"How far do we have to go?" queried August, after the hack had rattled on for some minutes in silence.
"Eh?"
"How far do we go?"
"How far?"
"Yes," cried the young engineer impatiently, not relishing the apparent obtuseness of the man outlined before him.
"Excuse me," said the man; "I was in a brown study and did not catch on to your remark. If you will please repeat it, I will then try to answer."
"Aren't you the gentleman who sent the note?"
"Certainly."
"Then you must know how far it is to the place where Silas Keene is lying wounded and dying."
"Certainly I do. Mr. Keene is about four miles from your place, at a small cabin in the woods—"
"Indeed! How did he come to be in such a place?"
"He was on somebody's trail."
"You are acquainted with Mr. Keene?"
"Yes."
"Your name is Henry Jones?"
"It is."
"Why did you not come for me in person without writing the letter?"
"That might have been the proper way, but I am not like other people, Mr. Bordine. I am considered a peculiar man. It was a freak of mine, I suppose, that I did not do as you say. Fact is, I did not think it possible for me to leave Keene at the time I wrote the letter."
"You afterward found him better?"
"Slightly, yes."
"Is he badly hurt?"
"He will die."
"In what manner was he injured?"
"He was flung from a horse."
"In the city?"
"No, in the woods while he was in pursuit of a burglar."
"Indeed!"
Then the young engineer fell to thinking deeply. He was not exactly satisfied with the situation of affairs. He was well assured of one thing, however, and that was that something had happened to Silas Keene, and it seemed that the mystery of the detective's disappearance was likely to be revealed this night.
After a time the lights of the city disappeared and the hack rattled on over a country road.
When at length it came to a halt, intense darkness surrounded them.
Mr. Jones rose and opened the door.
The two alighted.
Jones paid the driver for his services, and then the two men stood alone beside the road, with the dying rattle of swift-flying wheels in their ears.
"What now?"
This question fell from the lips of August Bordine as he gazed about him in the darkness.
"This way."
A hand fell to the shoulder of Mr. Jones. "See here," cried the engineer,"I am not fully satisfied with these proceedings."
"Aren't you?"
"I am not."
"You can return if you like, only it will be hard on the poor man who lays on a rude cot in the shanty over yonder, dying. He said you was his friend."
"An acquaintance only."
"Very well, you can do as you choose about continuing the journey. I have acted in good faith all along."
"How much farther is it?"
"About half a mile."
"Go on, I will follow."
And then the two men moved from the road, following a path into the woods.
August began to suspect something wrong, but he felt that he had gone too far to turn back now, and with his hand on the butt of his trusty revolver, he went forward, resolving to see the adventure through to the end.
Every now and then a bush would brush the face of Bordine, showing that the path was narrow and the wood dense.
Presently a light flashed through the darkness, and soon our two pedestrians found themselves in front of a log cabin, that stood a few yards back from a narrow, brawling creek, whose waters were lashed to foam over rocks and stones.
"This is the place."
Mr. Jones pushed open the door and bade his companion enter.
"Go on; I will follow."
Thus urged, the man walked into a dimly-lighted room, which was almost entirely bare of furniture.
August followed and gazed about the cabin, not a little surprised to find it empty. A light burned on a shelf at one side of the room—a tallow dip—that sputtered and threatened soon to leave the place in total darkness.
The cabin presented no evidence of having been inhabited of late.
One glance about the room, then August regarded his guide for the first time in the light.
He started involuntarily.
He had seen the man before. It was the same person he had seen in the carriage with the woman on the day that he first noticed the placard announcing a reward for the capture of Victoria Vane's murderer.
He had heard him called Mr. Brown.
This fact at once roused the suspicions of the young engineer to fever-heat. He believed now that he was the victim of a deep-laid plot.
With his hand on his revolver, he looked the bearded stranger squarely in the face, and said:
"Mr. Brown, what does this mean?"
But the man addressed thus abruptly was not looking at August. Instead, he gazed beyond, into the depths of the night outside, the door standing open.
There was the sound of a step outside.
Bordine turned quickly.
A stalwart form was framed in the narrow door—the form of Perry Jounce, the tramp!
There was the gleam of a devil in the man's eye, and in his right hand he clinched the haft of a huge knife.
Instantly the young engineer realized that murder was intended.
Self defense is the first law of nature, and Bordine acted upon it with the quickness of lightning. His right hand shot forward, a bright flash followed, and the next instant the burly form of Perry Jounce disappeared from the doorway.
He had fallen, bleeding, to the ground, from the bullet August Bordine sent hurtling into his face.
Before the young engineer could turn, a pair of strong arms encircled his waist, and he was crushed to the floor under the weight of the man calling himself Henry Jones.
Our young engineer had not yet regained his full strength since his hurt in the runaway accident, and taken at a disadvantage, he labored in vain to throw off his antagonist.
"Confound you!" hissed the man in a voice full of intense wrath, "I'll fix you so you won't shoot any more honest men."
He clutched his antagonist by the throat, and attempted to throttle him.
August prevented this, turned suddenly, and hurled his foe backward against the wall.
With a leap like a tiger the engineer came to his feet.
"Hold up!" yelled Jones, whose face was bleeding from scratches received in the scuffle.
Panting from exertion, August leveled his revolver and fired.
His hand was unsteady, and the bullet flew wide of the mark.
At this moment a sound behind him warned Bordine to guard his rear. He turned to see the man he supposed dead once more on his feet, with bloody face and flowing eyes, clutching at the side of the door to steady himself.
The sight startled the young engineer, and deeming it best to seek safety in flight, he turned, dealt the reeling tramp a tremendous blow in the face that swept him from his feet, and dashed swiftly into the blackness of the night.
The man in the shanty sprang swiftly after, anxious now to prevent the escape of his intended victim.
If Bordine escaped them the country would ring with the news of the attempted tragedy. Dashing with the swiftness of a deer, Jones passed over the bulky form of Perry Jounce, and caught the outlines of the fleeing engineer moving directly toward the foaming creek.
He had him now.
With the creek before, and a determined man with a cocked revolver behind, it did not seem possible for the engineer to escape.
"Halt!"
Was Harry Jones anxious to capture his man alive?
Evidently not, yet the call to halt had the effect desired. Bordine came to a momentary pause on the bank of the brawling creek—long enough for his mad pursuer to take aim and fire.
With the flash and report came a loud cry, as of a human being in pain.Instantly, on firing, Jones darted forward.
He was just in time to see the engineer plunge headlong into the boiling waters of the creek!
"Good by, young chap. I reckon you won't trouble your betters again," cried the elated homicide. "The Alstine fortune shall yet be smine—selah!"
"After some weeks of uncertainty the mystery surrounding the murder of Victoria Vane, a beautiful young girl of Ridgewood, seems likely to be closed up. Mr. Ransom Vane, the brother of the murdered girl, has been in our city for some time in secret communication with officers of the law. Young Vane is something of a detective himself, and he has succeeded in fixing the crime, it is believed, upon the right person, a young man of supposed spotless reputation, living with his widowed mother in the northern part of the city. The name of the guilty man is August Bordine, a surveyor and civil engineer, who it seems was a somewhat frequent visitor at the home of the Vanes, and report says that he won the girl's heart, and promised to make her his wife. At the same time his guilty connection with another woman in this city prevented his keeping faith with the Vane girl. A quarrel resulted, and in a moment of passion the young engineer struck the girl to the ground. The instrument of murder was a narrow-bladed dagger of delicate pattern, which is now in the hands of the police. Early this morning the officers raided the house of the guilty man, but evidently having got wind of the intentions of the police the young man fled. It is not believed that he can escape, however, since the telegraph has wafted the news throughout the country. As a necessary precaution the young man's mother was taken to prison. It is possible that if she knows about the murder, she will make a confession. It is to be hoped that the culprit may be brought to speedy justice."
This is what Miss Williams read in the afternoon paper, and a cynical smile overspread her face as she hurried to find her cousin anxious to impart the news.
"News for you, Rose," exclaimed the old maid, tripping into the great parlor where the young heiress sat alone reading.
Rose looked up with a tired expression of countenance. She was pale and sad, evidently having suffered not a little from the change in her affairs since she visited the grounds of the Bordine cottage.
"Never mind, Janet, I do not care to read it."
"Shall I read it to you?"
"Yes, if you are determined."
Seating herself near Miss Williams, read in slow, even tones, the announcement of he arrest of Mrs. Bordine and the flight of her son.
Miss Williams regarded her fair cousin furtively the moment she finished reading. Rose's face was deadly pale, and her white hands became clinched until the blood seemed ready to burst through the pink nails.
"August was no better than the rest of the men, Rose. You can't trust one of them out of your sight."
A sigh alone answered her.
"I never thought much of that man, Rose. You remembered, I told you once that there was a look about his eyes that reminded me of the criminal who murdered his wife down in New Hampshire. I never could forget that man. I shudder now when I think of it."
"Hush, Janet."
"But it wasn't your fault, of course, you are so young and inexperienced. Now, as for me, I can see through a man in an instant; its a sort of intuition that some women possess, thus making them wiser than their companions. I always expected to hear something bad of that love of yours."
Rose came to her feet.
"Now, coz, don't get your back up"—But Rose Alstine paid no heed to the injunction of her tormenting cousin; she rushed from the room, and, speeding up stairs, locked herself in her own cozy chamber, there to combat her grief as best she could.
She did not descend until a late hour in the evening, and even then there were ominous red lines about her eyes, indicating that she had been weeping.
A jingle at the door-bell sent one of the servants to answer it.
A dog rushed in, followed by a man, who had a string in his hand, one end fastened to the dog's collar. On his back—the dog's—was strapped a tin box.
"Excuse me, Miss, but I'd like to see the Mistress," said the man, whose red hair and beard, and eye covered with a black patch, made him rather a disgusting object to look upon.
Miss Williams and Rose were yet in the dining-room lingering over a late dinner.
"I'll see," said the maid, but dog and peddler followed her at once into the presence of the ladies.
Quite a ripple of amusement was created at the novel sight of the dog bearing the peddler's pack.
"Ladies, I beg your pardon," cried the queer looking man, lifting his hat and thrusting it under his arm.
Then he called the dog, unfastened the tin box and opened it, displayingYankee notions in abundance.
But Miss Alstine wanted none of these.
Janet and the maid, however, seemed quite pleased with the display, and examined everything in the box, while Rose petted the dog, a shaggy, good-natured fellow.
The peddler, while expatiating on the good qualities of his goods, managed to steal to the side of Rose.
"Keep up your grit, Miss, they won't capture August. He is innocent, and the guilty one will ere long be brought to justice."
Thus whispered the peddler in the ear of the young girl.
Rose manifested her surprise with a short and half-smothered exclamation.
"Get down, Tige. Go away, you bad dog," cried out the peddler suddenly, to hide the emotion expressed by Miss Alstine. His ruse was a success, the maid and Miss Williams failing to notice the agitation of Rose.
A little later dog and peddler left the house, he having disposed of a few simple articles to the maid and Miss Williams.
"What a queer looking man," remarked the maid, as she stood at the window watching the movements of the one-eyed peddler and his dog team.
"Queer indeed," murmured Rose.
That evening Rose Alstine received a caller whom she little expected—the woman she had seen in the summer-house in the arms of August Bordine.
"Can I see you alone for a moment, Miss Alstine?"
"Certainly."
Then the heiress cast a significant look at her cousin, who with a toss of her head rose at once and left the room, taking the precaution to remain by the door and listen, however, after she had closed it.
"I am not mistaken in calling you Miss Alstine."
"No, madam."
"Doubtless you can guess why I am here?"
"I haven't the remotest idea."
Rose stared very impolitely, it must be confessed, at her visitor. "It is with regard to that unfortunate affair of a few days since—"
"No apologies are necessary," Rose interrupted haughtily. "I do not blame you."
"You have no reason to. I have been that man's wife nearly six years."
"Indeed!"
"It is true. I am here to inform you, however, that it is possible that a grave mistake has been made."
"Indeed!"
"My husband's name is not Bordine."
"He has a dozen aliases, I presume."
"I fear so," returned the woman, in an agitated voice.
"It is wholly unnecessary for you to go on, Mrs. Bordine. Rest assured that you have my sympathy, and I shall not trouble your husband again."
"No. It is not that."
"Well?"
"I read in the evening paper of the arrest of Mrs. Bordine and the flight of her son—"
"Your husband."
"Not too fast, Miss Alstine. I wish to say that my husband has no mother living, so it seems to me a mistake has been made somewhere."
"Such a man has mothers and wives to suit his convenience," retorted Rose. "I presume you will not deny that the man who calls himself your husband has fled."
"He is not at home at present."
"I thought not. I am sorry for you, Mrs. Bordine, but it is clearly a fact that we have both been sadly deceived. Of course you suffer more than I. I am free, and truly thankful that I escaped from the snare of such a villain. If I can do anything for you I will gladly respond."
"You can do nothing."
The woman sighed and came to her feet. She extended her hand with:
"I hope you will not blame me—"
"No, indeed. You have my heartfelt sympathy," assured Miss Alstine, with warmth, at the same time taking the wronged wife's hand in hers and kissing her pale cheek.
"May Heaven help you, Miss Alstine! I thought you might misconstrue my actions, and so I came to you. It is true my husband is a bad man, yet in spite of all I love him still, and would reform him if I could."
Then, dropping her veil, the wife walked sobbing from the room and the house.
It was a triumphant expression that fell from the lips of the disguised Barkswell as he saw his enemy plunge headlong into the gulf of boiling waters.
Making his way to the edge of the water the villain gazed long and earnestly at the seething foam, but no sign of the body of his rival was to be seen. The night was extremely dark, and this might have prevented his seeing the corpse.
"Well, there's no use standing here," muttered the man. "I am satisfied that the body of August Bordine'll be found water-logged some day, and that will end the hunt for the assassin of Victoria Vane. It is just as well, and will give me the better chance to walk into the affections of Miss Alstine. I hear that her father will soon return. I must complete the work by a marriage before that. It was a confounded mean affair, that meeting in the garden. I suppose it'll require a good deal of shrewd lying to convince Rose that that woman was not my wife."
Then the villain walked back to the little shanty.
A light still burned within.
Barkswell paused at the door.
On the floor sat Perry Jounce, wiping the blood from his face with a dirty handkerchief.
"Well, Perry, that came mighty near proving a finisher for you," said.Mr. Barkswell with a provoking smile.
"Wal, I should remark. And you'd a ben glad on't. I ain't goin' ter die yet awhile, pardner. Do you know why?"
The ex-tramp seemed cool enough under the circumstances.
"Explain, Perry."
"I'm goin' to live to see you hang."
"Now, now, old boy, that's unkind."
"Jest the same it's true."
"I really hope not."
"I had my fortune told once."
"Indeed."
"The dumdest lookin' old critter in York told it."
"Well?"
"She gin me a good yarn, one that I'm thinkin's going to come true."
"Why do you think so? I supposed you were above superstition, Mr.Jounce."
"So I be, but sence a part of the prophecy has come true, why shouldn't the rest?"
"Sure enough."
"You agree with me there?"
"Certainly."
"Then I'll tell you the rest on't, though its sometimes made my blood run cold when I think on't," proceeded the tramp, looking up into the face of his companion, with blood-stained countenance, and eyes that were sodden with pain and passion. He looked like some prisoner of state doomed to the martyr's stake, as he sat there in the dim light and talked in a solemn monotone that was weird and unnatural.
"The old witch said I was to meet with many misfortunes, pass a dreadful crisis, and then come out with flying colors.
"But I'm a gittin' ahead of my story. My sister—I had but one—was to make a mismatch with a gambler and outlaw. He was to cause her and me a heap o' trouble. Finally the husban' was ter plot ter put his wife outen the way so't he could git another gal with a big fortune."
"Nonsense."
"Don't interrupt me," growled the tramp. "I'm jest a tellin' what the fortune-teller said; 'tain't none o' my gammon."
"Go on."
A smile curled the lip of Barkswell.
"Wal, thar ain't a half more to tell. This chap, my sister's husban', was wishin' to get rid of his wife, but in makin' the attempt he ruined himself, and I was ter see the chap hung fur the murder."
"Then hedoessucceed."
The keen eyes of Barkswell regarded the man before him fixedly, penetratingly.
"No!" hissed the tramp.
"Men do not hang for attempting murder."
"Don't they? Pardner, let me tell you that you won't live arter youattemptto murder Iris."
"What do you mean?"
"I know ye, Andy Barkswell—know what yer scheming brain hez concocted. Not content wi' puttin' poor Vict'ry Vane out o' the world, you hev planned ter kill my sister, yer true and lawful wife. I'll watch ye thar, hossfly—"
"Scoundrel!"
With the exclamation, Barkswell leaped with the fury of a tiger at the throat of the stalwart tramp.
The hour had come for a complete triumph or none.
"Murder!"
This was the cry that escaped the lips of the wounded tramp.
Well might he give utterance to the cry.
There was murder gleaming in the lurid eyes of the villain, Barkswell.
Although Perry Jounce was weak from the effects of the shot that had plowed a furrow through his scalp, his assailant did not permit him to have a fair show.
The tramp had been very indiscreet in telling what he did to his wicked brother-in-law.
"Mercy!" finally gasped Jounce, when he found that he had not strength sufficient to combat the man who was at his throat with murderous intent.
"You shall not live to thwart me, Perry Jounce," hissed Barkswell, as he pressed his companion in crime to the floor, and crushed his knee down upon his breast.
"Mercy!" again gasped Jounce.
"No. You would grant none to me. It would not be safe for me to permit you to live."
"But, hasn't I did my duty by you, pardner? Ef't hadn't been fur me SileKeene wouldn't a went under," uttered the helpless tramp, pleadingly.
There was no mercy in the heart of Andrew Barkswell, however. Jounce knew too much and was disposed to be dangerous, so he did not scruple to put him out of the way.
"Not a word, scoundrel," growled Barkswell, and with the words he drew a clasp knife from an inner pocket.
Again the fallen wretch gasped for mercy.
"You butted against the wrong man, Perry Jounce," muttered Barkswell, "when you attempted to frighten me from my plans. What is your life to me? No more thanhis, than that woman's. You must die."
The point of the knife touched the heaving bosom of the tramp, above the heart.
"Mercy! Spare me, brother—!"
The words were cut short by a quick movement on the part of Barkswell. He had sent the knife to the hilt in the bosom of the tramp.
"There, that ends your career," and with the words the young villain came to his feet.
He stood back with folded arms and watched the dying convulsions of his victim.
Soon the huge form lay quiet, the strong limbs stiffened in death.
A smile played on the features of Barkswell. Nevertheless his face was pale and drawn, and his breath came in short, hot gasps. It was no ordinary thing to take the life of a human being, much less to perpetrate the deed in cold blood.
"Now then the body must be disposed of," muttered Barkswell. "I cannot permit it to lay here."
He moved about and lifted a small trap in the floor. Through this he tumbled the body, and taking the candle, towered himself into a small, damp cellar.
It was a gloomy place.
The murderer must needs labor here for a time, however.
The ground was soft, and procuring a barrel-stave, the homicide went at the labor of digging a grave for his victim.
This work consumed some time. It was accomplished at length, however, and the body of the tramp tumbled in.
Slowly the man heaped the loose sand above the breast of his victim. When it was level full he stamped it down with his feet, and then heaped on more of the dirt.
His light sputtered and grew dim, threatening to go out.
It was not a pleasant thought, the one of being left alone in the dark there, with the blood of his victim trickling through the floor upon him.
"Mercy! what a dismal place. I must get out of this instanter, and—what was that?"
The sound of a step creaking on the floor above!
An awful horror took complete possession of Barkswell at that moment. He dared not look up at the opening through which he had passed, fearing, he knew not what.
His first thought was to extinguish the light.
He snatched it from the wall, and then, in spite of his terror, he cast his eyes upward. A face, white and ghostly, peered down upon him, a pair of flaming eyes burning into his very soul. With a wild cry Barkswell flung down the light, and fell fainting across the grave of his murdered victim.
The bullet that Andrew Barkswell sent hustling after the fleeing Bordine went wide of its mark.
The young engineer was moving at such a rate of speed, however, that it was wholly impossible for him to halt.
He knew not of the near proximity of the creek, and in consequence went headlong into the foaming current. His head came in contact with a jagged rock that partially stunned him so that for the moment he sank beneath its surface.
The swift current buoyed him up, and bore him swiftly from the vicinity.
Dazed and nearly strangled the engineer struggled to save himself from drowning. In the endeavor his hands came in contact with a floating plank, which the high water had floated from the bank.
He grasped the plank with a cry of joy. He felt that there was little danger of his drowning with such a buoy to cling to.
On down the current swept plank and man. At times the float touched the shore, but in such places the bank was steep and Bordine dared not make the attempt to land.
Presently, after floating perhaps a mile, the glimmer of a light filled his eyes.
On swept the plank with its human burden, and soon the light broadened into a large flame.
It proved to be a fire built on a level bit of ground near the water's edge. A man sat in the glow of the fire evidently engaged in cooking his evening meal.
The sharp bark of a dog seemed to startle him.
"What is it, Tige?"
The dog darted down to the edge of the water, looked wistfully at the stream, then with a final bark plunged into the stream.
He seized one end of the plank and dragged it ashore.
A man, with the water running from him in streams, stood up in the fire-light regarding the dog-owner. "Hello!" exclaimed the man.
"Hello yourself."
"Who are you?"
"A gentleman of the naval service," answered August Bordine with a gruesome laugh.
He could not feel prepossessed in favor of the man before him, who was small of stature, with a deformed body, bushy red hair and beard, one eye alone visible, the other hidden completely under a black patch.
"Wal," remarked the queer looking man, "you have the appearance of being a water-fowl anyhow. Come up by the fire and wring yourself, and get the chills out of your system. I havn't got much of a home to offer you, but it's good enough for me, and what's good enough for me is good enough for anybody."
Then the queer stranger led the way to the fire, where the light revealed the features of the saturated man completely.
"Eh!"
The peddler started and uttered the exclamation as though astonished.
"Now what?" demanded the young engineer as he began to wring himself.
"I reckon I've seen you before."
"It wouldn't be strange."
"Your from Grandon?"
"Yes."
"I git my stock in that town," proceeded Mr. Shanks. "I've seen a heap of folks, and know a—many who don't know me."
"Undoubtedly."
"You remember seeing me at your house 'tother day don't you?"
"I do not."
"Ain't your name Barkswell?"
"No."
The one-eyed man fixed his single optic on the face of the wet youth in a glance that was penetrating.
"I swear, but there's a mighty close resemblance."
"There must be. Many people have taken me to be somebody other than I am.I do not understand it."
"Whatisyour name?"
"Bordine."
"Um!"
The peddler sat down on a log near, and crossing his legs, with both hands on the back of his dog—he seemed to have only one now—he gazed thoughtfully into vacancy.
"A strange resemblance," he muttered.
"Permit me to thank you for your kindness, Mr.——"
"Shanks—Hiram Shanks at your service," the peddler filled in.
"I might have drowned but for you. This fire is quite comfortable I assure you, most comfortable indeed."
The steam rose in a cloud about the engineer as he turned about, exposing his clothing to the genial heat.
"I was eating a mighty late supper," said the peddler. "Fact is I'm noways regular at my meals; coz the tarverns won't board me for what it's worth. I bunk out of doors these warm nights, and don't feel afraid with Tige for a companion."
"I should imagine not. That dog is a noble fellow."
"Noble! Well, he's the next thing to human, Mr. Bordine. Somebody poisoned his mate, so't I have to foot it where once I rode in my carriage. If your anyways hungry, mister, I can give you grub enough such as 'tis."
The engineer assured the queer fellow that he had no desire to eat since it was late when he left home.
"How'd you come in the creek?"
Should he tell the true story to this deformed fellow, who had befriended him? Could there be any harm in it?
"Speak right out, young man. You've been into a muss of some sort, and I sympathise with you."
"I am glad to hear you say that."
After a moment given to reflection, the engineer told the story of his being decoyed from home, and of the attempt upon his life by the tramp, and the man from Grandon.
Not a word did the one-eyed man utter during the recital, but the fire in that single eye grew to a deeper flame, and he pushed up the black patch in a way that betokened extreme nervousness.
The eye beneath the patch did not seem defective to Bordine, yet the slight view he obtained of it was not sufficient to make sure as to that.
When he had finished, the peddler opened his lips to give utterance to one word:
"Fool!"
"I admit it," returned the engineer.
"Beg pardon, sir," uttered Hiram Shanks, quickly, "but after the warning you'd had, and the death of the detective, it seems to me that you ought to have been on your guard."
"So I ought; but it was on account of the detective."
"Don't put yourself out on his account," retorted the one-eyed man quickly. "The little experience I've had with a litter of that kind it don't pay to waste sympathy on 'em. Do you know who the fellow was that got you into this trap?"
"I am not positive. I know I saw the fellow once, and at the Golden Lion he registered as Mr. Brown."
"Exactly."
After a little more questioning, the peddler assured August that it was time to turn in.
"You needn't be scared. Tige'll watch out for tramps or other enemies to honest men."
"I would like to reach home."
"You can't to-night. Twon't be long till morning. Wait, and I will go with you."
After a little reflection the young engineer consented to this plan, but he found it impossible to sleep for some time in his damp clothing.
The peddler walked into the shadows, and August saw no more of him until the dawn of day, when Tige uttered a glad bark and darted into the bushes to greet his returning master.
August sat up, yet damp and uncomfortable, with an intense, burning fever in his veins.
"How far is it to the city?" he questioned.
"Four miles."
The young man staggered to his feet, but sank as quickly.
"You are ill, young feller?"
"I—I fear so," groaned August. "I don't believe it will be possible for me to walk home."
"Of course it won't."
"What shall I do? Can you procure a horse—"
"I can. You must rest here, or at a little shanty up the stream I have in my mind, until I bring a conveyance. Do you mind?"
"I suppose I must wait. I feel terribly sick and weak."
Then, leaning on the arm of the deformed peddler, August permitted him to lead him into the bushes, where, against the creek bank, was a small fisherman's shanty, one side of which was open to the weather.
Here, on an old blanket, the peddler left August to await his return.
Tige was left to guard the sick man, and then Hiram Shanks hastened from the spot.
It seemed a long time ere the peddler returned, and when he did come, he brought the most startling news.
Hot with fever, August Bordine lifted his aching head for the dozenth time to listen for the returning tread of the queer old peddler.
A glad bark from Tige was the first announcement the sick young man had of the return of his queer friend.
"Tired waiting?" queried Shanks, as he burst through the bushes and confronted the engineer.
"Very tired," moaned the feverish lips.
Then August put his head upon his hand and regarded the peddler with a look of anxious inquiry.
"Did you bring a horse?"
"No, I didn't," answered the peddler abruptly.
"Then you have deceived me," and the sick youth sank back with a groan.
"Nothing of the kind," answered Shanks. "I've learned some tremendous news since I went from here this morning."
"News?"
"Yes. Twon't be safe for you to go back to the city."
"Not safe? What do you mean?"
"This is what I mean," said the peddler, sinking to his knees and adjusting the black patch carefully over his eye. "The whole burgh is in a state of excitement over the discovery of the murderer of Victoria Vane."
"He has been discovered then?"
"Wait. A squad of police went to your house this morning and hunted high and low for you. The papers say that August Bordine murdered the Ridgewood girl, and that he fled last night from the city to escape arrest. What do you think of that?"
"It's all false."
"I suppose so, but if you should fall into the hands of the officers just now, you wouldn't be given half chance for your life."
"But who started this yarn?"
Bordine was deeply interested, and he sat up now and forgot for the time his aching head and weakened body.
"It seems to be the murdered girl's brother who is engineering the search. He is determined that his sister's murderer shall be brought to justice."
"That is right of course."
"Yes, but the evidence points strongly to you. I think, with a speedy trial, you could be convicted, I vow I do, Mr. Bordine. Dare you go back and risk it?"
"I am innocent—"
"True, but youseemguilty. The girl, they say, was stabbed—"
"Yes, with a small dirk."
"Exactly," with a start.
Perhaps he was wondering how the young engineer knew so much if he was guiltless.
"Can you tell me what kind of a knife it was?"
The single eye of the questioner was fixed in a keen gaze upon the face of August Bordine.
He seemed growing suspicious again.
"It was apparently a two-edged blade."
"Apparently?"
"Yes. Of course I could not tell exactly, since the wound was not easily examined."
"I see. Then you have not seen the knife—the dagger that found the life of Victoria Vane?"
"Certainly not."
"And yet it was found in your room."
"Impossible!"
"It is true. That evidence alone might hang you."
"My soul! what does, whatcanthis mean?" groaned the young engineer, sinking back to the rough blanket, weak as a rag under the revelation of this strange man.
"It means that a plot exists for your destruction, and the elevation of another," answered Hiram Shanks, slowly and with deliberation. "Doubtless your journey last night was a part of the plot. I confess that some things puzzle me, yet I am assured that your death is necessary to the successful issue of a plot."
"I cannot understand it."
"Nor I, fully."
Then a short silence fell between the two men, during which the eyes of Bordine examined the face of the queer little peddler keenly. At length he said:
"Mr. Shanks, will you answer me a question?"
"A dozen, if you like."
"Only one?"
"Well?"
"Who are you?"
"Hiram Shanks."
"Yes, but you are no ordinary man."
"Why do you think that?"
"To look at you, one would think—"
Then the engineer came to a sudden pause, and seemed embarrassed.
"I understand what you would say," remarked the peddler, with the faintest smile imaginable. "You imagine I will feel offended if you speak the truth, and say that I look like a battered, old tramp, but I should not. I will tell you the truth, young man. I have seen better days, but misfortunes came upon me, not singly, but in platoons, until I found my life a wreck. A wicked woman, poor whisky, and a reckless heart have brought me mighty low. I do not expect to rise again, but I have resolved to reform and pass the remainder of my days in honest endeavor.
"I turned to peddling from a natural liking to handle goods. I lead a wandering life now, and expect to till I die. I mean, however, to help you all possible, since I am assured that you are a good man and innocent of crime. My advice was once listened to; may I not hope that it will be again? Heed what I gay, trust me, and all will yet come out right. What do you say?"
"That I am unable to disobey at the present time, at any rate," answered the engineer. "Which may prove to be a blessing in disguise, after all."
Then queer Hiram Shanks came to his feet, and gazed sharply about him.
"I am not sure that this is the safest place that could be found," he said, "yet it isn't a place that people hunting for criminals would be apt to look. On the whole, I think you had better remain here until night, at least."
Then the peddler whistled to his dog, and walked away, leaving the sick man alone in the fisherman's shanty.
"Who is guilty? that's the question," muttered Hiram Shanks when once out of hearing of the sick man. "Bordine certainly doesn't act like a guilty wretch, and I, for one, believe him innocent. I must run down the guilty dogs, however, if I would save an innocent man and win the five thousand dollars reward."
Then the peddler hurried from the vicinity, accompanied by his dog.
Bordine fell into a troubled slumber, from which he was awakened by a sound from the murmuring creek.
Instantly his senses were on the alert.
He felt anxious to be at home, to alleviate the fears that he knew his mother must undergo on account of his continued absence.
"Somebody is coming," he thought.
Then he listened as he could with the beating fever in his head.
The dip of a paddle!
It was this that had wakened him.
He roused to a sitting posture and gazed through the open side of the shanty down toward the water.
A man had just landed from an Indian canoe, and stood on the bank, regarding him in evident astoundment. August could scarcely repress a cry.
And no wonder.
In front of him, not ten yards distant, stood the man who attempted to murder him the night before in the lone cabin near the creek falls.
The astoundment was mutual.
Evidently the man was none the worse for the fright he had received over the grave of his victim in the shanty cellar. He stared at the reclining form in the fisherman's shanty as though doubting his senses.
After a moment he advanced, and gazed fixedly into the face of fever-stricken August.
"So!" he exclaimed, and in that one word there was an immense amount of meaning.
Then he walked up to the bunk and stood within a few feet of the sick man.
"Hank Jones, what are you doing here?"
"Well, that's a nice question," sneered the villain as he thrust his hand to his hip pocket. "How in nature did you escape from the creek? Didn't I hit you when I fired?"
With the words the villain drew a revolver.
"It seems not."
"Then I'll make sure of it this time."
"This is unfair," remonstrated August, feeling that he was at the mercy of his enemy, and anxious to gain time, for night was fast falling, and with it the peddler and his dog would doubtless come.
"All is fair in war my friend."
"Why did you attempt to murder me last night?"
"For purposes of my own."
"You concocted a falsehood about Silas Keene and led me into a trap."
"Not entirely false," returned the villain. "The detective was hurt, and has since died."
"Since last night?"
"No, before that, but I will not palaver with you. I set out to rid the earth of my rival in business, and this is the way I do it."
The speaker thrust forward his revolver and fired.
The aim of the would-be assassin was not good. His bullet flew wide of the mark.
Why?
The deep growl of a dog was the disturbing cause.
As Hank Jones pulled the trigger, a shaggy object bounded through the bushes full at the throat of the villainous murderer.
August recognized the peddler's dog. Man and dog rolled down the bank to the water's edge. In the struggle the disguised outlaw's beard was torn off, and Andrew Barkswell stood revealed.
"Curse you, I'll knife you for this!" grated the baffled villain.
The next instant a keen blade gleamed in the air, just as a voice called:
"Tige, come off."
The dog was used to obeying his master's voice, and so he released his hold just in time to avoid the knife of the maddened Barkswell.
"Here, Tige."
The dog came bounding up the bank.
The single eye of the peddler glanced down at the man who struggled to his feet at the water's edge, and sprang into a canoe.
"So, you, Tige. Why was you going for our friend in that way?"
The peddler patted his dog and talked scoldingly until the escaping villain was well out in the stream, paddling away.
Quickly Hiram Shanks strode down to the water.
"Hey, you, man—August, what you leaving for? You'll surely get caught."
It will thus be seen that the peddler, who was hidden from the fisherman's shanty by a line of bushes, had mistaken the fleeing man for his patient.
The man in the boat made no response to the call of Shanks, and soon was lost to view behind an abrupt bend.
"Well, that beats me," muttered the one-eyed man, as he gazed over the water at the point where the canoe and its occupant had just disappeared.
Then, as he turned to ascend the bank, he noticed that Tige held something in his teeth—a heavy black beard!
Seizing it, the peddler examined it closely, then exclaimed:
"A disguise! Well, I'm puzzled now more than ever. I thought August Bordine a much abused man, and now it turns out that he's a villain after all, and able to pull the wool even overmyeyes."
Slowly Hiram Shanks ascended the bank. His dog uttered a joyful bark, and dashed through the bushes toward the little shanty.
"Here you, Tige," called the peddler.
"Bow-wow-wow!" was the answer from the faithful dog.
Hiram Shanks moved through the bushes, and then uttered a surprised exclamation. Reclining on the old blanket where he had left him was August Bordine, the young engineer.
"Bless my heart! young man, I thought I saw you just now riding away in a canoe."
"You see your mistake now, I suppose," returned August, trying repeatedly to smile.
"And it wasn't you, after all?"
"Certainly not."
Then August explained the situation in a few words. When he had finished the peddler tapped him gently on the shoulder and said:
"I am greatly relieved. I know that man now. He has caused all the mischief. You and he look as near alike as two peas. The clouds are rolling by and I see my way clear. It won't be long before the authorities as well as the people will be astounded with the arrest of Victoria Vane's murderer. It will astound them because they will find in the real murderer not the man they expect."
The peddler spoke so enthusiastically as to attract the notice of his listener.
"Are you on the track of the assassin?" questioned Bordine.
"I am."
"Then you are a detective?"
"If I succeed, yes. You see, I am but an amateur now. Whisky and an unfaithful woman poisoned me almost to the death. I saw that offer of five thousand dollars reward, and it stimulated me to new life. That is a good deal of money, my boy, especially to one in my circumstances; and so I thought to myself, if I could only win that reward, I could tog up in good shape and enter the business world once more. I've been aiming for that, and I mean to gather it in."
"I sincerely hope you may Mr. Shanks."
* * * * *
The days passed; a fortnight was gone, and yet no news of the young engineer who had so mysteriously disappeared from his home on the night before the arrest of Mrs. Bordine.
That lady was well treated by the sheriff's family, but was not permitted to have communication with the outside world, so that she realized that she was a close prisoner all this time. The reader can easily imagine how the old lady suffered, with a dark cloud hanging over the name of her son. She, of course, firmly believed in his innocence, and would not credit the story that he had fled to escape arrest. There was a mystery about his continued absence for which she could not account, and which gave the good woman no end of trouble.
"I would trust August with my life," she more than once asserted. "He does not come because he fears arrest, but some accident has befallen him, and it may be that we shall none of us see him again, for I fear he is dead."
It was thus the old mother talked to the officers, and to Miss Alstine, who, in the kindness of her heart, visited her lover's mother.
Of course that lover was as nought to the young heiress now. She believed him to be a villain of the deepest dye, yet she could not tell her thoughts to that trusting old mother who seemed so wrapped up in her son.
"The idea that he could harm anybody," declared Mrs. Bordine to Rose, with both plump hands on the girl's shoulders. "Why, he never even so much as killed a chicken without shuddering."
"We will hope that a mistake has been made, dear Mrs. Bordine."
"And you are so kind," returned the old woman with tears in her eyes. "Do you know, Miss Alstine, I want to ask your forgiveness."
"For what, dear?"
"For unkind judgment of you."
"I am sure you never have misjudged me, dear."
"Oh, yes I have."
"How?"
"It was one day when August had been up to your house. He was dreadfully down in the mouth when he came back from that visit. He'd been jilted he said, by you, and I told him right for ever trying to win the heart of a rich girl. I said some very harsh things of you, Miss, things that I know now weren't true. Of course I can see now that you had some good reason for not wishing to marry a poor engineer, a reason that was above regarding his poverty. I won't ask you what it was, for if the poor boy is dead it won't make any difference, and—and—"
Poor mother.
She broke down then completely, and fell to sobbing on the breast of the sympathetic Rose.
Ah, yes, she knew why she had refused to see the widow's son that eventful day, and it was not poverty that drove him out of her life. Rose, however, would not explain now, nor ever to Mrs. Bordine. She realized that the kindly soul had never realized the truth regarding the dual character of August.
If he never returned it was well that she should think of him always, as now, true and dutiful, a model man and son in every respect.
Officers were now more than ever on the alert. Everybody was anxious to win the magnificent reward, and it now seemed very easy of attainment, since the real murderer was known.
Would he fall finally into the hands of the law?
This was the question that Rose asked many times of herself. It would be justice, and yet it would grind her heart to know of his dying on the scaffold.
Was he guilty?
Another question.
Could she doubt it, remembering the scene in the garden at the house of her lover?
One evening while Rose, unattended, was hastening along the street toward the city prison, she suddenly became aware that a man was following her. There was something in his walk and general appearance that seemed familiar, but she could not see his face, since his hat was down low, shading it completely.
She had reached the entrance to the sheriff's office, and placed her hand on the knob, when the man sprang quickly to her side and seized her arm. She uttered a startled cry and pushed open the door.
"One moment, Rose!" cried the man, hoarsely. He snatched the hat from his head and bent his face close hers.
The girl uttered a great cry.
"Great Heaven,you here, August Bordine!"
And then Rose closed the door and leaned heavily against the wall.
[Illustration: HE SNATCHED THE HAT FROM HIS HEAD, AND BENT HIS FACE CLOSETO HERS.]