Robbed of her precious jewels!
No wonder Rose Alstine was dismayed.
How had the robber gained entrance to her room?
An examination of the windows, in fact all openings to the house, proved them intact, and yet the fact remained that the robbery had been committed.
Miss Alstine sent word to the chief of police, who came at once, looked over the premises, and promised to use every effort to discover the burglar.
Rose never once thought of her lover in connection with such a crime.
It was Miss Williamson who first called her attention to her visitor.
"There's no telling what men will do, cousin Rose."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded the heiress quickly.
"I mean that it is easy enough accounting for the loss of your jewels."
"Well?"
"Your friend, Mr. Bordine borrowed them, doubtless to tide over a financial difficulty."
"Janet!"
"Well, you can't trust these men."
"But you shall not insult August with such insinuations," cried Rose, reddening indignantly.
"Well, he was your only visitor. If a burglar had entered the house there would be some signs by which you could determine how he gained your room. None exist, so I say that it was undoubtedly that lover of yours who borrowed his lady's jewels."
And then Miss Williams gave vent to a tantalizing laugh, that only served to roil the feelings of Rose more deeply than ever.
"You ugly girl!" exclaimed Rose, "I ought to turn you out of this house for such vile aspersions. I won't, however, for I know you are only doing this to tease me."
"After all it is true."
"You don't believe any such thing, Janet."
"Yes I do."
Rose left her cousin, hot with indignation. She went to her mother, a weak invalid, who had no consolation to offer. That was not in her line. The word peevish would pretty well describe the condition of Mrs. Alstine, who had a chronic ailment that prevented her enjoying the hospitality of friends.
Two days passed with no solution of the mystery.
And during the time August Bordine did not come to the Alstine house. For this there was good reason. He was not yet able to move about comfortably on account of his hurt. He read of the burglary in the morning paper, and wondered if the police would prove any more successful in capturing the burglars than they had in elucidating the Ridgewood murder mystery.
After the passage of twenty-four hours the young engineer became not a little anxious with regard to Silas Keene.
The detective had promised to report before now, his visit to the saloon and interview Perry Jounce, the tramp.
"Why did he not come?"
"I can't stand this much longer," murmured August, as he sat still under the burden of pain, waiting for some news from Keene.
Rose Alstine was not a strong-minded female, yet she possessed a will of her own, and once she set her mind on an object she was destined to obtain it or make a desperate effort at least.
A sudden resolve entered her mind to visit the home of August Bordine and consult with him on the mysterious burglary.
No sooner thought of than the impetuous girl proceeded to carry it into effect. She took a street car to the suburbs, and then, with directions from the driver, set out to find the house of Mr. Bordine, which she had never visited.
These were among dwellings in Grandon similar to the one occupied byAugust Bordine and his mother.
In a little time the girl came to a halt in front of a cottage.
"This must be the place," thought Rose, opening the gate.
She went to the front door and rung the bell. No answer was vouchsafed, and concluding that no one was at home, Rose turned to retrace her steps, when she espied a summer-house at a little distance, from which the murmur of voices proceeded.
The house was almost hidden by dense foliage.
"August and his mother are out yonder, it seems," thought Rose. "I will go to them, and give August a glad surprise." Then, with a light heart, the maiden tripped down a grass-lined path toward the summer-house.
She was to encounter a scene she little expected. Soon she was in the vicinity of the cool bower where August and his mother had retired for friendly chat.
"Don't speak that way, Andrew; it hurts me."
It was the voice of a woman, and involuntarily the steps of Rose Alstine halted. Could that be her lover's mother thus addressing her son? The girl was too deeply excited to notice that the name uttered was not that of her lover.
Moving on, Rose soon stood where she could gaze into the summer-house. Then she came to a halt. It was a picture that poor Rose never forgot—that presented to her at that moment.
She saw two persons in the little leaf-embowered room—a man and young woman.
The latter stood with hand clasped about the neck of the young man, who was handsome in the extreme. Was there a handsomer man in Grandon than August Bordine?
Rose did not believe it, and there he stood with that woman's arms about his neck, her pale face upturned to his, the light of a pleading, all-enduring love in her dark eyes.
It was a love scene in every sense of the word.
Rose shuddered and grew white, yet she dared not advance, dared not interrupt the scene presented to her gaze. Eavesdropping was foreign to her nature, yet at that moment it was not in her power to recede, and so she was held in her tracks—compelled to listen to words that rent her heart like death itself.
"My dear, you wrong me when you imagine that I care for any one but you. I did disapprove of your following me here, for you know that I must depend upon my wits for a living, and I think I might do better without the incumbrance of a wife."
"Oh, that is the same old argument. You have put me off with it time and again. I wish you would consent to do as other people do, and live an honest life."
"But I cannot. I must ever appear as a single man, for it would not do to let it be known that I have a wife. Zounds, Iris, I would be out of business in short order."
For some moments silence followed these words.
The rather pretty woman whom the gentleman had termed his wife still clung to the neck of her liege lord, evidently too much wrought up to speak again.
"Come now, Iris dear, let this scene end here and now. I have a little business of a most important nature on hand, and time is precious."
He tried to disengage her hands, but she clung to him with wonderful tenacity.
Neither saw the girl in the shadow of the vines outside, who regarded the twain with blanched cheeks, clasped hands, and eyes dilating with a weird and awful suffering.
"Time is precious," uttered the lips of the young wife. "Alas! that it should be so precious that you must needs neglect me. I wish to ask you a question, Andrew."
"Well?"
"Did you have aught to do with this robbery at the Alstine mansion?"
"Sh! my dear, that would be telling."
"I know you were up there two nights since."
"Ah, you were dogging my steps."
"No, but—"
"I cannot permit this to go on, Iris," uttered the man, sternly. "You are ruining my business, Iris. I do wish you would return to New York."
"I will go when you go."
"Not before?"
"Not before."
Then fell a silence. There was a worried, half-angry expression on the countenance of the man, that did not escape the notice of the girl, who, in spite of her inclination, was a listener to all that was taking place within the walls of the summer-house.
"Release me now, I must go," uttered the man, in accents that were harsh and stern.
Still the woman clung to his neck.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!" she wailed, half-sobbing in the strength of her emotion. "You must not go from me again, Andrew. I am your wife, and you have no right to flirt with other women!"
Seizing her hands, he tore them loose and flung her violently aside.
"This is enough of this foolishness," he declared, angrily. "I want you to remain here in seclusion and behave yourself. When I can settle down with a fortune, then I will acknowledge you before the world, and we will cut a swell; but let me tell you that if you envoke any further trouble simply because I visit other ladies occasionally, you will hear from me in a way that you little expect."
[Illustration: "OH, MY DARLING—MY DARLING!" SHE WAILED, HALF SOBBING INTHE STRENGTH OF HER EMOTION.]
The woman sank to a seat and covered her face with her hands, while a groan escaped her lips.
One glance he cast at her, then he turned and strode from the place. Another instant and he stood facing Rose Alstine, whose pallid face and flowing eyes quite startled him. "Heavens! you here?" he ejaculated, settling back in a tremor of dismay.
Perry Jounce uttered a grunt of satisfaction when he saw that the detective was beyond power to know him for the time.
Jounce had been thoroughly posted by Andrew Barkswell, and knew that in the disguised man before him the noted detective was presented.
"So," muttered Jounce, as he touched a spring with his foot that sent the weight back to its place in the ceiling, "I reckon you won't trouble us gents agin."
Then he went over to the side of the stunned detective, secured his arms and removed his beard and gray hair. "Thought you was sharp enough to fool me," chuckled the villain. "I reckin you'll l'arn ef you ever git yer mind agin, that two kin play at ther game o' twist."
After these movements the tramp left the room. He was gone but a short time when he returned, accompanied by Billy Bowlegs.
"So you've thumped him?" muttered the saloon proprietor. "How much did you find?"
"Notting."
"See here, chum, that's too gauzy."
"Didn't ther boss pay yer a good hundred fer this room?" questionedJounce, turning upon Bowlegs.
"He hasn't paid it yet. I'm not going to permit any snap games. This fellow doesn't go out of here till you pay the full price."
"That's ther snap!" returned Jounce. "You jest hang onter ther cuss, will yer? He ain't no good to me," and then the tramp chuckled audibly.
"But I can make you trouble."
"Kin yer?"
"Yes, I can."
"All right; heave ahead."
The saloon-keeper found that he was dealing with a man who was not to be frightened or deceived into paying over money unnecessarily.
"Never mind," he said, finally. "It's all right. You wish to dispose of this fellow effectually?"
"In course."
"I've never permitted bloodshed in my house," proceeded Billy Bowlegs, "but I'll tell you what we will do. We will drop the fellow down to the lower room, and leave him until the boss comes; then his fate will be decided upon."
"That suits me."
Bowlegs touched a spring with his foot, and the chair containing the stunned detective sank from sight.
The tramp stared at the opening in the floor wonderingly.
"I declare!" he finally exclaimed, "you've got this thing in shape to work to perfection, pardner."
The saloon-keeper smiled without reply.
"Where's the chap gone ter?"
"He is safe," answered Bowlegs. "I'll excuse you now."
"Wal, I swar, that are's cool."
Nevertheless the tramp departed. At the bar he swallowed a huge glass of brandy, and then passed upon the street.
From this it will be seen that Billy Bowlegs was in league with the notorious scoundrel who is known to the reader as Andrew Barkswell.
This, it will be remembered, was on the same night that the robbery was committed at the Alstine mansion.
When the detective returned to consciousness he found himself in a small, dark room, with solid walls of masonry about him, a close prisoner.
There was an awful pain in his head, indicating that he had been struck a severe blow.
He felt over his person, to discover that his weapons had been taken from him.
Then, with an effort, he came to his feet, and began groping about the room. Solid walls on every side met his touch.
"Well," he finally muttered, "I have learned one thing at least to-night—the fools of this world are not all dead. One of them, however, came pretty close to it."
It seemed an age to the imprisoned detective before the creaking of a door announced the coming of some one.
The door opened and closed, and a light filled the room, proceeding from a lantern in the hand of a man. This did not prove a brilliant illuminator, yet it served to reveal the countenance of the new-comer fairly well.
"So you are safely caged at last, my dear Keene," said the visitor, in a sarcastic voice.
"And this is your work, August Bordine, after all the confidence I placed in you," uttered the detective, in a rebuking voice.
"It was merely a game of wits, Mr. Keene. I was too smart for you, in spite of the fact that you're reputed to be the sharpest man-tracker in Gotham. I think it would pay you to hire me for a spell."
"This, then, was a put-up job?"
"That's about the size of it."
"That runaway and injury to yourself that the papers speak about was only a blind?"
"Only a blind, my dear Keene."
The villain smiled and stroked his mustache complacently. "I don't mind telling you, seeing you're not likely to give me any further trouble, that I shall marry the heiress to the Alstine estates and quit the precarious work that I have all along been following, and hereafter live a gentleman."
"Indeed!"
The detective could not help admiring the villain's coolness, even while despising his villainy.
"You congratulate me on my plan?"
"No. You cannot carry it out."
"And why not, pray? You won't be there to interfere, Mr. Keene. I have provided against such a contingency."
"You have a wife living."
"So you imagine, sosheimagines; but it is a mere show. Iris is not my wife."
"You deceived her with a mock marriage?"
"That is about the size of it."
"What a consummate scoundrel."
"Don't use such pet expressions, my dear Keene, you hurt my feelings, you really do, I assure you."
"I expect to hurt your neck some time," retorted the detective, curtly.
"Oh, you do? Let me tell you, Mr. Keene, that that time will never come to you, never."
"It may come sooner than you imagine."
"I'll risk that."
"I would like to ask you a question."
"Go on."
"How about that old lady who occupies your house on —— street? Is she your mother?"
"Yes."
"Does she know what a scoundrel she has for a son?"
"She has no knowledge of my private affairs," returned Barkswell, not seeming to notice the offensive manner of putting the question used by Keene.
"And Iris is not your wife?"
"That's what I said."
"And Miss Alstine knows nothing of this, of your plans, your scheming to win a fortune through her?"
"Certainly not. I haven't been fool enough to give myself away."
The detective remained silent for a moment. Then he looked sharply into the face of Barkswell and said:
"I am puzzled to know why you saved me from the tramp last night, and took me to your home and nursed me so tenderly. Since you are so anxious to have me out of your way, why did you not leave me to die on the vacant lot, or give the finishing stroke there. It would have been the wisest plan, it seems to me, for such a reckless villain as you are, to pursue."
A low laugh fell from the lips of Barkswell.
"You do not understand me yet, Mr. Keene. Truth to tell I am one of the most tender-hearted creatures in the world. I haven't the heart to strike a man when he's down. I sympathized with you, and what is more, I wished to blind your eyes to my true intentions. You had put the bracelets on me and proclaimed that you were going to lead me to prison. I wanted to prove to you that you had made a mistake."
This to the detective seemed a lame explanation. He felt certain that the villain before him had not stated the case as it actually was.
"It seems I made no mistake after all," uttered Keene. "You are the right person, and I never ought have permitted you to go free an hour after I made the discovery of your villainy."
"What discovery do you refer to?"
"The murder of Victoria Vane."
"Then you still hold to the opinion that I committed that deed?"
"Certainly I do."
"Well, see here, Mr. Keene, I have you completely in my power, and do not intend that you shall ever again see the light of day. Under such circumstances I have no reason for uttering a falsehood. I solemnly assure you that I did not harm that poor girl. I am as innocent of that as you are. I did flirt with her a little I admit, but there was nothing serious took place, I would be willing to swear to this."
Of course the detective did not believe a word of this, althoughBarkswell uttered it in a solemn and apparently sincere manner.
"I believe you will yet swing for that murder," was Keene's sharp reply.
That Barkswell was the forger who was wanted in New York the detective was assured. He judged this from a photograph that he had in his possession the subject of which, however, had a full beard, and this had prevented Keene's recognizing the likeness when he was first introduced to Barkswell, alias Bordine, by young Ransom Vane.
It will be seen that the detective still believed that the young engineer and Barkswell were one and the same, which goes to prove that the two men resembled each other as twin brothers might. It was this resemblance that was to produce no end of trouble to all concerned in our story, which, by the way, has more of truth in it than most of the fictions of the present day.
"Well, you and I cannot agree if we talk all night," said the man with the lantern, "so I suppose this interview may as well come to an end at once."
From the tone of the man's voice, Keene judged that he meant to perpetrate a murder. With hands and limbs free, though weak from the blow he had received on the head, Silas Keene was not the man to give up life without a struggle.
The moment the last word fell from the lips of Barkswell Keene darted forward, full at the throat of the villain before him.
"Thunderation!"
With this exclamation Barkswell dropped his lantern and clinched with the detective.
Both went to the floor in a terrible struggle for the mastery.
Weakened though he was, the detective proved no mean adversary, and he might have conquered had not a third party appeared upon the scene, who at once went to the assistance of Barkswell, and by beating Keene over the head with the butt of a revolver he succeeded in quieting him so that he could be secured.
Keene, nearly senseless, was rolled upon the damp floor, upon his face, and his hands secured with a cord at his back.
"There, I reckon he won't give no more trouble," said a voice that the detective recognized as that of Perry Jounce, the tramp.
"Confound his picture," grated Barkswell. "I believe the scamp would have been too much for me if you hadn't come just as you did."
"Even the service of a brother-in-law hain't allus to be despised; eh,Andrew?"
"No. You did me a good turn just now, and I'll not forget it."
Detective Keene heard these remarks, and tried to profit by them.
"This man is fooling you, Mr. Jounce," cried Keene, faintly.
"Shut up."
This from Barkswell.
"I tell you that this man is fooling you. He is not—"
A blow on the head from the fist of Barkswell effectually silenced the tongue of the helpless detective. His senses reeled, and for a few minutes he was oblivious of his surroundings.
"What was the feller tryin' to git through him, Andy?"
"Nobody knows. Bear a hand and we'll put him where the hogs won't bite him."
Both men laid hold of the bound detective and dragged him to one side of the room.
The lantern, that had been overturned in the struggle, still burned, giving a faint light. Jounce hung it on a pin in the wall, and then turned to his companion, who had lifted a small trap door not far from the center of the room.
A gust of damp air, full of a moldy smell, came up.
"What's that?" questioned Jounce.
"An old well. They say it's forty feet down to the mud and water. It hasn't been used in years."
"What'll you do—?"
"Drop our friend into it. Nobody'll ever be the wiser."
"Good heavens, what a doom!"
Even the tramp shuddered at the thought of consigning a human being to that awful tomb. Nevertheless he assisted Barkswell to lift Keene and bear him to the mouth of the well.
An instant later and Detective Keene shot from sight. A hollow cry came up, then solemn silence, as Barkswell closed the trap and turned away.
It will be remembered that Andrew Barkswell was startled to find thatRose Alstine had been listening to the confab between himself and wife.This was after the infamous plotter had consigned Detective Keene to ahorrible doom at the bottom of the old well under Billy Bowlegs' saloon.
Now that the man-tracker was off the trail, Barkswell felt better. He had concocted a tremendous plot that his theft of the diamonds came near despoiling. It was not his wish to have Rose know of the existence of his wife. If necessary, the villain had resolved to put that wife out of the way forever.
There never was a plotter less scrupulous than this man, whose smooth tongue and jaunty exterior had stood him so well during almost a lifetime of villainy.
Now, at one fell stroke, his villainy lay exposed.
He regarded Rose for some moments with painful silence.
"I have found you out at last," cried the maiden, her cheeks flaming, a lofty scorn in her great dark eyes.
"Rose, don't misjudge me."
"Misjudge you?"
"Yes; I repeat it, you misjudge me, Rose Alstine."
For some moments she did not speak. Then, of a sudden, she made a movement as if to enter the place where this man's wife sat bowed and weeping.
He put out his hand.
"Do not go in there."
"Stand aside, sir."
She pushed her way forward in spite of his interference, and stood confronting the woman in the summer-house.
A white face, marked with the most intense suffering, was uplifted to the gaze of the young girl.
"Are you August Bordine's wife?"
Rose put the question hotly, so full of indignation as scarcely to contain herself in calmness.
"His wife?"
"Yes."
"I am Andrew Barkswell's wife, I do not know the parson you mention."
"Indeed! So he has more than one name, the infamous wretch!"
Then, with a great sobbing cry, Rose Alstine turned and fled from the place, dropping her veil to hide the haggard woe that reveled on her countenance. Slowly Barkswell come back into the presence of his wife.
"And it is thus you would betray me," he said in an angry tone. "Iris, I am sorry that you are determined to ruin me."
"Ruin you?"
"That is the word."
"How can you talk that way, Andrew, you who have made my life a hell since the hour I first met and loved you. It was that mad and hopeless love that has led me to do things that, if they were known, would shock the minds of men.
"You know how I have suffered to please you, Barkswell. I almost feel that it would be a relief to end all in death."
"I wish you might," he uttered in a heartless tone. "You have been my evil genius always, Iris Jounce. It was a sorry day that I married you. You deceived me by leading me to believe that you had money."
"I know now that it was for money alone that you married me. I did have money, and you spent it, and would now kick me aside, if I would only permit it, but I will not, I mean to continue pleading until you consent to quit your evil ways and settle down to a quiet home life—"
"Bah!"
"Andrew Barkswell, who was that beautiful girl? One you have deceived, no doubt."
"You seem capable of answering your own question," he said, with a sneer.
"Have I answered it correctly?"
"Possibly."
He plucked at his mustache and looked into vacancy. He was deeply angered, both with himself and with the woman before him. It was an unfortunate thing to have Rose Alstine come upon them as she did.
At that moment the schemer felt like strangling this woman, whose love for him, through good and evil report, passed understanding.
"You have not answered my question, Andrew," persisted the wife.
"The lady was Miss Alstine, I think."
"You think?"
"Well, I suppose Iknowthat she is. A very eccentric girl, and somewhat flighty in the upper story."
"Crazed?"
"That's about it, Iris."
"And you have been the cause of it?"
There was a look in the woman's eyes at that moment not pleasant to see.In fact, even he recoiled from it in evident annoyance and alarm.
This woman had long been his simple tool, doing many things that at one time she would have shrunk from in horror and loathing. Andrew Barkswell had dragged her down to his own level, and was even now meditating her complete destruction. He had never scorned her, or told the truth, that she was no longer loved. He understood her nature too well. He pretended the most extravagant affection at times, and it was thus that he held her confidence, in spite of the facts that bade her hate and despise him.
"No, Iris; you are mistaken," said the man, in answer to the last words of his wife. "I have never harmed the girl, nor do I wish to do so. I hope you won't borrow any trouble over her."
"I ought not to, I suppose."
And then followed a bitter laugh.
"If you had done as I wished, and remained in Rochester, it would have been much better."
"Do you think so?"
"Certainly I do."
"You wish me to return?"
"I do."
"That you may make love to this girl you have the cheek to tell me is crazy? Bah! I tell you there's method in her madness. I believe you have pretended to be a single man, and that, as you ruined and murdered Victoria Vane, you would ruin and slay this beautiful girl. I will not permit you to do it!"
"What! You will step in and destroy my plans? By Heaven you shall not! I will strangle you first!"
She uttered a terrified scream as he sprang at her, and clutched her throat furiously.
"Help! Murder!"
It was a startling cry that echoed through the grounds and fell on the ear of the man who was passing.
He listened a moment, but the sound was not repeated.
Vaulting the fence, the man hastened in the direction of the summer-house.
He soon gained a position where his black eyes took in a somewhat startling scene—a tall, slender man bending over the prostrate form of a woman, the latter lying still and white on a low, wide bench.
"Have I killed her?" muttered the man, in audible tones. "Well, if I have, it is not my fault; she forced me to do it, and—"
He started then, and uttered a great cry. A hand touched his face, and a man's visage peered into his.
Instantly the hand of Barkswell sought his hip.
"Don't draw, brother, it's only me."
Barkswell stared in a startled way into the face of the new-comer.
It was indeed Perry Jounce, but he had changed so in the past four and twenty hours as to seem like another man.
His beard was gone, and a new hat and suit of clothes altered his appearance wonderfully.
"What have you been doing to yourself, Perry?"
"Fixing up so't I kin go sparkin' as well as you, brother darling," returned the tramp, forcing a gurgling laugh. "What's up here? Iris dead—you her murderer!"
"Don't be a fool, Perry, she's only fainted."
"But I heard her scream murder."
The eyes of Perry Jounce pierced the guilty villain to the quick. If there was one being in the wide world whom the miserable tramp loved, that person was his sister, the wife of Andrew Barkswell, and the only kin he had in the wide world.
"She was in one of her tantrums, that is all."
"Man, I believe you're lyin' now."
"Be careful."
Barkswell drew his revolver.
The threat did not appear to affect Perry Jounce.
"It wouldn't be good fur you ter snap that pistol at me, Andy. I jest heard you say't mebbe you had killed her, meanin' Iris. Now what hev you ben up to?—let's hear right down quick, or thar'll be a tussle right hyar and now."
There was a determined ring in the man's voice not to be mistaken.
Barkswell wished to avoid a quarrel, and so he said with a smile:
"You misunderstood my meaning entirely, Perry. Iris was determined on quarreling with me over an unimportant matter. You know she's terribly jealous, and she worked herself up into a fainting fit."
Perry Jounce accepted the explanation with a growl. He did not attempt to push matters to a crisis. He had received some money from Barkswell, and was anxious to keep in with that gentleman.
"Lead the way, pardner, and I'll take her to the house."
Perry Jounce lifted the seemingly lifeless form of his sister in his arms and strode from the summer-house.
Barkswell led the way to the cottage, and a little later the woman revived. When questioned by Jounce she refused to make any explanation.
"Confound it," growled the tramp, "that man of yours'll kill you some time, Iris, and you'll let 'im do it 'ithout making complaint."
"I should not care to see Andrew in prison."
"He may go thar yet."
"Anything new?"
"Somebody's got ter swing fer the crime at Ridgewood; why mayn't it beAndy?"
The woman started and grew pale as death.
Her brother thought she was on the point of fainting again.
"Don't worry," he cried, quickly. "It may never be fetched home to Andy."
"Do you believe he is guilty?"
"Don't you?"
He sought to evade the question.
"I—I cannot say. I have thought—"
"ThatIhad a hand in it, eh?"
The eyes of the tramp regarded his sister's face fixedly.
But Mrs. Barkswell refused to make reply. She shuddered and drew her shawl about her as though experiencing a sudden chill.
All this time her husband sat on the porch enjoying a cigar, his busy brain dwelling on the latest scheme it had conjured up.
It was unfortunate, he thought, Rose Alstine's coming at that inopportune moment. He could not understand how it was that she put in an appearance at his house.
"She mistook me for her lover, that is evident," he mused. "It was unfortunate, and I may now have some trouble in convincing her that I am true. It is highly important that August Bordine does not meet her again. What a strong resemblance there must be between that man and myself to deceive the eyes of love.
"If I could only get rid of my wife and marry the heiress what a grand stroke it would be. Well, there's a saying that nothing venture nothing gain, and I mean to go in on that principle. I'll win the heiress, but firsttwopersons must cease to breathe."
Who these two persons were the reader can readily guess.
While the young schemer sat there smoking and meditating, a queer team halted in front of the cottage—a team of dogs attached to a small wagon, in which sat a man, with deformed shoulders, and queer little face, framed in red hair and beard, a black patch tied over one eye, while the other was exceedingly red and inflamed.
"Hello!" called the man from the street.
A smile touched the face of Andrew Barkswell.
"A confounded notion peddler," he muttered, "yet a queer-looking specimen."
"Hello!"
At the second call Barkswell rose to his feet and walked out to the gate.
"Be you the man of the house?"
"I am."
"Wal, I've got the neatest set o' table-clothes you ever set eyes on. Irish linen, direct from the green sod, warranted to be the best article of the kind for the money in North America."
"I don't wish any."
"But you'll look at 'em. You're a gentleman; I can tell by the looks of your countenance."
"I don't care for any."
"Hair oil, toilet articles, the neatest—"
"You needn't mind showing them," as the little, elderly man sprang out of his low wagon and hobbled to the walk with a tin box under his arm.
"Where's the woman—your wife? Mebbe she'd like to look at something."
The man pushed his way through the gate and insisted on entering the house.
This was wholly unnecessary Barkswell thought, but he permitted the peddler to have his way.
Iris and her brother entered t spread out his wares.
He talked glibly, but was such a repulsive-looking personage as to render his long stay objectionable. In order to be rid of him Mrs. Barkswell made a small purchase, after which, finding that he could sell nothing further, the peddler thrust his wares back into the tin box and shuffled out of the room.
"Pretty place you've got here," he remarked, as he stood on the porch and gazed about him.
"Yes," admitted Barkswell.
"You own it?"
"Yes."
"Your name is—"
"Bordine."
The man uttered the name involuntarily. He had been acting as Bordine, and somehow, he seemed growing into that personage more and more.
"Well, well," grunted the peddler, holding out his hand, "You an' I ought to be acquainted. My wife is your own aunt, did you know it?"
Andrew Barkswell regarded the speaker in astonishment. He thought he detected an ironical ring in the man's voice, but when he glanced into the fellow's face he seemed honest enough, in fact the red eye failed to show the least feeling on the subject—the one under the black patch was, of course, as unspeakable as the tomb.
"I was not aware of the relationship," said the plotting villain, as he clasped the hand of the queer-looking peddler.
"Lor', that's funny."
"You don't live in town?"
"I reckon not. So you don't remember me, August?"
"I can't say that I do."
"You've certainly heard your ma speak of Hiram Shanks, the man that married her youngest sister, Lucretia?"
Again the young man shook his head.
"Well, it beats all," grunted Mr. Shanks. "I thought you must have heard of me. Since my wife died I've kinder gone to rack and ruin. I ain't the man I used to be in my young days, oh no!" with a long-drawn sigh.
"I should judge not."
"Call your ma, August. I know she'll recognize the man that married her sister Lucretia."
"Mother isn't at home."
"Bad again. When will she return?"
"Not soon."
"Visitin'?"
"Yes."
"Would you mind lettin' me stop over night with ye? Hotel bills is powerful large, and for the sake of relationship, I think you will let me bunk one night. My team won't eat much, and as for me, a crust of bread and cup o' tea will set the inner man in good shape."
"I am sorry, but—"
"Oh, no 'pologies. Of course, if you can't keep me it's all right. I'm no beggar."
Once more the peddler shook the hand of Mr. Barkswell, and then shuffled away. As he passed through the gate a bit of paper fluttered to the ground from one of the peddler's pockets. After the queer fellow's departure Barkswell secured the paper and could scarcely repress an exclamation as he read the lines it contained.
A young man ran up the steps at the Alstine mansion and rang the bell. The servant who answered stared at the gentleman as though there was some noticeable curiosity about him.
There was nothing curious, however, in the make-up of the gentleman.
He was young and handsome, and the reader knows him as August Bordine, the young engineer.
The young man had been laid up for more than a week by the hurt he had received when his horse ran away.
He had seen or heard nothing of Rose during this time.
The unaccountable absence of the detective troubled the young man not a little as well, and he resolved to make an investigation immediately.
"Is Miss Alstine at home?"
The servant answered in the affirmative, and showed the young gentleman to the elegant parlor.
Usually Rose received him in person, thus doing away with the ceremony of servants.
She was not expecting him.
This of course accounted for her not coming at once to meet him.
Ten minutes passed, and then the maid returned.
August looked up, expecting to see the smiling face of Rose.
"Miss Alstine can't receive visitors."
"Is she ill?" questioned the young man in sudden alarm.
"No, she's as well as usual."
"Did you tell her who called?"
"Yes, sir."
The face of the young engineer was a puzzle to look at.
He refused to depart until the maid went once more to see her mistress.
On her return she brought a note from Rose, that was as great a puzzle to the engineer as was the curious acting of his betrothed.
"MR. BORDINE:—There can be no necessity for an interview. No explanation you can make will sunder the facts. I beg you not to come again, as, under no circumstances, will I consent to see you. Your coming now assures me that you have impudence as well as a double nature. R. ALSTINE."
The young man walked from the room like one in a dream.
What did, what could it all mean? It was impossible for August to understand.
His was a dejected mien as he walked slowly homeward. A pair of bright eyes watched him from a curtained upper window of the great house, and in a maiden's heart was the suddenest longing possible to one broken under the cruel treachery of its hero.
"What is the trouble, August?" questioned Mrs. Bordine the moment he entered the presence of his mother.
"Nothing."
"Ah, you cannot deceive me in that way, my son. I know something is wrong, and—"
"Yes, something is wrong," he interrupted with bitter vehemence. "I have been spat upon by a girl, and never until now did I realize what a fool I was to think of losing my heart to a flirt like Rose Alstine."
"August, what do you mean?"
"That Rose has jilted me."
"I am glad of it."
"Mother!"
"I always warned you not to look so high," proceeded the old lady, with arms akimbo, regarding her son. "Not that I consider Rose Alstine high only in money matters, but such girls are always heartless."
Then she went back to her work leaving the young man to fight out his grief as best he could alone.
That evening, while the young engineer sat meditating over the events of the past few days, a sharp ring at the door-bell roused him from his somewhat bitter thoughts.
He went into the hall, opened the door, and peered out into the dimly-lighted street.
No one was to be seen, but a small bit of folded paper fell at his feet, evidently having been but slightly attached to the edge of the casing.
Seizing the paper, the young man closed the door and went back to the cozy cottage parlor.
"Who was it, August?"
But just then the young man was too busy imbibing the contents of the bit of paper to heed the words of his mother.
"MR. BORDINE—Be ever on the alert. A conspiracy has been formed for your destruction. It is time you were up and doing. Silas Keene has already fallen, and you have been marked. I implore you, be on your guard.
After a moment given to thought, August handed the note over to his mother.
"What does it mean?"
This was her comment after she had possessed herself of the contents of the mysterious note.
"It may mean a good deal," he answered. "I hope, however, that no harm has come to Silas Keene; yet I am at a loss to understand why he remains away so long."
"He promised to return?"
"Yes."
For some moments a silence fell between mother and son, broken at length by a second ring at the bell.
"We seem to have visitors in plenty," uttered the young engineer, as he went again to the door.
On the step stood a small boy.
"Well, my little man."
"A letter for you, sir," and the lad placed an envelope in the hand of the engineer.
Would wonders never cease?
"Wait a moment."
But the boy was gone.
August went slowly back into the house.
"Another letter?" questioned Mrs. Bordine.
"It seems so."
He opened it slowly.
"MR. BORDINE,—It is important that you come at once if you would see Silas Keene alive. He has met with a terrible and unexpected accident, and has something of importance to communicate before he dies. He has importuned me all day to send for you. I have been unable until now, but I sincerely hope this may reach you before the poor man is no more. A hack will be at you door at precisely nine o'clock to take you to Keene's side. If you disappoint him it will certainly hasten his death. Confidently expecting you, I remain 'HENRY JONES.'"
After reading this to himself, the young engineer read it aloud to his mother.
"So the poor gentleman has met with an accident," murmured the kind old lady. "How sad. If we had only known this at the outset we might have had him brought here."
"Certainly we might."
Bordine came to his feet and began pacing the floor.
He was not yet wholly recovered from the shock he had received from being thrown against a telegraph pole some days before, and he would much rather have remained at home than venture out into the chill air of night. He had a duty in the premises, however.
This was the first word he had heard from Silas Keene since he left his home to meet the notorious tramp, Perry Jounce, in Billy Bowleg's saloon.
August thought of the first note he had received—a warning to be constantly on his guard, and found himself wondering who wrote it. Not the detective, for in this note was a statement that Keene had been stricken down. And this bore out the statement of the last letter. It seemed evident that a terrible accident had happened to the detective, or else he had been criminally assaulted. In either case it seemed evident to the young man his duty to visit Keene if possible.
"What had I best do, mother?" finally questioned the young man.
Before asking the question August had fully determined upon his course, but he was anxious to have his mother's approval as well.
"Go, by all meant, August."
"That was my determination," assured the engineer.
She was wholly unsuspicious, and had no thought that her son might go to his own doom.
Why should she feel suspicious? Who would care to harm her son, who, she fully believed, had never injured a human soul?
August had suspicions, however, and he secured a revolver upon his person ere venturing out upon his mission.
Promptly at nine the sound of wheels was heard, ceasing in front of the engineer's cottage.
Kissing his mother good-by August hastened forth. A hack stood near the sidewalk, the door standing open.
It was dark within, but the young man noted the outlines of a man upon the forward seat.
August stepped inside and closed the door. Then the hack rattled away. For some moments silence reigned. August wondered who his fellow-passenger was. Perhaps the one who had sent him the note requesting his presence at the side of the dying detective.
Mrs. Bordine sat listening to the rattle of departing wheels, and wondered if she would be able to sit up until the return of her son.
She little imagined how long he was to remain away.
Half an hour after her son's departure the good widow was startled at hearing a sound at the front window.
Slowly the sash was being raised!
The hour was late, and the old lady thought of burglars at once. But what could they possibly want in her house? All the money for the past year's earnings, save what was needed for necessary expenses, was snugly in the bank.
Slowly and cautiously the sash slid upward.
Mrs. Bordine came to her feet, and stood chilled with an awful fear in the centre of the room.
Crash!
A heavy body fell to the floor directly under the window-sill.
Then the curtain was parted, and a man's face peered into the room, with eyes so devilish in their glitter as to make the woman's flesh creep. "Keep it. August sent it. He won't be home to-night," said a deep, gutteral voice.
Then the face disappeared.
The window-sash fell with a loud crash, followed by the most solemn silence.
For fully five minutes Mrs. Bordine stood petrified, without articulation.
What had happened?
The moment she could gather her senses sufficiently, she crossed the floor and gazed at the object that lay under the window.
An ordinary newspaper was twisted about it, and when Mrs. Bordine took it in her hand, she realized that the substance was of metal.
Swiftly she unwound the paper.
As she held up her prize an involuntary exclamation fell from her lips.
She held in her hand a glittering dagger, with gold hilt, and point as keen as a briar. It was a beautiful weapon.
There was something in the glitter of the dainty weapon that was fascinating.
The hilt was of gold, and the serpent's head that formed the design held a pair of glittering eyes that made the woman's flesh creep.
"Why was this dropped in here?" uttered Mrs. Bordine, as she laid the ugly, yet beautiful, weapon aside, and went about securing the window against further intrusion.
"August sent it, that horrible man said. If so, why did he not come to the door like a decent person would?"
Sure enough.
The door to her son's room stood ajar, and mechanically Mrs. Bordine entered here with the delicate dagger in her hand.
The plush-lined dressing-case in front of the mirror stood open, and into this the widow laid the glittering toy.
Shutting down the cover she left the room, and resumed her seat in the big arm-chair.
As may be supposed, no sleep visited the old lady that night. She was too deeply worried on account of the strange happenings of the night. Nothing occurred to mar the quiet of the night, and when at length day dawned the widow breathed easier as she went about her work.
The hour was late ere she placed breakfast on the table. She had waited for the return of August, but waited in vain.
"He will not come. I must eat alone."
She was yet at her breakfast when a furious ring at the door-bell startled her.
When she hastened to answer the summons, she was met in the hall by two men, both wearing the uniform of city police.
"Mercy on us! what do you want here?" cried the widow in startled tones.
"We are here on important business," said the fore most officer. "We come to see your son."
"He is not at home."
"Permitusto judge of that."
Pushing her aside, the two men went through the different rooms of the little cottage, rummaging through everything, much to the dismay and indignation of Mrs. Bordine.
They were dissatisfied with their search, and looked their anger as they had confronted the widow after it was all over.
"Where is your son, Mrs. Bordine?"
"I—I'm sure I can't tell you."
"But you must tell."
"How can I tell when I don't know?"
"A likely story," sneered the officer.
"It is the truth, sir."
The officer went outside, leaving his companion within, with injunction to keep a close watch on the woman.
There were two members of the force outside who had been watching the front and rear of the house.
"Have you seen the young villain?"
"Haven't seen a live soul, sergeant."
"Then he must still be in the house. The old woman is obstinate as death."
"Better not go too fast, sergeant," said the man in charge of the front entrance. "It is possible that we have made a mistake."
"Not the least possibility of it," retorted the sergeant of police. "The young man claims to have positive evidence that Bordine murdered his sister."
"I know, but he may be mistaken."
"He said that the weapon used was a dagger of slender make. If we could find that."
"Have you searched for it?"
"Not exactly. We have been looking more particularly after the man."
The police sergeant returned then to the inside of the cottage.
Mrs. Bordine was still defiant.
Poor old woman, she could not understand why officers of the law should seek her son, much less why they should insult an old lady by discrediting her word.
"I order you out of my house."
Mrs. Bordine was becoming indignant at last.
The men paid no heed to the order. The sergeant began the search once more. "You'll pay for this outrage," declared the widow.
"Hold your tongue," retorted the second man, laying his hand on the arm of the widow. "We have the law and the right on our side."
"You have not," retorted Mrs. Bordine. "I haven't heard you read a search-warrant."
"It's not necessary."
At this moment an exclamation fell from the lips of the police sergeant. He came from August Bordine's room, bearing in his hand a small dressing-case, which he held up before the eyes of the widow.
"Madam, who owns that?"
"You don't, I can tell you that."
"No. Is it yours?"
"It belongs to August."
"Your son?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought so. And this is his, also?"
With these words the officer opened the case and took therefrom a slender dagger.
At sight of this the wrinkled face of Mrs. Bordine blanched, a fact that did not escape the notice of the keen-eyed sergeant.
"So, ho!" he exclaimed.
"Ah, ha!" uttered the second one, with a grunt.
"Now, what does this mean?" Mrs. Bordine finally gasped.
"Exactly what I would ask," returned the sergeant. "I've no doubt you will deny that this natty little weapon belongs to your son."
The eyes of the police sergeant regarded the widow fixedly.
He prided himself on being an expert detective, and for many days he had been investigating the murder at Ridgewood, with a view to winning the five thousand reward offered by the county sheriff.
The wound given Ransom Vane by the tramp proved but a trivial affair, and immediately on his recovery from the nervous shock into which it had thrown him, the young man came to Grandon and communicated his suspicions to the police.
"I do deny it," uttered Mrs. Bordine at length. "I never saw that dagger until last evening."
"Indeed!"
"Hasn't it been in your son's possession for a long time?"
"It was never in his possession."
"But we find it in his room—"
"I know, and I put it there last night during his absence. He has never seen the weapon."
"Preposterous."
"Yes, thin!"
Mrs. Bordine became exceedingly angry at these incredulous remarks. She at once told how the dagger came into her possession.
Her story was greeted with contemptuous laughter.
The suspicions of the officers now became convictions.
"I am sorry for you, Mrs. Bordine," said Sergeant Railing. "I had hoped that you had no guilty knowledge of your son's iniquities. It seems that you're no better than he, and I must therefore take you with me."
"Take me with you?"
"That's it exactly."
"Where to?"
"To the county jail!"
Poor Mrs. Bordine.
She reeled under the blow, and began to cry—broken utterly under the stroke.
Sergeant Railing was merciless, however, and the poor widow was obliged to keep him company to prison.