ef that's yer game, I'll meet ye at Billy Bowleg's saloon, to-morrer at this time. Is't a bargain?"
"It's a bargain, Perry."
Then the two clasped hands.
August Bordine recognized the man now as the tramp who had assaulted Victoria Vane, that day, when he was up at Eastman's woods on a hunting excursion. He was the same man he had seen enter the saloon so Silas Keene came along, and it was this saloon that the tramp had named as the place for the next meeting. It was well. The engineer resolved to be on hand and make sure of the burly scoundrel who, August Bordine was sure, had murdered Victoria Vane.
"Now, pard, hadn't I better gin the hound another tap on the head?"Referring to the insensible detective.
"No, leave him to me, old fellow. You have done your complete share in disposing of the man-tracker. I will complete the work."
"Better dump him in yender."
"No."
Perry Jounce said no more, but moved swiftly away in the gloom.
Then August Bordine hastened for assistance.
He found a hack, and had the insensible detective borne to his home, which was not reached until nearly midnight.
When the man-tracker opened his eyes, he found himself in a cozy room, snugly ensconsed on a huge sofa, with the fumes of a hot sling in his nostrils.
"Taste this, Mr. Keene, and you will feel better."
It was August Bordine, with a hot drink for the detective. For a moment the man-hunter could scarcely believe his senses.
He sipped the hot sling, and afterward felt better, so that he sat up and gazed about him. It was the same room he had visited earlier in the evening, but the picture of home comfort was not the same, on account of the absence of the comfortable form and motherly face of Mrs. Bordine, who had retired long since to rest.
Silas Keene's senses were yet in a daze, and his head ached enough to split. He glanced at the pleasant face of the young engineer, then about the room, as if wondering where he was.
"You are puzzled, Mr. Keene."
"Well, I should say so," returned the detective. "I cannot account for it, nohow."
"This is my home, Mr. Keene, and you are welcome to remain here until you choose to depart. I would like for you to make it your home while you remain in the city."
"But," gasped the detective, "how does it come that I am here?"
"I had you brought here in a hack."
"Was it you that knocked me over?"
"No, indeed," smiled Bordine. "I was never known to assault an officer."
"Then how—"
"I will explain."
The young engineer did so, telling all the circumstances and concluding with:
"I am as deeply puzzled as you can be, at the man's motive in rescuing me from your hands. Evidently he mistook me for another person, since he addressed me as Andrew Barkswell."
"And is not that your name?"
"Certainly not. I hope you did not make the same mistake. Evidently you did, for, if my memory serves me, you addressed me by that name as well as my own when you arrested me last night."
"Last night?"
"Yes. It is quite morning now."
"And you have been with me all night?"
"Yes, and summoned a physician. You see I was afraid you had been seriously injured."
Silas Keene bowed his head in thought for some moments. At length he looked up and held out his hand.
"Mr. Bordine, I have been a confounded fool."
"I hope not."
Yet the young man could not repress a laugh at the queer expression resting on the countenance of the detective.
"I arrested you for murder."
"Yes."
"For the murder of the Vane girl."
"Yes. You were in a hurry to win the reward—I forgive you, sir. It was simply a mistake."
"And might have proved a grievous one."
"Certainly. I am satisfied that it is no worse."
"And you can forgive me?"
"Certainly."
The two men clasped hands in apparent friendship.
Nevertheless the detective had a lingering suspicion that he was making more of a fool of himself than ever. He tried to smother this, and to appear frank and genial before Bordine. If the man before him was not Barkswell, then he resembled him so closely as to defy detecting the difference.
"I will watch and wait," thought Keene, "and not make another move untilI am certain of the facts."
"Now that we understand each other," proceeded Bordine, "I wish to make a bargain with you."
"Proceed."
"I promised to meet this tramp, whose real name is Perry Jounce, I believe, at Billy Bowleg's saloon to-morrow evening, for the purpose of rewarding him for his villainy."
"Yes."
"I find that my other duties will compel me to remain away, but if you will look after the appointment I shall be glad. You can take all the help you need, and make sure of this tramp, and may help break up a bad nest as well. What do you say?"
"I will do it of course."
"Thanks. Now lie here and rest. You need to be recuperated, for the work is hard." "I will do so."
Then bidding his guest good-night, the young engineer left the room.
As he had said it was almost day dawn, and one person was early astir, at least in the city, a man who had been listening at the slightly raised window to the conversation going on between Bordine and the detective.
"It is well," he muttered with a chuckle of delight as he hurried away.
In a pretty bijou of a room one evening sat a girl of nineteen, tall and stately, with a comely face and eyes that were lustrous as stars.
Rose Alstine was not a beauty, but she was good at heart, generous to a fault, and beloved by all who knew her.
She was an heiress to wealth that was reputed bordering on a million. Her money prospects, however, in no way marred the goodness of her character. Had she been overly proud she would certainly not have permitted the attentions of the humble engineer, August Bordine.
There was genuine love between them, too, not of the effusive, sickish sort, but that love that enobles and glorifies.
On the evening in question, Rose sat alone gazing thoughtfully at the carpet. There was a troubled look on her countenance, for only that day she had heard bad news. A horse had run away with her lover and flung him so violently against a post as to injure him severely.
In the evening paper she read the account, and now she was debating whether or not it would be unmaidenly for her to call on her lover. In the main Rose was a sensible girl, yet she was seldom known to fly in the face of the proprieties.
August might die!
It was this thought that brought a moisture to the eyes of the heiress, just as Miss Williams, her cousin of uncertain age, entered the room.
"It would certainly never do, Rose, never."
"What is that, Janet?"
"It would never do for you to visit a man. Just think what the gossips would say. As a relative, and one who would not like to see our good name trailed as a garment, I warn you not to think of such a thing as visiting that man Bordine."
Rose regarded the speaker keenly.
Even with a sad feeling tugging at her heart, she could not but understand that it was sour grapes with Janet Williams. She had once tried desperately to win the attention of the young engineer.
"But, Janet, August may be fatally injured," said Rose, after a moment, in a faltering voice.
"Which would not alter the status of the case in the least."
"Are you heartless, Janet?"
"No. But—"
[Illustration: WITH A LITTLE SHRIEK SHE RUSHED INTO HIS OPEN ARMS ANDSEALED HER WELCOME ON HIS LIPS]
A bounding step on the stair cut short the words of Miss Williams. The next instant the door was flung open and a man crossed the threshold, and, hat in hand, confronted the two girls.
His face was somewhat pale, yet his lips were wreathed in a smile. Rose sat for an instant staring at the man as though about to faint, so astonished was she.
Then with a little shriek she rushed into his open arms and sealed her welcome on his lips.
Miss Williams stood dumfounded.
Rose lay sobbing on the breast of her stalwart lover.
"There, Rose, darling, that will do," said the gentleman, leading her to a seat. "Were you not expecting me?"
"No indeed," cried Rose, as she brushed away the tears. "I read of the terrible accident, and my mind was full of forboding."
"Indeed! What a little goose you are, Rose."
"But you might have been killed, you know, and then—"
"Well?"
"And then what would have become of poor me?"
"Sure enough; but I wasn't killed, nor even seriously hurt, my dear, so we will discard such disagreeable thoughts from our minds."
He settled himself on the wide, cushioned couch at her side, and pressed a kiss on her cheek just as Miss Williams swept, with upturned nose, from the room.
"Faugh!" ejaculated the elderly girl, as she closed the door behind her with a bang. "I can't abide such sickly slush as that. Rose is a fool, and that man isn't one whit better."
Then she flounced down the broad stairs and sought relief from her overwrought feelings in smelling-bottle and snuff.
Yes, dear reader, Miss Williams, dear old girl, was given to snuff, and she would soon cross the boundaries to that old maid's paradise where cats and parrots abounded.
With her it was indeed the sourest of sour grapes.
And Rose?
She felt that this was the happiest moment of her life, as she nestled against her lover's breast and realized that no harm had come to him after all.
"It was wholly a false report, August, but it made me miserable for some hours."
"Not wholly false," he said, as he toyed with a diamond ring that glittered on her finger. "I was thrown out and injured, but not very badly. I came here just as soon after the accident as possible to alleviate your fears."
"Oh, how good you are."
"This ring," he said, seeming to wish to avoid the subject of the accident. "A genuine diamond, is it not?"
"Certainly. Have you forgotten—"
"That it was my own gift. No, darling, but I believe I have forgotten the cost," he said, quickly.
She stared at him in astonishment.
Then she burst into a laugh.
"How absent-minded you have become," she declared. "I fear that accident injured your brain, August."
"It's barely possible," he said, forcing a laugh.
"Why, you goose, you know that ring was a present from papa on my last birthday, and he said it was worth a good thousand. How could you forget?"
"Surely, how could I?" he returned, with a glittering eye. "I—I don't feel just right, that's a fact."
"And it may have been very imprudent for you to come out so soon after your fall," evincing anxiety.
"Oh, no; I guess not," was his light reply. He lifted her hand again.
"It's your ring you miss?"
"Yes."
She rose and went to a little stand, from a drawer taking a golden circlet, and resuming her seat once more.
"Why do you not wear it?"
"It's a little large."
"Indeed. Permit me to take it. I will bring you another that you can wear."
She resigned the ring to his keeping.
"And this one. How beautiful!" he exclaimed, turning the diamond ring about on her finger.
"Strange you never noticed it's beauty before."
"Well, you know I've been too deeply absorbed in the owner."
Then he slipped the ring from her finger and held it up to the light.
"Well, itisa beauty!" he murmured, toying with it as a delighted boy might with a new plaything.
"I thought you did not admire diamonds?"
"Well, can't a person change their opinions?
"Certainly, but—"
"Ah, that pain again!" exclaimed the engineer, clasping his stomach suddenly and groaning.
"Oh, August, you are hurt, in pain, and trying to keep it from me!" she cried in alarm.
"It's a mere nothing, but—but have you any, brandy in the house? I feel that I need something of the kind."
He seemed trying to smother his distress, and this caused poor Rose to grow pale with alarm.
She sprang up at once.
"I believe there is a flask of brandy in the pantry; I will go for it."
"If you only would."
She passed out quickly.
In about ten minutes she returned having a flask and glass.
"I feel much better," he said, "but I will taste the spirits since it may prevent a recurrence of that ugly pain."
He tossed off a rather ample glass of the liquid, and declared that he felt twenty per cent better.
"If you weren't a strict temperance man I should think that you liked brandy," said Rose, with an amused laugh.
"I'm temperate to the backbone save when it's necessary to use liquor as a medicine," and he laughed, too, in unison with Rose.
She placed the flask and empty glass on the little stand.
"I must return now, Rose. I don't feel that I ought to remain out late to-night."
"Well, I hope you will not suffer from the effects of the accident."
"No danger. That diamond ring, Rose. I dropped it and can't just put my finger on it. Will you help me find it?"
He peered under the couch and chair.
"Never mind, August, I can find it in the morning."
He rose up then, kissed her good-night, and hurried away.
The next morning, when Rose came to look for the diamond ring, it was not to be found. She went to the stand and opened it; her case that held a set of diamond bracelets was there, open but empty.
Rose Alstine uttered a great cry.
Her diamond bracelets, valued at five thousand dollars were gone!
What did it mean?
The saloon of Billy Bowlegs was a low resort, and Detective Keene realized that it was not a safe place for a member of his profession were he recognized by any of the law-breakers who frequented the place.
The detective was deeply puzzled with regard to August Bordine. He could not remove from his mind the idea that the young engineer was the same man who visited that woman, his wife, apparently, in another part of the city. It seemed that the young man was playing a double game.
"He has befriended me, and I will not move against him until I make sure, hereafter," thought Keene. "He has an estimable mother, and it seems a shame that he should be such a villain. It will break her heart, I believe, when she comes to know what a scoundrel she has for a son. I will investigate this mixed state of affairs thoroughly before I jump at conclusions. It is barely possible that I was a little premature last night."
The detective wandered about the city in disguise during the greater part of the day, but made no discoveries, save only that he saw the tramp, Perry Jounce, pass down and enter Bowleg's saloon in the early part of the day.
Late in the afternoon an elderly looking gentleman, in the office of theGolden Lion, purchased an evening paper and began perusing the locals.
"While Mr. August Bordine was driving down the street, near the depot, his horse became frightened at a passing train and ran. Mr. Bordine was hurled out against a telegraph pole and severely injured. He was removed to his home by a friend. At the hour of going to press we have not been able to obtain further particulars."
After reading this, the old gentleman came to his feet.
He passed from the hotel, and turned his steps in the direction of theBordine cottage.
In a little time he was ringing the door-bell.
"You wish to see my son?" queried the old lady who opened the door.
"Yes."
"He is not able to see visitors."
"He is badly hurt, then?"
"Mother, tell the gentleman to come in," called a voice from the cozy front room, and so the visitor was permitted to go before the engineer.
"Ah, beg pardon, but I thought that it was a friend," uttered the pale young man, who sat in the great armchair, propped by pillows.
"My voice sounded familiar?"
"Yes."
"And I am a friend," cried the old gentleman, at the same time removing hat and wig.
"Silas Keene!" exclaimed Bordine.
"Good lord, who'd a thought it?" interjected the motherly widow, with upraised hands.
"Only a bit of disguise," laughed the detective. "I adopt such frequently. It sometimes becomes highly necessary you know, Mr. Bordine."
"I suppose so."
"I saw a notice of your injury in the evening paper and hastened here at once."
"Thanks. You are very kind," returned the young engineer. "I assure you it is nothing serious, but may lay me on the stocks for a day or two. I meant to assist you to-night, but, as you see, now, it is wholly out of the question."
"Certainly."
"Have you made any discoveries?"
"None of consequence."
"We are no nearer the solution of the murder mystery than ever," muttered Bordine. "I think, if you succeed in arresting Perry Jounce, you may wring something from him. He is a low villain, and would as lief commit a murder as eat."
"Yes. I mean to look after the scoundrel to-night."
"Don't attempt to do anything alone, Keene."
"I think there is little danger."
"But that tramp may have discovered his mistake by this time. He undoubtedly mistook me for another person, asyoudid last night."
"True."
The detective eyed the engineer keenly.
If this young man was a dissembler he was certainly a keen one.
"You will be on your guard?"
"Certainly," with a smile. "I have trailed too many criminals to their lair to fear now."
"One thing more," as the detective rose to go. "I want you to consider my house open to you at all times during your stay in Grandon."
"Thank you. I will not forget it."
And then the detective was gone.
"What a strange man," remarked Mrs. Bordine.
"Yes," agreed August. "I have heard of him as a great detective, and I hope that he will prove his name good in this instance. Surely it does seem as though this murder mystery might be cleared up. Of course there may be no evidence to convict him, yet it seems plain to me that Perry Jounce, the tramp, is the guilty man."
"I should think they'd arrest him at any rate."
"I am of the opinion that it would be good policy."
In the meantime Silas Keene had resumed his disguise and returned to the Golden Lion. He remained here until after darkness fell, then, going outside, he secreted a revolver and set of handcuffs on his person, and congratulated himself that he was ready to pay the saloon of Billy Bowlegs a visit.
He counseled with a member of the police force afterward.
"I'm going to make an onset to-night, at Bowleg's saloon, and I want you to be within call in case I should need you," explained the detective, at the same time revealing his badge of office. "There's money in it if you're alert, my friend."
What member of the force could resist such an inducement?
Silas Keene sauntered down the narrow street leading to the saloon in question, paused for a moment on the threshold, then passed in.
Soon a man in blue halted in the shadows without, and waited developments. He expected that the detective would soon give the signal for assistance, but the police officer waited in vain.
Slowly the minutes passed.
An hour drew its length along, and then, becoming impatient, the man of clubs walked into the saloon.
Two men were drinking at the bar, and from beyond a screen came the sound of voices, where numerous gamesters were engaged in play.
Billy Bowlegs was himself behind the bar. He seemed to recognize the officer, for he nodded and set out a decanter of brandy and shoved it toward him.
After drinking the officer said:
"An old gentleman entered a short time since. I had my eye on him, and would like to see him."
"Man with long hair, and one eye?"
"No. A real gentleman, with gray hair and beard."
"Seems 's though I do remember seeing such a chap," uttered the barkeeper. "How long ago was it?"
"Nearly an hour."
"Probably he went away."
"Not by the front door."
"Eh! Then you've been watching him? Suspicious character, eh?"
"Yes."
"You can look through the rooms."
Billy Bowlegs led the way behind the screen.
Half a dozen men sat playing at the tables, as many more smoking and reclining on settees at the side of the room.
The air was thick with smoke, yet the keen glance of the police officer showed that his friend, the detective, was not present.
"Strange!" muttered the officer.
"He doubtless went out the side door," and Billy Bowlegs pointed to a narrow door at the side of the room.
"Possibly."
The officer was not the brightest member of the force, and believing that he had been sold by the old man who had pretended to be a detective, the guardian of the night returned to the bar-room, partook or another horn of brandy, and then passed out upon the street.
"Sold!" he muttered, angrily, as he strode from the dangerous vicinity.
Meantime whathadoccurred to detain Silas Keene so long?
When Silas Keene, the New York detective, entered the bar-room, his glances met no familiar face. The tramp had been thoroughly described to Keene, so that he felt that he should know the fellow the moment his glances fell upon him.
The detective did not know that his man was on the lookout for him.
It will be remembered that a man had been listening through an open window to the conversation between the detective and August Bordine in the early morning.
That man was no less a personage than Andrew Barkswell, whose strong resemblance to the young engineer had so complicated affairs. He, of course, preferred to meet the detective in a way that the latter little suspected.
Keene sauntered into the card room, after partaking of a cigar.
While here watching the players, a hand touched his arm.
"Be you lookin' for somebody, mister?"
Keene looked into a dark, repulsive face, and at once recognized the man who had been described as the tramp, Perry Jounce.
"Yes," returned the detective.
"Who mout it be?"
Bending to the man's ear, Keene whispered the name of Barkswell.
"Loud o' liberty!" exclaimed Jounce, "I was expectin' him, too."
"When did you meet him last?"
"'Bout this time last night."
"Exactly; on a vacant lot—?"
"Eh?"
The tramp started and evinced alarm.
"Don't worry, old fellow," uttered the detective in a low voice. "I know all about it, my friend. You were to meet a gentleman here by appointment?"
"Yes."
"I am the man."
"You?" incredulously.
"Yes. Mr. Barkswell couldn't come, and so he sent me to take his place. I would like mighty well to see you in private for a few minutes."
"I kin fix that."
Jounce left the room, going to the bar-room for a minute. The detective didn't mean to lose sight of his man, so he managed to watch him from a convenient position behind the screen.
He saw him procure a key from Billy Bowlegs, and whisper something in his ear. Then he came swiftly back to his room beyond the screen.
"I'll find a quiet place whar we won't be disturbed, pardner," uttered Perry Jounce, at the same time leading the way to a small screen that seemed to be tucked back in the corner to be out of the way. Turning this, a narrow door was revealed.
Unlocking this, guide and detective passed through, and stood in total darkness.
The detective was resolved to learn from this man all he could about Andrew Barkswell before he placed him under arrest, and it was for this reason that he seemed to fall in with his wishes so condescendingly.
In the darkness, with the sound of the key grating in the lock as Jounce secured the door. Silas Keene became slightly nervous for the first time.
Might he not be walking into a trap? It was possible, and yet it did not seem probable, since this man could not know who he was.
Keene clutched the butt of his revolver with one hand and waited developments with considerable anxiety.
"Come on, pard."
Then Jounce led the way down a dark and narrow passage to another door, which he pushed open.
"Go in, boss."
The detective hesitated.
Noticing it the tramp strode on in advance, struck a match and lit a gas jet that stood out from the wall.
"A pokerish place," said Keene, as he followed Jounce into the room and gazed about him.
"Its private anyhow," returned the burly fellow with a laugh.
There could be no disputing this fact.
A round table occupied the center of a small room, with a chair on either side of it. A pack of cards and decanter of liquor occupied the center of the table, also a couple of glasses.
"Everything as snug's pigs in clover," chuckled Jounce. "This ere's the boss' private room, where he entertains peticler guests. Them as wants a private confab comes in here."
"Indeed."
One fact the detective noted, the room had no window, and was evidently entirely within the building. Not a sound from without, or from the barroom penetrated the place.
Jounce locked the door, an unnecessary precaution, the detective thought, and threw himself into one of the chairs.
"Sit down, pardner. We kin confab here without bein' disturbed, you bet yer buttons."
"I should think so," was the dry response.
"Help yerself to refreshments."
Jounce tapped the bottle with a dirty finger.
Keene, however, was wise enough not to indulge. He saw before him but one man, and if treachery was meditated, he believed himself a match for this one easily.
"Now, then, perceed."
"First, Mr. Jounce, we'd best come to an understanding," declared the disguised detective.
"Sartin, sir."
"You expected to meet my friend Barkswell tonight?"
"I did."
"For what purpose?"
"Didn't he tell yer?"
"It was about the payment of money?"
"Exactly."
"For what service?"
"Don't yer know?"
Jounce leaned his face between his hands and grinned.
"For the murder of the detective from New York, Sile Keene?"
"Putty nigh it; but you call it by a hard name, stranger. Did the kurnel send the rhino?"
"The colonel?"
"I mean Andy Barkswell, of course."
"He wanted to make sure that you had completed the job."
"Why, condum it, wasn't he thar? What more could he ax?"
"Nothing, so far as Keene is concerned."
"Wal?"
The detective realized that he was treading on dangerous ground, yet he resolved to risk it.
"It's about that other affair."
"The t'other affair?"
"Over at Ridgewood."
"What the Satan you drivin' at, pardner?"
"You ought to know."
"Speak right out plain, pardner, and don't beat about ther bush," growled the tramp, showing his teeth.
"Well, it's that little affair about the girl that died so suddenly over at Ransom Vane's. You haven't forgotten that, of course?"
"Of course not."
The ugly eyes of the tramp regarded the disguised detective in a way that was not pleasant.
Was the tramp really the guilty person in that tragedy? If so, how much or how little did Andrew Barkswell know of the affair? The letter that had been found with the dead girl would indicate that she had been on somewhat intimate terms with either Barkswell or Bordine. As yet Keene was not satisfied as to the identity of the two. He resolved to make a bold venture at the present time, and learn if possible what there was to know or at least how much the tramp knew on the subject.
"It seems that our friend Andrew isn't exactly satisfied with the way you bungled that job."
"How's that?"
"You left too many straws for the beaks to take hold of." A low, gutteral laugh was the only answer vouchsafed to this by Mr. Perry Jounce.
"You know the job was a botch?"
"I don't know nothin' about it."
"Well, anyhow, Andrew does, and he refuses to pay a cent until somebody goes up for the murder of that girl. Do you understand?"
"No, I don't!"
The eyes of the tramp still fixed themselves in an ugly glow on the countenance of Keene.
"Well, so long as the hounds are on the scent there's danger to Andrew, that to you must be plain enough; and danger to yourself as well. Now, why not fix the crime on some one, and thus make it safe for Andrew and you beyond peradventure? That is the plan, and until that is carried out my friend Barkswell doesn't propose to pay out any money."
"And he wants me to fix that thing of killin' the gal onto an innersent man."
"Exactly."
"Good land, what does he take me for?"
"A man who is ready to work on any line for money."
"Wal, when he pays me fur puttin' a head on Sile Keene, then I'll look to 'tother biz. But I hain't no fool, and I reckin' you ain't 'goin' cordin' to orders from Andy!"
"Why do you think so?"
"Because, sense he didn't kill the gal, why shu'd he keer 'bout gittin' someone else in the limbo. Partner, you ain't sharp."
"I may not be. Of course Andrew didn't kill the girl, but he knows who did, and—"
"Does he? Then somebody's peached."
"Not necessary. Andy Barkswell's not a fool, Mr. Jounce."
"No?"
The look on the tramp's face was comical in the extreme.
The detective believed the hour for action had come. He had been anxious to get from his companion a confession, but it seemed the fellow was too shrewd to give himself away.
"Of course he knows that you put the girl out of the world—"
"That's a lie."
"What?"
The detective was on his feet in an instant.
"I say that's a lie! I didn't tech a hair o' Victory Vane's head, but I knowwhodid."
"Well?"
"I aint a-goin' to tell you,Sile Keene!"
The tramp came to his feet and bent threateningly across the table.
"Ha! you know me?"
The detective whipped out his revolver.
"Too late, pardner!"
There was a horrible grin on the face of Perry Jounce. On the instant an object shot from above full upon the head of Keene, and he sank lifeless to his chair!