CHAPTER IV.
MR. CHECKYNSHAW RUSHES.
Mr. Checkynshaw felt that he had fully vindicated his personal dignity, and that of the well-known house whose head he was. The bank president he met in the entry did not think so, but believed that a person of such eminent gravity ought to call a policeman, instead of making himself ridiculous by resorting to violence. The banker explained, and then returned to his office. He was alone; and, seating himself in his cushioned chair, he gave himself up to the reflections of the moment, whatever they were.
Whether the grave charges and the angry threats of Mr. Fitzherbert Wittleworth were the subject of his thoughts was known only to himself; but as he reflected, the muscles of his mouth moved about, his brow contracted, and he seemed to be mentally defending himself from the charges, and repelling the threats. Certainly the bold accusation of the banker's late clerk had produced an impression, and stirred up the anger of the great man; but it was very impolitic for the discharged clerk to "beard the lion in his den."
The safe in the private office contained the valuable papers of the banker, while those of the firm whose head he was were placed in the vaults of the great banking-room. He kept the key of this safe himself. If it ever went into the hands of the clerk, it was only to bring it from the lock-drawer in the vaults; he was never trusted to deposit it there. Mr. Checkynshaw did not look at the safe till he had thoroughly digested the affair which had just transpired. When he was ready to go home to dinner, just before three o'clock, he went to the safe to lock it, and secure the key where prying curiosity could not obtain it.
It was not in the door, where he had left it; but this did not startle him. His thoughts appeared to be still abstracted by the subject which had occupied them since the affray, and he was walking mechanically about the office. He went to the safe as much from the force of habit as for any reason, for he always secured it when he was about to leave.
"Charles!" he called, raising one of the ground-glass windows between the office and the banking-room.
The door opened, and one of the younger clerks presented himself.
"Bring me the key of this safe from the drawer in the vault."
Charles bowed, and Mr. Checkynshaw continued to walk back and forth, absorbed in thought.
"The key of the safe is not in the drawer, sir," replied the clerk.
The banker tried the safe door, and then felt in all his pockets. The safe was locked, but he had not the key. He went to the vault himself, but with no better success than the clerk had had.
"The puppy!" muttered the banker. "He has stolen that key!"
Mr. Checkynshaw's lips were compressed, and his teeth were set tight together. He paced the room more rapidly than before.
"Fudge!" exclaimed he, after he had worked himself into a state of partial frenzy, as the hard muscles of his face suddenly relaxed, and something like a smile rested upon his lips. "He couldn't have done it."
Certainly not. The banker had not opened the safe till after his return from the barber's shop, where he had reproved his clerk, and Fitz did not go near the safe during the sharp interview in the office.
"Burnet," said the banker, going to the open window.
This time the elderly man, to whom Leo Maggimore had applied, presented himself.
"Have you seen the key of my safe?" demanded Mr. Checkynshaw.
"No, sir."
"Where is it, then?"
"I do not know, sir," replied Burnet, whose communications were always "yea, yea; nay, nay."
"I have discharged Fitz."
Burnet bowed.
"He was saucy."
Burnet bowed again.
"I kicked him out for his impudence."
Burnet bowed a third time.
"My key is gone."
Burnet waited.
"But the safe is locked."
Burnet glanced at the safe.
"Who has been in my office?"
"A boy, sir."
"Who?"
"I don't know, sir; he asked for you. I sent him to your office."
"That was the barber's boy."
Burnet bowed: he never wasted words; never left his desk to see a row or a military company, and would not have done so if an earthquake had torn up the pavement of State Street, so long as the banking-house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. was undisturbed.
"Who else?" asked the banker.
"A man, sir."
"Who?"
"I don't know; he entered by your private door; the boy and the man went out together."
"Send for the safe people."
Burnet bowed, and retired. In half an hour two men from the safe manufactory appeared. They opened the iron door, and the banker turned pale when he found that his valuable papers had been abstracted. The three hundred and fifty dollars which "Mr. Hart" had taken was of no consequence, compared with the documents that were missing; for they were his private papers, on which other eyes than his own must not look.
The safe men fitted a new key, altering the wards of the lock, so that the old one would not open the door. What remained of the papers were secured; but those that were gone were of more importance than those that were left. Mr. Checkynshaw groaned in spirit. The threats of Mr. Fitzherbert Wittleworth seemed to have some weight now, and that young gentleman suddenly became of more consequence than he had ever been before. Fitz could not have stolen these papers himself, but he might have been a party to the act.
"Burnet!" called the banker.
The old clerk came again. Nothing ever excited or disturbed him, and that was what made him so reliable as a financial clerk and cashier. He never made any mistakes, never overpaid any one, and his cash always "balanced."
"What shall I do? My private papers have been stolen!" said the banker, nervously. "Who was the man that came out of the office?"
"I don't know, sir."
"What was he like?" demanded Mr. Checkynshaw, impatiently.
"Well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish."
"And the boy?"
"Fourteen or fifteen—looked well."
"Send for André Maggimore, the barber."
Burnet bowed and retired. Charles was sent to the saloon of Cutts & Stropmore; but it was four o'clock, and André had gone to dress the hair of Elinora Checkynshaw. The banker was annoyed, vexed, angry. He wanted to see the boy who had left the office with the man "well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish." He did not know where Leo lived, and the barber had no business to be where he could not put his hand on him when wanted. Impatiently he drew on his overcoat, rushed out of the office, and rushed into the shop of Cutts & Stropmore. Mr. Cutts did not know where André lived, and Mr. Stropmore did not know. André was always at the shop when he was wanted there, and they had no occasion to know where he lived. Probably they had known; if they had, they had forgotten. It was somewhere in High Street, or in some street or court that led out of High Street, or somewhere near High Street; at any rate, High Street was in the direction.
There was nothing in this very definite information that afforded Mr. Checkynshaw a grain of comfort. He was excited; but, without telling the barbers what the matter was, he rushed up State Street, up Court Street, up Pemberton Square, to his residence. He wanted a carriage; but of course there was no carriage within hailing distance, just because he happened to want one. He reached his home out of breath; but then his key to the night-latch would not fit, just because he was excited and in a hurry.
He rang the bell furiously. Lawrence, the man servant, was eating his dinner, and he stopped to finish his pudding. The banker rang again; but Lawrence, concluding the person at the door was a pedler, with needles or a new invention to sell, finished the pudding—pedlers ring with so much more unction than other people. The banker rang again. Fortunately for the banker, more fortunately for himself, Lawrence had completely disposed of the pudding, and went to the door.
"What are you about, you blockhead? Why don't you open the door when I ring?" stormed the banker.
"I think the bell must be out of order, sir," pleaded Lawrence, who had heard it every time it rang.
"Go and get a carriage, quick! If you are gone five minutes I'll discharge you!" added the great man, fiercely, as he rushed into the parlor.
"You are late to dinner," said Mrs. Checkynshaw.
"Don't talk to me about dinner! Where is Elinora?"
"Why, what is the matter?" asked the lady, not a little alarmed by the violent manner of the husband.
"Matter enough! Where is Elinora? Answer me, and don't be all day about it!"
"In her dressing-room. André, the hair-dresser, is with her."
Mr. Checkynshaw rushed up stairs, and rushed into the apartment where André was curling the hair of a pale, but rather pretty young lady of twelve. His abrupt appearance and his violent movements startled the nervous miss, so that, in turning her head suddenly, she brought one of her ears into contact with the hot curling-tongs with which the barber was operating upon her flowing locks.
"O, dear! Mercy! You have killed me, André!" screamed Elinora, as her father bolted into the room.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Checkynshaw," pleaded André.
"You have burned me to death! How you frightened me, pa!" gasped the young lady.
"Mind what you are about, André!" exclaimed the banker, sternly, as he examined the ear, which was not badly damaged.
"The young lady moved her head suddenly. It was really not my fault, sir," added André.
"Yes, it was your fault, André," replied Elinora, petulantly. "You mean to burn me to death."
"I assure you, mademoiselle—"
"Where do you live, André?" demanded the banker, interrupting him.
"Phillimore Court, No. 3," replied the barber.
"I want you to go there with me at once," bustled the banker. "Is your boy—What's his name?"
"Leo, sir."
"Leo. Is he at home?"
"I think he is. Do you wish to see him, sir?"
"I do. Come with me, and be quick!"
"Leo would not be able to serve you, sir; he cannot leave his school."
"I want to see him; my safe has been robbed, and your boy was with the man who did it."
"Leo!" gasped the barber, dropping his hot iron upon the floor, and starting back, as though a bolt of lightning had blasted him.
"Yes; but come along! I tell you I'm in a hurry!" snapped Mr. Checkynshaw.
"He can't go now, pa," interposed the daughter. "He must finish dressing my hair."
"He shall return in a short time, Elinora," replied the banker.
"He shall not go!" added she, decidedly, and with an emphasis worthy of an only daughter.
"Leo!" murmured the poor barber, apparently crushed by the terrible charge against the boy.
"No. 3 Phillimore Court, you say," continued the banker, as he moved towards the door, yielding to the whim of the spoiled child.
The barber did not answer. His eyes rolled up in his head; he staggered and fell upon the floor. Elinora shrieked in terror, and was hurried from the room by her father.
CHAPTER V.
LEO MAGGIMORE.
Andre Maggimore had an apoplectic fit. Perhaps the immense dinner he had eaten in the shop had some connection with his malady; but the shock he received when the banker told him that Leo was implicated in the robbery of the safe was the immediate exciting cause. André was a great eater, and took but little exercise in the open air, and was probably predisposed to the disease. The dark shadow of trouble which the banker's words foreboded disturbed the circulation, and hastened what might otherwise have been longer retarded.
Doubtless Mr. Checkynshaw thought it was very inconsiderate in André Maggimore to have an attack of apoplexy in his house, in the presence of his nervous daughter, and especially when he was in such a hurry to ascertain what had become of his valuable private papers. If the banker was excited before, he was desperate now. He rang the bells furiously, and used some strong expressions because the servants did not appear as soon as they were summoned.
Lawrence had gone for the carriage, and one of the female servants was sent for the doctor. Mr. Checkynshaw handed his daughter over to her mother, who also thought it was very stupid for the barber to have a fit before such a nervous miss as Elinora. The banker returned to the room in which André lay. He turned him over, and wished he was anywhere but in his house, which was no place for a sick barber. But the doctor immediately came to his relief. He examined the patient; André might live, and might die—a valuable opinion; but the wisest man could have said no more.
Mr. Checkynshaw could not afford to be bothered by the affair any longer. He had pressing business on his hands. He directed the doctor to do all that was necessary, and to have his patient removed to his own residence as soon as practicable. After assuring himself that Elinora had neither been burned to death nor frightened to death, he stepped into the carriage, and ordered the driver to take him to No. 3 Phillimore Court.
The banker was very much annoyed by the awkwardness of the circumstances. He judged from what André had said, that he was much attached to his foster-son, and he concluded that Leo was equally interested in his foster-father. It was not pleasant to tell the boy that the barber had fallen in a fit, and might die from the effects of it; and if he did, Leo might not be able to give him the information he needed. It would confuse his mind, and overwhelm him with grief. Mr. Checkynshaw could not see why poor people should grieve at the sickness or death of their friends, though it was a fact they did so, just like rich people of sensibility and cultivation.
He thought of this matter as the driver, in obedience to his mandate, hurried him to Phillimore Court. If he told Leo, there would be an awkward scene, and he would be expected to comfort the poor boy, instead of worming out of him the dry facts of the robbery. If he had ever heard of Maggie, he had forgotten all about her. Had he thought of her, the circumstances would have appeared still more awkward. He had already decided not to inform Leo of the sudden illness of his father. When he reached the humble abode of the barber, and his summons at the door was answered by the fair Maggie, he was the more determined not to speak of the calamity which had befallen them.
Leo was at home; but it would be disagreeable to examine him in his own house, and in the presence of Maggie. He changed his tactics at once, and desired the boy to ride up to his office with him. Leo wondered what Mr. Checkynshaw could want of him at that time of day. It was strange that a person of his consequence had thought of him at all; and even "Mr. Hart" had proved to be a false prophet. He concluded that the banker had discharged Fitz, and needed a boy at once; but the gentleman was too imperative to be denied, and Leo did not venture to object to anything he proposed. He followed the great man into the carriage, and regarded it as a piece of condescension on his part to permit a poor boy like him to ride in the same vehicle with him.
Mr. Checkynshaw did not speak till the carriage stopped before the banking-house in State Street; and Leo was too much abashed by the lofty presence of the great man to ask any question, or to open the subject which he supposed was to be discussed in the private office. He followed the banker into that apartment, thinking only of the manner in which he should decline to enter the service of his intended employer before the completion of his school year.
"Burnet," said Mr. Checkynshaw, opening the window of the banking-room.
The old cashier entered, and bowed deferentially to the head of the house.
"Send for Mr. Clapp," added the banker; and Burnet bowed and retired, like an approved courtier.
Leo was not at all familiar with the police records, and had not learned that Mr. Clapp was the well-known constable,—the "Old Reed" or the "Old Hayes" of his day and generation,—and the name had no terrors to him.
"Boy, what is your name?" demanded Mr. Checkynshaw, when the door had closed behind the cashier.
"Leopold Maggimore, sir," replied he.
"Leopold," repeated the banker.
"I am generally called Leo, sir."
"Did the barber—your father, if he is your father—send you to my office to-day?"
"Yes, sir; he sent me, and I came; but you were not in."
"Why didn't you wait for me?"
"I was told you would not be back again to-day, sir."
"What time were you here?"
"At half past two, sir. There was some trouble in the entry at the time. A gentleman had a young fellow by the collar, and was putting him out of the building."
"Just so. Who was the gentleman?"
"I don't know, sir; I didn't see his face."
"I was that gentleman."
"I didn't know it, sir. It was just half past two, and I wanted to be on time."
"Who told you I should not be back again?" demanded the banker more sternly than he had before spoken.
"Mr. Hart," replied Leo, who regarded his informant as excellent authority.
"Mr. Hart!" exclaimed Mr. Checkynshaw, staring into the bright eyes of Leo to detect any appearance of deception.
The banker prided himself upon his shrewdness. He believed that, if there was any person in the world who was peculiarly qualified to expose the roguery of a suspected individual, he was that person. In conducting the present examination he only wanted Derastus Clapp for the terror of his name, rather than his professional skill as a detective.
Mr. Checkynshaw believed that he had intrapped his victim. Mr. Hart could not have told Leo that the head of the house would not return to the office that day, for the very simple reason that Mr. Hart was dead and gone. The old style of the firm was retained, but the Hart was gone out of it. The boy was telling a wrong story, and the banker laid his toils for unveiling the details of a gigantic conspiracy. Fitz lived somewhere in the vicinity of High Street,—Mr. Checkynshaw did not know where, for it would not be dignified for a great man like him to know where his clerk resided,—and it was more than possible that Leo and he were acquainted. Very likely the innocent-looking youth before him was an accomplice of Fitz, who, since the disappearance of the papers, had really become a terrible character.
"Yes, sir; Mr. Hart told me," repeated Leo, who could not see anything so very strange in the circumstance.
"Mr. Hart told you!" said the banker, again, endeavoring to overwhelm the boy by the intensity of his gaze.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Hart."
"Was Mr. Hart in this office?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was Mr. Hart doing?"
"He wasn't doing anything. I was standing here waiting for you when he came in."
"Which way did he come in?" interrupted the banker.
"The same way we did just now," added Leo, pointing to the door which opened into the long entry.
"Very well; go on."
"He told me to go into the big room," continued Leo, pointing to the banking-room. "I went in there, and asked the man that just came in here for you."
"You asked Burnet for me?"
"I didn't know what his name was; but it was the man you just called in here."
"Burnet; go on."
"He told me to come in here and wait for you."
"Burnet told you so?"
"Yes, sir; and when I came back, Mr. Hart was taking some papers and things from that safe, and putting them in the pocket of his overcoat. Then he locked the safe, and put the key in his pocket."
"Go on," said Mr. Checkynshaw, excited by these details.
"Then Mr. Hart told me Mr. Checkynshaw would not be in again to-day, and I must come again to-morrow."
"What then?"
"I went out through the big room, and he came right after me."
Leo, without knowing why he was required to do so, described in full all that had taken place after he left the banking-room till "Mr. Hart" had changed his clothes, and left the house of André.
"How did you know this person was Mr. Hart?" asked the banker.
"He told me so, sir. I asked him before we got to my house if he was Mr. Hart, and he said he was. When he told me Mr. Checkynshaw was not in, and I saw him take the things out of the safe, and put the key in his pocket, I knew he belonged here, and being in this office, I guessed it was Mr. Hart. He promised to get me a good place when I leave school, and to explain the matter to you, and make it all right, when he came back from New York."
"Perhaps he will do so," added Mr. Checkynshaw, with a sneer.
But the banker was completely "nonplussed." He found it difficult to believe that this boy had anything to do with the robbery of his safe. At this point in the investigation, Mr. Clapp arrived. It was now quite dark. Most of the clerks in the banking-room had left; but Burnet was called, and instructed to remain with Leo, while the banker and the detective held a conference in the next room. Leo could not tell what it was all about. Not a word had been said about a boy to fill Fitz's place. He asked Burnet what Mr. Checkynshaw wanted of him; but the cashier was dumb.
After the banker had told the officer all about the affair, they went into the private office, and Leo was subjected to a long and severe questioning. Then he learned that "Mr. Hart" was not Mr. Hart, and that the safe had been plundered. He was filled with astonishment, not to say horror; but every answer he gave was straightforward, and at the end of it the skilled detective declared that he had had nothing to do with the robbery.
"Do you know Fitz Wittleworth?" demanded Mr. Checkynshaw, sharply.
"Yes, sir."
"Did he ever say anything to you about me?"
"I have heard him call you Old Checkynshaw; but he never said anything that I can remember, except that you couldn't get along in your business without him."
"Did he ever say anything about any papers of mine?" asked the banker, scowling fiercely.
"No, sir."
The banker plied Leo with questions in this direction; but he failed to elicit anything which confirmed his fears. A carriage was called, and Mr. Checkynshaw and the constable, taking Leo with them, were driven to the house of the barber.
CHAPTER VI.
LEO'S WORKSHOP.
When the banker and the detective reached the barber's house, the supper table was waiting for André and Leo. Perhaps Mr. Checkynshaw wondered how even a poor man could live in such a small house, with such "little bits of rooms." It had been built to fill a corner, and it fitted very snugly in its place. André thought it was the nicest house in Boston, and for many years it had been a palace to him.
It contained only four rooms, two on each floor. The two rooms up stairs were appropriated to the use of Maggie and Leo. The front room down stairs was required to do double duty, as a parlor, and a sleeping-room for André; but the bedstead was folded up into a secretary during the day. In the rear of this was the "living room." In the winter the parlor was not used, for the slender income of the barber would not permit him to keep two fires. In this apartment, which served as a kitchen, dining and sitting room, was spread the table which waited for André and Leo.
The barber almost always came home before six o'clock; for, in the vicinity of State Street, all is quiet at this hour, and the shop was closed. Maggie sat before the stove, wondering why André did not come; but she was not alarmed at his non-appearance, for occasionally he was called away to dress a lady's hair, or to render other "professional" service at the houses of the customers. Certainly she had no suspicion of the fearful truth.
She was rather startled when the unexpected visitors were ushered into the room by Leo; but the detective was gentle as a lamb, and even the banker, in the presence of one so fair and winning as Maggie, was not disposed to be rude or rough. Mr. Clapp asked some questions about the man who had come to the house that afternoon, and gone up to Leo's room. She had seen him, and her description of his appearance and his movements did not differ from that of her brother. No new light was obtained; but Mr. Clapp desired to visit the apartment which "Mr. Hart" had used.
Leo conducted the visitors to this room. It was possible, if the robber had changed his clothes there, that he had left something which might afford some clew to his identity. The detective searched the chamber, but not very carefully. As he did so, he told Leo that he desired to clear him from any connection with the crime.
"I hadn't anything to do with it, and I don't know anything about the man," replied Leo, blushing deeply.
"I don't think you had, my boy," added the officer, candidly. "But this man may have hidden something in the house, without your knowledge."
"I hope you will find it if he did. You may search the house from cellar to garret, if you like; but he didn't go into any room but this one."
"How long was he in this room?"
"Not more than twenty minutes, I guess; I don't know."
"Where were you while he was here?"
"I was down cellar."
"Down cellar!" exclaimed Mr. Checkynshaw. "All the time he was in the room?"
"Yes, sir."
"What were you doing there?"
"I was at work there. When I heard Mr. Hart, or the man, whatever his name is, coming down stairs, I went up and met him in the entry. You can go down cellar, if you like."
"I think we will," said Mr. Checkynshaw.
The detective looked into the bed, under it, in the closets, drawers, and into the seaman's chest which contained Leo's wardrobe. He did not expect to find anything, and his search was not very thorough. He examined the till, and felt in the clothing; but he did not put his hand down deep enough to find the papers the robber had deposited there. If the rogue had left anything, he had no object in concealing it; and Mr. Clapp reasoned that he would be more likely to leave it in sight than to hide it.
When the search had been finished in the room, and the result was as the detective anticipated, Leo led the way to the cellar. Here was presented to the visitors a complete revelation of the boy's character and tastes—a revelation which assured the skilful detective, deeply versed as he was in a knowledge of human nature, that Leo was not a boy to be in league with bad men, or knowingly to assist a robber in disposing of his ill-gotten booty.
The cellar or basement was only partly under ground, and there was room enough for two pretty large windows at each end, the front and rear of the house, and in the daytime the apartment was as light and cheerful as the rooms up stairs. Across the end, under the front windows, was a workbench, with a variety of carpenter's tools, few in number, and of the most useful kind. On the bench was an unfinished piece of work, whose intended use would have puzzled a philosopher, if several similar specimens of mechanism, completed and practically applied, had not appeared in the cellar to explain the problem.
On the wall of the basement, and on a post in the centre of it, supported by brackets, were half a dozen queer little structures, something like miniature houses, all of them occupied by, and some of them swarming with,white mice. In the construction of these houses, or, as André facetiously called them, "Les Palais des Mice," Leo displayed a great deal of skill and ingenuity. He was a natural-born carpenter, with inventive powers of a high order. He not only made them neatly and nicely, but he designed them, making regular working plans for their construction.
The largest of them was about three feet long. At each end of a board of this length, and fifteen inches in width, was a box or house, seven inches deep, to contain the retiring rooms and nests of the occupants of the establishment. Each of these houses was three stories high, and each story contained four apartments, or twenty-four in the whole palace. The space between the two houses was open in front, leaving an area of twenty-two by fifteen inches for a playground, or grand parade, for the mice. The three sides of this middle space were filled with shelves or galleries, from which opened the doors leading into the private apartments. The galleries were reached by inclined planes, cut like steps.
Monsieur Souris Blanc passed from the gallery into one room, and from this apartment to another, which had no exterior door, thus securing greater privacy, though on the outside was a slide by which the curious proprietor of the palace could investigate the affairs of the family. Madame Souris Blanche, who considerately added from four to a dozen little ones to the population of the colony every three or four weeks, apparently approved this arrangement of rooms, though it was observed that three or four mothers, notwithstanding the multiplicity of strictly private apartments, would bring up their families in the same nest, cuddled up in the same mass of cotton wool.
Over the "grand parade" was a roof, which prevented the mice from getting out over the tops of the nest-houses. Though this space was open in front, and the play-ground protected only by a fence an inch high, the little creatures seldom fell out, for it was five feet to the floor of the cellar, and this was a giddy height for them to look down.
This establishment contained fifty or sixty white mice—from the venerable grandfather and grandmother down to the little juveniles two weeks old, to say nothing of sundry little ones which had not appeared on the "grand parade," and which looked like bits of beef, or more like pieces of a large fish worm. Other establishments on the wall contained smaller numbers; and, though it was impossible to count them, there were not less than a hundred and fifty white mice in the basement.
When Leo conducted the visitors to the cellar, all the tribes of mice were in the highest enjoyment of colonial and domestic bliss. Though most of them scampered to their lairs when the gentlemen appeared, they returned in a moment, looked at the strangers, snuffed and stared, and then went to work upon the buckwheat and canary seed, which Leo gave them as a special treat. Squatting on their hind legs, they picked up grains or seeds, and holding them in their fore paws, like squirrels, picked out the kernels.
LEO'S WORKSHOP.LEO'S WORKSHOP.—Page 76.
In other houses, they were chasing each other along the galleries, performing various gymnastics on the apparatus provided for the purpose, or revolving in the whirligigs that some of the cages contained. It was after dark; and, having reposed during the day, they were full of life and spirit at night. The detective was delighted, and even Mr. Checkynshaw for a few moments forgot that his valuable papers had been stolen. Both of them gazed with interest at the cunning movements and the agile performances of the little creatures.
"I see why you remained down cellar so long," said the detective, with a smile.
"I was at work on that mouse-house," replied Leo, pointing to the bench.
The palace in process of construction was somewhat different from the others. Instead of being open in front of the "grand parade," it had a glass door, so that the occupants of the establishment could be seen, but could not fall out.
"What is that one for?" asked Mr. Clapp.
"I'm making that for Mr. Stropmore," answered Leo. "I gave him one lot, but his cat killed them all. The cat can't get at them in this house, and they can't fall out."
"Elinora would like to see them," said Mr. Checkynshaw, graciously.
"I should be very glad to show them to her, or to give her as many of them as she wants," replied Leo.
"Perhaps she will come and see them. But, Mr. Clapp, we must attend to business."
The detective was in no hurry to attend to business, so interested was he in the performances of the mice. He was quite satisfied that a boy whose thoughts were occupied as Leo's were could not be implicated in the robbery. The banker led the way up stairs, and Leo was questioned again. He described the rogue once more, and was sure he should know him if he saw him again. The banker said he would call and see Mrs. Wittleworth and her son, while the detective was to take the night train for New York, where "Mr. Hart" was supposed to have gone. The officer, who knew all the rogues, was confident, from the description, that the thief was "Pilky Wayne," a noted "confidence man." The theft was according to his method of operation.
"Where do you suppose father is?" asked Maggie, as Leo was about to leave the house to show Mr. Checkynshaw where Mrs. Wittleworth lived. "It is after seven o'clock, and he is never so late as this."
"I don't know," replied Leo. "I haven't seen him since one o'clock."
The banker was disturbed by the question. It would be annoying to tell such a pretty and interesting young lady, poor girl though she was, that her father was very ill. It would make a "scene," and he would be expected to comfort her in her great grief.
"Your father—Is he your father, miss?" asked he, doubtfully.
"He is just the same. He adopted both Leo and me," replied Maggie.
"He went to my house, this afternoon, to dress my daughter's hair," added Mr. Checkynshaw; and there was something in his manner which disturbed the fair girl.
"Is he there now?"
"Yes, I think he is. My people will take good care of him."
"Why, what do you mean, sir?" demanded Maggie. "Take good care of him?"
"He had an ill turn this afternoon."
"My father!" exclaimed Maggie.
"I sent for the doctor, and he has had good care," added the banker, as soothingly as he could speak, which, however, was not saying much.
"What ails him?"
"Well, it was an attack of apoplexy, paralysis, or something of that kind."
"My poor father!" ejaculated Maggie, her eyes filling with tears. "I must go to him at once."
Maggie took down her cloak and hood, and put them on.
CHAPTER VII.
MON PERE.
Maggie's ideas of apoplexy or paralysis were not very definite, and she only understood that something very terrible had happened to her foster-father, whom she loved as though he had been her real parent. Leo was hardly less affected, though, being a boy, his susceptibility was not so keen. His first feeling was one of indignation that the banker had not told him before of the misfortune which had overtaken the family. It was cruel to have kept Maggie from her father a single moment longer than was necessary.
"Where is poor father now?" asked Maggie, as she adjusted her hood, and wiped the tears from her eyes.
"He is at my house; but you need not worry about him," replied Mr. Checkynshaw. "The doctor has attended to his case, and he shall have everything he needs."
"Where do you live, sir?" asked Leo.
"No.—Pemberton Square."
"Come, Maggie, we will go to him," added the boy.
"I want you to go with me, and show me where Fitz lives," interposed the banker.
"He lives at No.—Atkinson Street, up the court," answered Leo, rather coolly, as he picked up his cap and comforter.
"I want you to show me the house."
"I must go with Maggie."
Mr. Checkynshaw looked as though the barber's serious illness was of no consequence, compared with his affairs.
"We can go that way, Leo, and you can show him the house as we pass through Atkinson Street," said Maggie, leading the way to the door.
This arrangement was satisfactory to the banker; the house was locked, and Leo led the way out of the court. The humble abode of Mrs. Wittleworth was pointed out to Mr. Checkynshaw; and, after he had been admitted, Leo and Maggie hastened to Pemberton Square, so sad and sorrowful that hardly a word was spoken till they reached the lofty mansion of the great man. With trembling hand Leo rang the bell; and Maggie's slender frame quivered with apprehension while they waited for a reply to the summons. Lawrence answered the bell more promptly than when its call had disturbed him at his dinner.
"Is André Maggimore here?" asked Leo, timidly.
"Who?" demanded Lawrence.
"André Maggimore—the barber—the hair-dresser," replied Leo.
"You mane the man that had the fit," added the servant. "Indade, he's here, thin."
"How is he?" asked Maggie, her heart bounding with fear lest she should be told that her poor father was no more.
"He's a little better; but the docthor says it'll be a long day till he is able to handle his razors again. What's this he called the disase? The para-ly-sis! That's just what it is!"
"Poormon père!" sighed Maggie.
"We would like to see him, if you please," added Leo.
"And who be you? Are you his children?" asked Lawrence.
"We are."
"I'm sorry for you; but he's very bad," added Lawrence, who had an Irish heart under his vest, as he closed the front door.
"Is he—will he—"
Poor Maggie could not ask the question she desired to ask, and she covered her face and wept.
"No, he won't," replied Lawrence, tenderly. "He won't die. The docthor says he's comin' out of it; but the para-ly-sis will bodther him for a long time."
Maggie was comforted by this reply, and she followed Lawrence up stairs to the chamber where André lay. He had been conveyed from Elinora's dressing-room to an apartment in the L, over the dining-room, where the banker and his friends smoked their cigars after dinner. He was lying on a lounge, covered with blankets, and the housekeeper was attending him.
"Poormon père!" exclaimed Maggie, as she threw herself on her knees on the floor by the side of the sick man's couch, and kissed his pale, thin face.
POOR MON PÈRE.POOR MON PÈRE.—Page 84.
Leo bent over his father's prostrate form, and clasped one of his silky hands, which now felt so cold that the touch chilled his heart. The doctor had just come in to pay his patient a second visit, and stood by the lounge, regarding with interest the devotion of the boy and girl.
André had "come out" of the fit, and recognized his children, as he always called them. He smiled faintly, and tried to return the pressure of Leo's hand, and to kiss the lips of Maggie, pressed to his own; but his strength was not yet equal to his desire.
"I think it would be better to remove him to the hospital," said the doctor to the housekeeper. "He will be well nursed there."
"No, no, no!" exclaimed Maggie, rising and walking up to the physician.
Her idea of the hospital was not a very clear one, and she did not consider it much better than a prison; at least, it was to her a place where sick people who had neither home nor friends were sent; a place where other hands than her own would lave her father's fevered brow, and administer the cooling draught. To her it was sacrilege to permit any but herself to nurse him; and she felt that it was a privilege to stand day and night by his bed, and hold his hand, and anticipate all his wants. Her womanly instincts were strong, and she heard with horror the suggestion to take the sufferer to the hospital.
"Your father would be very kindly cared for at the hospital," said the doctor.
"But it would not be his own home!" pleaded Maggie. "O, he so loves his own home! He always staid there when he was not in the shop. It would break his heart to send him away from his own home when he is sick."
"Have you a mother?" asked Dr. Fisher, kindly.
"I have not; but I will nurse him by day and night. I will be mother, wife, and daughter to him. Do not send him away from me—not from his own home!" continued Maggie, so imploringly that the good physician had to take off his spectacles and wipe the moisture from his eyes.
"We will take good care of him at home," added Leo.
"Very well," replied the doctor. "He shall be removed to his own home, since you desire it so much. Lawrence, will you send for a carriage?"
"I will, sir," answered the servant, leaving the room.
André had turned his eyes towards the group, and appeared to understand the matter they were discussing. He smiled as he comprehended the decision, and made an effort to embrace Maggie, when she again knelt at his side; but a portion of his frame was paralyzed, and he could not move.
"Your father may be sick a long time," said Dr. Fisher.
"I'm so sorry! But I will take such good care of him!" replied Maggie.
"He needs very careful nursing."
"O, he shall have it! He would rather have me nurse him than any other person. I will watch him all the time. I will sit by his bed all day and all night," added she, with womanly enthusiasm.
"You will wear yourself out. You are not strong enough to do without your sleep."
"I am very strong, sir. I do all the work in the house myself. I know how to make gruel, and porridge, and beef tea, and soup; andmon pèreshall have everything nice."
The doctor smiled, and felt sure that no better nurse could be provided for the sick man.
"Where is your mother?" he asked. "Is she living?"
"I have no mother. Leo has no mother. We are not André's own children; but we love him just the same, and he loves us just the same."
"But who was your mother?"
"I don't know."
"Doesn't André know?"
"He does not."
"You have some kind of a history, I suppose," added the doctor, greatly interested in the girl.
"Mon pèredon't like to talk about it. He seems to be afraid that some one will get me away from him; but I'm sure I don't want to go away from him; I wouldn't leave him for a king's palace."
"Why do you call him 'mon père'?"
"He taught me to call him so when I was little. André's father was an Italian, and his mother a French woman; but he was born in London."
"Where did he find you?"
"At the cholera hospital."
"Where?"
"I don't know. He always looked so sad, and his heart seemed to be so pained when I asked him any questions about myself, that I stopped doing so long ago. When I was five years old, he found me playing about the hospital, where hundreds and hundreds of people had died with cholera. I had the cholera myself; and he came to play with me every day; and when they were going to send me to an orphan asylum, or some such place, he took me away, and promised to take care of me. Ah,mon père" said she, glancing tenderly at the sick man, and wiping a tear from her eyes, "how well he has kept his promise! I can't help thinking he loved me more than any real father could. I never saw any father who was so kind, and tender, and loving to his child as André is to me."
"And you don't know where this hospital was?"
"No, sir; and I don't want to know.Mon pèrethinks my parents died of the cholera; but André has been father and mother to me. He would die if he lost me."
"And your brother—was he taken from the cholera hospital?" asked the doctor.
"No, sir," replied Maggie, rising and speaking in a whisper to the physician, so that Leo should not hear what she said. "André had to leave me all alone when he went to the shop, and he went to the almshouse to find a poor orphan to keep me company. He found Leo, whose father and mother had both died from drinking too much. He took him home, andmon pèrehas been as good to him as he has to me."
"His name is Leo—the Lion?"
"No, sir; not the lion.Mon pèrecalled him Leopold, after the King of Belgium, in whose service he once was; but we always call him Leo. He is a real good boy, and will get the medal at his school this year."
"The carriage has come, sir," said Lawrence, opening the door.
The arrangements were made for the removal of the barber to his house. The hackman and the man servant came to carry him down stairs in an armchair, and the doctor was to go with his patient, and assist in disposing of him at his house. André was placed in the chair, covered with blankets, and the door opened in readiness to carry him down. Maggie kept close to him, comforting him with the kindest words, and adjusting the blanket so that the rude blasts of winter might not reach him.
"Lawrence!" called Elinora, in a petulant tone, from the dressing-room on the same floor.
Under the circumstances, Lawrence was not disposed to heed the call; but it was so often and so ill-naturedly repeated, that Dr. Fisher told him to go and see what she wanted, fearful that some accident had happened to her. The man went into the hall. Elinora had come out of her room in her impatience, arrayed for the party she was to attend. Another hair-dresser had been sent for to complete the work which André had begun; but the young lady was more than an hour late, and proportionally impatient.
"Are you deaf, Lawrence? The carriage has come," pouted Elinora.
"That's not the carriage for you, miss. It's to take the barber to his own place," replied Lawrence.
"That horrid barber again! I shall not get over the fright he gave me for a month! I will take this carriage, and he may have the other when it comes," said she, walking to the stairs. "Go down and open the door for me."
"If you plaze, miss, you can't go in this carriage. It's for the sick man."
"I don't care what it's for! I'm in a hurry, Lawrence. I must have the first carriage."
"Indade, miss, but we have the sick man up in the chair, ready to take him down the stairs. It's very bad he is."
"Let him wait! Go down and open the door, as I tell you."
"I beg your pardon, miss, but the docthor—"
"If you don't do what I tell you this instant, I'll ask pa to discharge you."
Dr. Fisher came out to ascertain the cause of the delay. He explained that the carriage had been ordered to convey the barber to his home, and he insisted that it should be used for that purpose. André was his patient, and he would not permit any further delay. Elinora pouted and flouted, and hopped back into her chamber.
André was borne carefully down the stairs, and placed in the carriage. Maggie and the doctor entered the vehicle with him, and they were driven to the barber's own home, where he was placed upon his bed in the front room.