DICK STANTON.
"You treacherous hound!" I angrily and indignantly exclaimed, as I gave Stanton a hearty shaking when I learned to a certainty that he had given a signal to call a crowd of desperadoes to his assistance.
As the roughs began to pile out of the darkened saloon, the false detective gave vent to a nervous laugh. He was afraid he would not be rescued, and yet did not see how it could be possible for me to retain him as a prisoner in the face of these friends of his.
I was, however, determined to do so.
I was considerably riled up just about then, and could have laid down my life rather than have let him escape.
I set my teeth.
Through them I hissed:
"Stanton, you cannot escape me! You know me well in private life, and know that I am a determined man—a man of my word. Now, then, I place the muzzle of my revolver to your head, and by all that is holy I swear to shoot you rather than let you escape."
Stanton gasped.
A hollow moan followed, and he became paler than a corpse.
He knew me for a man of my word, and when I had thus spoken he was positive that any attempt at rescue would cause me to keep my word good.
Suddenly he brightened.
His tone was hopeful.
"How can I help it now?" he said; "I am helpless now, either one way or the other."
There was a ring of something like triumph in his tone.
"Not so," I said sternly. "Order them back. You can do that, and must do it! You know the alternative."
Stanton quivered and shook in his boots.
He was in a bad fix.
Instead of having the upper-hand of me, as he expected, he was precisely under my thumb.
He saw all the ins and outs of his predicament at a glance.
He looked up at me in an uneasy, scared manner, and then at the help he had summoned by that secret cry of distress.
He knew not what to do.
But decide he must, and that without further delay.
By this time the villainous gang he had summoned were beginning to close in on me.
I pressed the muzzle more firmly against his temple, and I heard his teeth chatter.
"Go back, boys!"
So he implored them.
"And furthermore, do not reveal your identity," I sternly ordered him.
The gang halted in surprise.
They were stumped by his pleading with them not to make any attempt at rescuing him.
"What in thunder did you give the secret cry for, then?" demanded a gruff and angry voice. "Who are you, anyhow? Give your number."
"Do it at your peril!" I hissed in Stanton's ear.
He understood the significance of the slightly harder pressure of the deadly weapon against his temple.
I grimly maintained silence, save when I whispered a few threatening words in the ear of the false detective.
It was a moment of quiet, yet intense excitement.
Bound by a terrible oath to answer that signal of distress, the villains had rushed out to the rescue. Yet here was the man who gave it now begging them not to interfere.
They were puzzled, and knew not what to do.
"Give your number," was again called out by the same gruff voice as before.
"At your peril!"
So I again breathed into the false detective's ear, and he made no reply.
"Now, then, let's get away from this spot," I said, in a low tone; and still holding firmly to my prisoner, I began slowly retreating, taking good care always to have an eye on the gang, who were undecided what to do.
I quickly put a different aspect on the state of affairs when I got a chance, and I gave the night-call for a policeman.
The gang continued to follow.
Had Stanton given his number, they were ready to rush in and rescue him.
But for a good reason he did not give his number, and when two blue-coats, having heard my summons, swiftly approached the spot, the villainous crew's indecision vanished as well as themselves.
Again warning Stanton not to reveal his identity, I met and satisfied the guardians of the peace as to who I was.
They offered to accompany me to the station with my prisoner.
I declined their proffered services.
Having been assured that I considered all danger past, they saluted and returned to their respective beats, and I resumed my course with my prisoner.
Stanton was very chopfallen.
I had nipped his scheme of rescue in the bud, and he knew that he was now in for it. His action, he felt sure, would kill all sympathy I might have previously had for him.
Since his plan had failed, he knew it would have been better for him had he never attempted to put it into execution.
I kept silence.
And Stanton never said a word.
I reached the place at last where I wanted to keep him in confinement.
It was at the house of a deputy sheriff, who had built several strong cells in his cellar, for occasions similar to the present. And it not infrequently happens that when a detective has captured a particular prisoner it is a decided benefit to be able to keep the capture a profound secret for a while.
The place afforded the means of keeping the capture a secret.
Fortunately the deputy was at home, and I soon had Stanton locked up in one of the cells.
"Well," said I, as I entered the cell with the false detective, "here you are, in a safe place, where the dogs won't bite you."
"What do you intend doing with me?" the rascal tremblingly asked me.
"Whatever I think you may deserve having done with you," was the grim reply.
"Howard, I—I—didn't think any one was in that saloon, or may be I wouldn't a-given that signal," he faltered.
"You know you lie!"
He winced.
He saw he could not fool or bamboozle me in the slightest degree.
"Now, then," I said, presently, "are you going to make a clean breast of it?"
"Yes," he loathfully answered.
The Black Hole, so called, crossed my mind.
"Who did you have in the Black Hole?"
"Black Hole! What Black Hole?"
"You can't come that. I know pretty much all about the old sugar-house and Cap, and the kind of a business you carry on there."
"How did you find out?"
"Never mind that. The Black Hole is in the cellar under the store-house?"
"Yes," he admitted.
"You had a prisoner in it?"
"Yes."
"Who was he?"
"I don't know."
"Describe him."
"A young fellow."
"A young fellow, inside of twenty, and of a slim build."
The description tallied.
"When did you last see him?"
"Just about dark."
"He was safe then?"
"He was."
"Could he have escaped from the Black Hole, think you?"
Stanton gave a great start.
"It is possible," he said. "They thought it a mighty strong place, but I didn't. A fellow with any grit could have dug his way out."
That settled it to my satisfaction.
Shadow had been the prisoner in the Black Hole. That he had got out somehow I had received ample proof by the hand thrust up through the pile of junk holding that note for me.
I pumped Stanton for all he was worth. He kept back many things, I knew; but I pretended to believe that he had made a clean breast of it.
I had seen him glance about his cell, and knew that he hoped to be able to make his escape.
"Ain't you a-goin' to take these irons off?" he inquired, holding up his wrists, just as I was about to take my departure.
"Not at all."
"Why?"
"I don't intend that you shall have your hands free to dig your way out," with which I left him, decidedly crestfallen in demeanor.
A few nights later I spent the entire period of darkness in the neighborhood of the old sugar-house. Leaving just before dawn, I was on my way home, when, as I drew near a corner, I was suddenly confronted by a slenderly-built mulatto.
Gliding up before me, he extended his hand, and uttered one word:
"Shadow!"
A FIEND IN HUMAN SHAPE.
Poor Helen Dilt!
Better, much better, would it be for her to die at once, if she was to be called on to long endure the torments that were devised and executed by the ugly-faced hag who presided over that private mad-house.
The hag was literally a fiend.
And a fiend in human form at that.
We speak of the natural love that resides in the human heart, that is an indestructible part of it, that is born with it, and never departs until the member has ceased to pulse, and lies silent and heavy in the heart that contains it.
This fancy is a pretty one.
Few of us are there who do not try to paint humanity as more humane than it really is.
Instead of love being the natural resident of the human heart, it is something that is cultivated.
Left to itself, the feelings of the human heart are as savage and fierce as those that reside in the hearts of the Indians of the plains, or of the tigers in the Eastern jungles.
The old hag was one in whose heart tender feelings had never been cultivated, and she was not burdened with sensations of sympathy or pity.
On the contrary, the natural inclinations of a cruel nature had been cultivated until it had become callous to all sensations of pleasure save at the sight of the sufferings of some living, breathing thing.
There is money in a private mad-house run by unscrupulous persons, and several evil men had advanced the money and set this human fiend up in business.
Few people have an idea of how easy it is, when there is a splendid property to reward the horrible deed, for relations to get a wealthy member of the family adjudged insane.
A single eccentricity is sufficient to do the thing.
And once the person is declared insane, into a private mad-house he is inveigled, never again to see the light of day. And there he is kept until he is actually driven mad, or until death steps in and releases him.
The old hag had given herself, and delighted in, the name of Tige.
It was a corruption or contraction of tigress.
And it was into such hands that poor Helen Dilt had fallen!
Again and again did the hag stick a big pin into Helen.
And again and again did she exultantly laugh at the evidences of pain which the poor creature could not avoid displaying.
"Will you be quiet and docile?"
A jab with the pin.
"Will you?"
Another jab.
"Will you?"
Another prod with the bright pin, whose point was reddened with Helen's blood.
"Will you, I say?"
Still another jab.
"Yes—yes," Helen almost shrieked.
"It's a good thing for you if you will bear your promise in mind," said Tige, grimly. "I always make people regret breaking their word with me."
Helen was left for some hours stretched on the bed, her arms and feet extended and secured by ropes to the four corners of the bed.
There was agony to be endured in even this quiet position.
Place a pound weight on the palm of your hand, and endeavor to keep that hand extended, for, say five minutes.
Can you do it?
You think you can, that is if you have never tried it.
Try it now.
You will not be able to do it.
Long before the five minutes have expired your arm will be a pathway for a succession of spasms of pain such as you have never felt before.
All that you can voluntarily endure, quadrupled and more, Helen was forced to pass through because of the strained position of her arms.
It was terrible.
The pains that shot through her arms were frightful for a while, and then the intensity diminished and her arms became numb and felt as if dead.
She could no longer feel the cords so tightly fastened to her wrists.
Her arms were perfectly bloodless, and to all intents and purposes were dead.
They might almost have been amputated without causing her any pain.
Food was finally brought her by a male attendant, a short, thick-set, bull-headed individual, with the most brutal expressioned face of any that Helen had ever seen.
He released her arms, and then lifted her by the shoulders to a sitting posture on the bed.
Her hands were useless.
She could not raise them, could scarcely more than barely move her fingers.
The attendant laughed gleefully.
"Don't they feel bully, eh?" he said, as he noted Helen's face twitch with pain.
What anguish she presently suffered!
The tingling and burning as the blood began to flow back into her arms were something awful.
"Tige understands the 'biz' if any one ever did," said the bullet-headed attendant, laughing gayly. "But, I say, ain't yer hungry? 'Cos if yer ain't, there's no good of my stayin' here with this grub, which yer hain't touched these last ten minutes."
But, although he badgered Helen, he did not take his departure with the food.
He knew better than that.
Tige had ordered the food taken to Helen, and if she cared to eat it he dared not leave until she had done so.
The old hag wanted to do nothing as yet that could in any way injure Helen or disable her.
She made a point of doing with her patients exactly as was ordered by her customers, and Brown had as yet not told her what he wanted done with Helen.
Brown was expected when night had again fallen, and the hag's expectations were not amiss.
Brown came.
At once he was closeted with the hag.
"Come, Brown, spit out just what you want," Tige impatiently said, some minutes later. "I positively refuse to act on hints, so you might's well say plumply what you want."
Brown was thoughtful.
It was his usual style to make people take what he wanted for granted, as in the case of McGinnis.
This enabled him to lay back in his chair and say:
"I did not tell you to do anything of the kind. If you chose to put that interpretation on my words I can't help it. It wasn't my fault that you did."
He was a wily man.
But Tige was equally as wily.
Her safety lay in forcing her customers to commit themselves, and knowing that she would take no steps as regarded any patient without having received point-blank orders.
Brown was Helen's uncle.
Property of hers, which he had robbed her of, he managed to hold himself without question. But he dared not sell it or try to transfer it.
If Helen were insane, then it would be policy to prove her identity, be appointed her guardian, and then when she died, the court would decide that he was the legal heir, and confirm him in his title to the property.
It was this which he was now conning over in his mind.
"Well?" from Tige.
"The girl is insane?"
"Of course," with a curl of the lip.
"I should like to carry her before some big physicians, and have them certify to the fact."
"In other words, you want me to drive the girl to real insanity? Is that the plain English of it—yes or no?"
"Yes."
"And if it can't be done?"
"She must be put out of the way unless you can drive her mad," Brown said, in a low tone. "Fix your own price for the job; I only ask that you do it well."
This was the horrid compact that they entered into regarding Helen.
Poor Helen! poor—poor Helen!
With fiendish zest the hag set about her horrid work without loss of time.
That very night Helen was gagged to stifle her cries, and was securely bound to the bed, after which Tige amused herself by stripping the victim's feet, and then pulling the nails from her toes with a pincers.
And during the terrible ordeal, the sweat-drops of awful agony rolled down Helen's face, and she writhed and strained, but in vain, to burst the bonds which held her.
DISAPPOINTED AGAIN.
With ears wide open, and with an expression of intense interest, Shadow remained stretched in the narrow passage in the pile of old junk, listening to the words that fell from the lips of the villains gathered there in the office.
He was all expectancy.
He fully believed that one among the rascals could solve the mystery which he had so long been endeavoring to probe.
Would this particular fellow tell of this particular rascally exploit?
Shadow hoped so.
As time passed by, however, without one word being said, the mysterious detective began to grow impatient, since the particular thing about which he wished to learn was not mentioned.
However, he paid strict attention to the many stories of rascality which they told. The knowledge thus derived might be of use some time.
More than once the secret listener shuddered on hearing the tales that were told.
It seemed to him as if all the crimes that were ever committed could not sum up as large a total as these men boasted of having committed.
And, at the moment when his cheeks were paling over some horrid relation, he could hear the whole gang joining in a hearty laugh.
That they were able to laugh over descriptions of bloodshed and death was ample evidence of the manner of men they were, and Shadow more fully realized the peril which surrounded him so long as he should remain in the old sugar-house.
"That's the list of the things I've done, and never been nabbed yet," said one, as he finished a story of crime.
"You've heard all my exploits," said another.
"And mine."
"And mine."
Shadow sighed.
Not one word concerning that of which he wished to hear had been uttered.
He had waited expectantly—had hoped until the very last boastful tale had been told, but had hoped in vain.
And now the sigh that he gave utterance to was filled with disappointment.
His head sadly drooped, and he felt as if he hardly cared whether his presence was discovered or not. Repeated disappointments had taken away his courage for the time being.
It was now very late.
Morning was not so very far distant, and the villainous party broke up and left the place, to separate and depart for their various places of abode.
At last an intense silence rested over the place, and except the sentinel at the door and Cap in a distant corner, in a partitioned-off room, Shadow was alone in the big place.
Reckless, and disheartened, and discouraged as he had felt, he had been wise enough to remain so silent as not to betray himself.
Up to the present moment he had not stirred. But now he shifted his position a little to a more comfortable one, and became lost in thought.
He had been disappointed before—had been cast down, but had recovered both confidence and courage. Why could he not do so now?
So he asked himself.
Patience and perseverance never yet failed to meet with a proper reward, he told himself, and presently he began to brighten up—became more hopeful.
Was there any use in longer remaining here in the old sugar-house?
Clearly not, he thought.
Then to bid it farewell.
He backed down the passage until he reached the spot where Cap had so disarranged the "stuff" as to leave only an empty box between the passage and the open floor beyond.
After listening a minute, Shadow then softly shoved back the box, without making any noise, and next crawled out of his cramped quarters.
Before attempting to move away from the spot, he was sensible enough to wait until he had got some fresh breath, and had limbered himself up a little.
Perhaps five minutes later, he started toward the stairs that descended to the vaults below.
It was necessary to approach within a dozen or fifteen feet of the sentinel.
Knowing of the latter's presence, Shadow exercised great caution as he drew near him. Had the sentinel been wide-awake and bright, Shadow could hardly have made the passage undetected.
But the fellow was nodding in a state of half-slumber, and failed to hear the light-footed detective.
Shadow safely reached the head of the stairs, and commenced descending. The descent was safely accomplished, and once in the vault, all danger was passed.
On stepping forth into the streets, his first care was to visit a restaurant; and how he did eat.
"I say," remarked the waiter, after having received a third and a fourth order from Shadow, "I say," and his eyes were big as saucers in his surprise, "be you holler clean down to your heels?"
"I'm hungry, that's all."
"Hungry? Well, I should say so."
On receiving a fifth order from the detective, the waiter, before filling it, took the proprietor of the place into a consultation.
Shadow's grub bill was of a pretty good size, and from his appearance the waiter was in doubt as to whether he was good for the amount, let alone a greater one.
"Show your hand, young feller," remarked the waiter, on returning, before placing the ordered edibles before Shadow.
The latter understood, and a quiet smile began playing about his lips.
Placing his hand in his pocket he took out and ostentatiously laid down a five-dollar bill.
"Good enough!" grunted the waiter, setting down the plates. "Fill up the cavity. I guess I kin fetch the grub as fast as you kin stow it away."
With Shadow's departure from the restaurant we must drop him for a while. But we again introduce him, disguised as a mulatto, as he glided up to the writer of these lines, and, with extended hand, simply said:
"Shadow!"
Was this Shadow?
I could hardly believe my eyes.
Adept as I was myself in the arts of disguise, if this was the mysterious detective, he was able to equal if not even outdo my ability.
"Shadow!"
So he repeated, when I allowed a full minute to pass without having spoken a word.
"Are you Shadow?"
He made a disdainful gesture, and in an impatient tone repeated that one word.
"I want you to answer me a few questions," I said.
An instant later I could no longer doubt his identity. He raised his hand, and I saw him shake his index finger in that peculiar way, as I saw him do on the occasion of our first acquaintance, when I saw his shadow do the same thing. But there was a difference, since, on the present occasion, the finger was shaken at me.
Then he remained holding out his hand, and I could not but know what it was he wanted.
It was his share of the reward, which he had not yet claimed.
I found that to ask him any questions would only result in angering him, so I placed a roll of bills in his hands, which I had kept ready and waiting for him.
Without a word of thanks or farewell, he turned on his heel, and within the space of a minute had vanished from my sight.
Our meeting had occurred on a corner, before the doors of a liquor saloon. Several hard characters had watched us, and by aid of the lamp on the corner had seen that it was a roll of bills that I handed Shadow, although, of course, they knew neither of us.
Instantly they took a hasty departure by means of a back entrance, their object being to attack and rob the mysterious detective.
By means of an alley-way they headed him off, and lying in ambush, sprang out upon his approach, and flung themselves toward him.
HELEN'S TORTURE.
Bound so tightly that she could not rise—could not resist, Helen Dilt was put to the torture by the cruel hag, who had received orders to either drive her actually mad or kill her.
Helen at first had screamed.
A continuance of this was prevented by the hag, who gagged Helen most effectually.
Tige was a fiend.
A fiend!
The word has not sufficient meaning to describe what she really was.
If Satan ever quits his sulphurous house to take up his residence in a particular human being, he certainly was residing then in the earthly form of the terrible woman who presided over that private mad-house, and was the arbiter of the fates of so many beings who were helpless in her vile clutches.
And torture!
And the sight of human agony!
She loved them.
She loved to hear the shrieks of agony that she wrung from her victims. As prudence made it necessary to still these sounds by gags, the fiendish woman refined her cruelties the more, that the loss of this horrid music might be compensated for by the greater writhings of her victims.
Regarding Helen, her instructions were as plain as they were fiendish!
"Drive her mad or kill her!"
In few cases was she allowed so broad a latitude of action, and she proceeded to Helen's torture with the same zest that a gourmand exhibits when he sits down before a table that groans beneath the weight of some particular thing which he loves to exercise his teeth upon.
Helen was fastened to the bed securely, and, as we have said, was gagged.
And then, as stated in a previous chapter, Tige amused herself by taking a pincers and dragging out the nails of Helen's toes.
Kind Heaven, what agony that is!
It is terrible!
Terrible! Yes, and awful and horrible as well!
How Helen suffered!
How she strained—but in vain—to burst the bonds which held her!
How Tige chuckled!
How she gloated!
How she made Helen writhe and moan!
The dewdrops of agony were not long in making their appearance on the victim's forehead—great, large drops, which rolled off and down her face to make room for others.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Tige, showing her teeth like a snarling dog; "oh-ho! don't I love this! Groan and moan and twist and squirm; it is all a feast to me."
And Helen suffered so much that she would have hailed death as a welcome release.
Aye, she even prayed that she might die.
She had nothing to hope for; rescue she thought impossible, or it would have been accomplished before this. To die would be the easiest way for her.
"There, how did that feel?"
Tige asked the question with a chuckle, as she ripped another nail out of the living flesh.
Feel!
Helen was writhing in anguish.
She made one more effort to burst her bonds.
She strained until the veins were swollen out on her face and neck like whipcords, and seemed on the point of bursting.
But the work of tying her had been too well done, and she finally fell back in a state of utter exhaustion, with moan after moan coming in a sort of ripple.
"What!" exclaimed the fiendish hag; "make such a fuss about a little one like that, which came out so easily? Why, I should have considered that one a pleasure. Just wait until I get hold of the big one. Ha, ha! that's where the fun comes in. You see, it's more deeply rooted, and I've seen some I wasn't strong enough to pull until I rigged up a sort of tackle I have for the purpose."
Helen shuddered.
And well she might.
Poor girl!
It was monstrous that the law should permit the existence of such places—such private mad-houses—where such infernal wickedness can be enacted.
Tige was grinning like a hyena.
She made one or two feints of pursuing her hideous work, and then halted to gloat over the shudder which each time thrilled her victim's frame.
At last she fastened the pincers on the nail of one of Helen's great toes.
She gave a strong twitch.
Helen groaned.
The human hyena gave a stronger pull.
Helen lifted herself to the limit her bonds permitted, and flung herself against the ropes, which would not break, but held her with cruel rigor.
Again Tige pulled.
And this time pulled direct, and with an amount of strength which could not have dwelt in a less sinewy frame than hers.
Then she twisted the pincers.
Had she been free from her gag, Helen must have shrieked so loudly that she would have been heard for blocks around.
Again Tige pulled direct.
She meanwhile kept watch of Helen's face.
Her victim could stand no more.
This Tige saw.
"Now!" she hissed.
Then, exerting her strength, she threw it all into that one motion, and—— As the nail was dragged out by the roots, Helen uttered one long, quivering moan, and then laid there pallid and motionless.
One would have thought her dead.
But Tige's experience told her different.
She knew that Helen had only fainted.
And she knew, also, that the suffering she had endured would produce a nervous shock from which Helen might never recover.
Tige made no attempt to release Helen from her bonds.
She merely loosened the gag a little, that she might breathe easier.
Then flinging a pail of water over her victim, as she might have flung a worthless bone to a cur, Tige took her departure, allowing Helen to return to consciousness or die, she did not much care which.
But she did not forget to take with her the nails she had extracted.
Reaching the door of her own room, secured by a number of strong and elaborately made locks, she paused to unlock it, and then entered.
At one side of the room was a bed, in the center a table, in one recess a sofa, which, in addition to a few chairs, made up the furniture of the room, save a small glass-front cabinet that was attached to the wall.
The door of this she unlocked.
Glancing in, she gave vent to a chuckle that was perfectly horrid.
What was it—perhaps you ask—that produced this chuckle on Tige's part?
Nothing more nor less than a few score of human toe-nails, dragged out by the roots as Helen's had been.
They were the horrible mementoes that drew back to her memory those whom she had tortured in days gone by.
And to this collection she now had an addition to make, an addition furnished at the expense of a poor girl who had never wronged a person in the world, who had never made herself an enemy, but who simply stood in an evil man's way to a fortune.
Helen did not die.
No, she lived, ardently as she prayed that she might not.
And of a strength of character that is unusual in a woman, she did not suffer as great a nervous shock as Tige had anticipated.
"I guess it'll have to be 'kill her!'" the hyena-like woman muttered to herself. "But I'll not do that until I've had a little more fun with her."
Fun!
If fun it was to her, she had plenty of it. But to her victim it was something far—far different!
PUZZLED.
Several days after meeting Shadow in his disguise of a mulatto, I was the recipient of a letter which puzzled me not a little.
The text was simple enough.
The letter read:
"Mr. Howard.—Herewith I return you the money you so kindly loaned me on an occasion that was filled with sadness for me. You will remember the occasion to which I refer—when Tom Smith was killed, and you so generously provided me with the means of interring him in mother earth."That I am deeply grateful you may rest assured, and perhaps at some future time I may be able to testify to the depth of my gratitude."Accept my thanks with the money I return, a kind of interest on the loan, which I am satisfied you will best like."Yours gratefully,"Nellie Millbank."
"Mr. Howard.—Herewith I return you the money you so kindly loaned me on an occasion that was filled with sadness for me. You will remember the occasion to which I refer—when Tom Smith was killed, and you so generously provided me with the means of interring him in mother earth.
"That I am deeply grateful you may rest assured, and perhaps at some future time I may be able to testify to the depth of my gratitude.
"Accept my thanks with the money I return, a kind of interest on the loan, which I am satisfied you will best like.
"Yours gratefully,
"Nellie Millbank."
A very nicely worded and straightforward letter. Don't you think so?
Of course you do.
Then, why was I puzzled?
Simply because when I received the letter, and before opening it, I said as I glanced at the penmanship of the address:
"Another letter from Shadow," and then, on opening it, found that it was not.
I had preserved Shadow's letters or notes, and these I now brought out and compared with this epistle from Nellie Millbank.
The penmanship was "as like as two peas."
Now, then, if you have read the foregoing chapters with any interest, you can see why I was puzzled.
Was Nellie Millbank the mysterious little detective?
As I said, provided your interest has been deep enough, you know that I had strong reasons, and many of them, for supposing Shadow to be none other than young Mat Morris.
Let us recount some reasons.
I had taxed Shadow with being Mat Morris, and he had not denied it.
Then, I had paid Shadow five hundred dollars, and had afterwards seen the very bills themselves in the hands of Mat's mother.
This last circumstance was of itself strong evidence that Mat and Shadow were one and the same person.
Then there was the manner Shadow had of carrying himself—Mat Morris' style exactly.
A person's manner of bearing himself, and his mode of walking, and the use of his hands and head when speaking, are things that no disguise can hide.
Knowing this, I had been ready to almost take an oath as to the true identity of Shadow.
Yet here comes a letter that completely upsets all my faith in my powers of penetration.
If the writing of Nellie Millbank and of Shadow was the same, then Mat evidently was not Shadow. And if Mat was not Shadow, who was?
Nellie Millbank?
It was barely possible.
That slip of a girl do what I knew Shadow was capable of doing, as well as what he had done?
It was not to be credited.
And yet—the similarity of the handwriting. How was that to be accounted for?
I thought of Mrs. Morris.
I intended to go and show her one of the Shadow letters, and inquire if she knew the writing.
When I arrived at the house where Mrs. Morris lived, it was to learn that she had moved away early that morning.
Where to, nobody knew.
Balked in this direction, I turned my steps toward the house of the deputy sheriff, in a cell beneath whose house, it will be remembered, I had in confinement Dick Stanton, the false detective.
No sooner did the treacherous detective see me than he began whining like a whipped cur, and begged like a dog to be let go, or be dealt with mercifully.
If I would only release him, he said, he would "give away" his pals of the sugar-house, besides putting into my hands numbers of clews in connection with various crimes.
"And they won't be false scents," he said earnestly. "I'll deal square with you, Howard, I swear I will. It will get promotion for you, sure, if you bag the game I can put you on the track of."
I had, however, paid him a visit for a particular purpose, and evading all his questions and turning a deaf ear to his entreaties, I told him I wanted to know if the prisoner who had been confined in the black hole was male or female.
He looked at me in surprise.
"Male or female?" he said.
"Yes."
"Male, of course."
"You are sure of it?"
"Sure of it? Why, he was a man just as much as you are a man, or I am one."
"Youare not a man—except in name," I rejoined (and the words made him wince) "so do not bring yourself into the comparison."
I made him give me a close description of the prisoner who had been confined in the black hole, and after listening to it, I could have no manner of doubt that the person was other than Mat Morris.
"And," volunteered Stanton, "moreover, he was a surly sort of a customer. We couldn't get a word out of him."
This tallied with Shadow.
I left Stanton still ironed, despite his prayers to at least have the handcuffs taken off.
"You deserve all the punishment you are enduring," I bitingly told him.
I no longer doubted that Mat Morris and the mysterious detective were one and the same person. All the evidence pointed toward that conclusion.
It was a stickler.
I dropped in to see a writing expert, and after examining them, he said that the two specimens might or might not be written by the same person.
"It is penmanship as taught in our public schools," he said. "Pupils are drilled into a set way of forming their letters, as a consequence of which there is a great similarity in writing until the persons have been for years out of school."
That settled it.
The similarity was one caused by education, and I was more than ever convinced of Mat and Shadow being one individual.
I went home in a thoughtful mood.
There I found a letter awaiting me from the chief, asking why I had not reported in a certain matter which had been placed in my hands.
I felt conscience-stricken.
In my great interest in what concerned Shadow I had neglected my duty, to which the last few hours should have been devoted, instead of to an endeavor to find out whether Shadow was Mat Morris, or Nellie Millbank, or somebody else.
Immediately I donned the disguise in which I had acted a part, and wound my way into the confidence of Woglom and his companion, by means of which I had learned of the prisoner in the black hole.
At once I started out.
In their usual place of resort I, that evening, encountered the precious pair of rascals.
They were rather shy of me at first, not liking my sudden and unaccounted-for absence, but an off-hand manner and a few drinks fixed matters all right.
After that they seemed to take to me amazingly, and I noticed them glancing first at me and then at each other with an askance expression.
I knew that something was afoot, and patiently waited to hear what it was.
After awhile they withdrew to a little distance and began to earnestly converse, concerning me, I was quite positive.
Such indeed was the truth.
They were discussing the advisability of taking me into their confidence, and making me a party in a villainous scheme that was already hatched.
"Want to go into a big job with us?" Woglom asked me, on their resuming their seats.
"Certainly, if there's enough 'swag' to pay for the trouble," I replied. "What is the line?"
My answer satisfied them, and they unfolded their scheme. It was a scheme into which I entered for a purpose; they were to put it into execution that night, and I accompanied them—accompanied them into as great a peril as ever threatened my life.
I shudder, even now, when I think of that night.
IN DEADLY PERIL.
Never shall I forget the adventures of the night when I accompanied Woglom and his pal on that expedition.
I have been in many ticklish places, but I never got into one where I was worse stumped than I was that night.
The circumstances were very peculiar, and the knowledge that at any moment I might be——
But, perhaps, it would be more intelligible to the reader, did I begin at the beginning and narrate the incidents of that escapade.
While the pair of precious villains pretended to have taken me fully into their confidence, they had not really done so.
They were going to break into a house.
This much was truth.
But, as I understood them, the house was in the suburbs—somewhere in the neighborhood of Fort Washington, I took it.
It was because I believed that vicinity contained the intended scene of robbery, that I so readily consented to accompany them.
I would probably be left outside to keep guard, and would take advantage of the circumstance to call the police, and be on hand to bag them when they came out with their plunder.
It was not until after we had got started that I was undeceived.
I then learned that the "suburbs," as they meant it, was in New Jersey, on the line of the Central Railroad.
A train left near midnight.
This was the train we were to take, to reach which we were compelled to somewhat hasten our pace.
I was puzzled to know what to do.
I might have called for assistance on the policemen we passed, and have taken them into custody.
But this would have been worse than useless under the circumstances.
The rascals could not be held and punished because it could not be proved that they hadintendedcommitting a robbery.
Men cannot be sent to prison for intention of wrong. They must be proved to have committed the wrong.
Should I back out of accompanying them?
So I asked myself.
While still in a state of uncertainty we reached the ferry.
"I will go along," I mentally decided. "I may be able to give an alarm and collar them there as well as if it had taken place here."
And so I went.
We reached the little town after a short ride in the cars, a little town which I shall not name, but which is noted for its handsome residences, and its wealthy people.
While on a tramp through the country Woglom had applied at the house for something to eat.
He was provided with food, and asked if he did not wish to work. He said "Yes." He was put to work cleaning out the cellar of the house.
Such an opportunity was not to be thrown aside.
He made a diagram of the interior of the house, and located its rooms and the furniture in them with an accuracy that comes only by practice.
This was the house that we were on the way to "crack" that night.
We reached it.
Passing by, we paused at a little distance to hold a consultation.
The house was all dark and silent, the sky was somewhat clouded, and everything seemed favorable for our undertaking.
I was given a bottle of chloroform, and on my pleading ignorance, was instructed how to use it.
There was no need here of any one remaining outside to watch.
We were all to enter.
When Woglom was in the house, he had made use of a "crooked" man's never-absent companion, a screw-driver.
With this he had loosened the screws of the iron buttons which secured the cellar windows, which were then left so poorly secured that a slight push would be sufficient to open them.
Consulting his diagram by the light of a match, Woglom located the particular window which he considered it most advisable to attack.
With soft steps we crept around the house, keeping close to it.
We reached the window.
Woglom went down on his knees before it.
Listening a minute, and finding everything continued quiet, the master-villain applied a gentle pressure to the window.
It did not give.
He pressed harder.
Still it remained firmly secured.
Harder still he pressed.
Then I heard him utter an oath.
By some manner, or by accident, the inmates had discovered that the windows had been tampered with, and had re-fastened the buttons.
Again we consulted, having withdrawn for that purpose.
It was Woglom's opinion, that while the looseness of the buttons had been noticed, the inhabitants of the house would hardly be likely to suppose it a piece of work preparatory to a robbery.
"Shall we go ahead then?" I asked.
"Yes," was the decision.
Back to the house we went.
Again we paused at the window.
From his pockets Woglom now produced a number of implements.
Against the window pane he pressed a bit of a sticky substance resembling putty, and then sunk the head of a tool he did not wish to use in the stuff.
This done, he made use of a glazier's point.
He made a circular cut on the pane, the putty forming the central point or axis.
Now he tapped gently on the cut glass with an iron chisel, whose head was covered by a piece of felt cloth to deaden the sound.
Presently the cut portion gave way.
Now the use of the putty became apparent. It was to prevent the cut-out part of the glass from falling and shattering on the floor inside.
The ingenuity, the great care, the art with which burglars work is a revelation to those who have no knowledge of the methods by which such startling robberies are made possible.
The circular piece of glass was brought to the outside and laid carefully down.
Through the aperture thus formed a hand could be inserted, and the buttons turned about, when the window could be easily opened, permitting ingress to the cellar.
Once this was gained, little or no trouble would be experienced in reaching the upper portions of the house.
Woglom inserted his hand.
He reached the button at one side and turned it.
He then reached out for the other button, and—a wild howl gave me an awful start.
Woglom had uttered it.
Following close upon its heels came a string of horrible oaths.
"What's up—what's wrong?"
"My hand is caught in some sort of a contrivance!" moaned or groaned Woglom. "Quick—the hole is big enough—try and get my hand loose."
His pal inserted his hand.
Now was my time to capture them!
I drew my revolver, and had taken a forward stop, when——
Bang!
Almost beneath my feet a spring gun was discharged, and I could hear the big buckshot—each one a young bullet—buzzing about my ears, like a swarm of hungry flies on a hot summer's day.
I paused.
A window went up.
A head appeared and a stern voice said:
"Aha! I've got you now, you rascals;" and I saw the muzzle of a gun appear. "Stay where you are if you value your lives! A dozen spring guns are concealed just there, and a single step may discharge them all."
Heaven!
The cold sweat started from every pore of my body.
Spring guns!
What infernal things they are, anyhow.
I trembled. Yes, I own up to it—I trembled. And so, I think, any man would who was made of flesh and blood.
It was an awful feeling, to know that a mine was concealed right beneath your feet, which the slightest move might cause to explode.
Did I stand still?
Well—I think I did. I was rooted to the spot, and with horror watched Woglom's struggles to free himself, for I feared that his movements would cause the dreaded explosion.
STILL SEARCHING.
All possibility of Shadow being Nellie Millbank would have been driven from my mind had I been where I could see him after parting with him on the night when I gave him the money.
Seen to receive a roll of bills by a party of rascals, they had made use of an alley-way to head him off, and then suddenly sprang on him from an ambush.
The possibility alluded to would have been killed by the coolness of Shadow's demeanor, by his quick-witted promptness taking his measures to disconcert the villains, by the exhibition of courage displayed by him.
The whole thing could never be a part of a woman's character.
Only a man, and not an ordinary man at that, could have acted as Shadow did under those trying circumstances.
He showed no disconcertion whatever when so suddenly attacked.
Agile as a cat in every movement, he gave a backward spring the moment they broke cover.
Before they could reach him, his hand had clasped the butt of his revolver.
The next second it was out.
They had then reached him—had him hemmed in, but he forced a passage by grimly pointing his revolver at the head of one of them.
He uttered not a word.
He did not forget himself, nor cease to maintain that singular silence which he seemed to have forced upon himself.
Perhaps his silence added to the effect of his threatening movements, but at any rate the villainous quartette shrank away from him, feeling they had caught a Tartar.
Shadow never lost his composure.
Keeping his face to them, he slowly backed away from them.
They followed him up, chagrined, yet resolute, wishing to retrieve their mistake.
One or two swift glances Shadow threw behind him, then changed the line of his retreat, at last fetching up in a doorway.
With his back planted against the door, the villains could only attack him from the front, and this—well, Shadow smiled. He gauged their temper and courage to a T.
Fire-arms are tools too noisy for such fellows, and they were armed with knives. To make these effective it was necessary to get within arm's length.
But to do this in the face of Shadow's revolver was a task they had little relish to attempt.
Silent as the grave itself, and grim as a man of stone, Shadow kept his revolver raised, his finger on the trigger, ready to defend himself.
Nearer came the villains.
Shadow made no movement until they were within a half-dozen feet of him, and then he slightly waved his deadly weapon to warn them away.
They paused.
Glaring at him, they cursed under their breaths.
To be balked was bad enough.
But to be balked in this off-hand, cool, easy manner, was far worse.
But what could they do?
They could not fail to see and understand that a revolver was aimed at them with deadly intent.
They well knew that a bullet is a messenger which travels rapidly, and if the mulatto's aim was as true as his arm was steady, to attempt to rush on him would be the death-signal of at least one of their number.
This fact was evident.
And they hung back in an undecided state of mind.
Shadow laughed quietly.
He had the advantage—had turned the tables, and was aware of it.
He now assumed the aggressive, and took a step toward them, menacing them with the loaded and cocked weapon.
They retreated.
Finally one uttered a few low, hoarse-toned words, and then they took to their heels, Shadow after them.
Around the corner they dashed, but the detective kept them in sight until they disappeared into the alley-way which they had used to head him off. It was a singular incident, and would have appeared so to any one who could have been there to witness it. Nor was it any the less thrilling that it was so quiet.
During the whole affair, from beginning to end, Shadow had uttered no word, but had preserved that mysterious silence in which he had wrapped himself, for causing him to break which on a certain occasion he had poured out on my head the vials of his wrath.
He had conquered four desperate men, had done it in as calm a manner as he would have eaten his dinner.
Verily, he was a mysterious being.
In thinking of him afterward, it seemed to me as if his path and mine were always crossing, for it was due to him that Woglom and his pal and myself were placed in our horrible fix.
The gentleman who lived in this place had been visited one evening by a mulatto.
"A mulatto—a negro?" he said, when the girl told him that such a person wished to see him. "What does he want?"
"I don't know, sir. He jist showed me a bit of paper wid 'I want to see the master of the house' on it."
"Take him into the library."
As the reader will readily suppose, the mulatto was Shadow.
It will be remembered that Woglom and his pal were connected with the sugar-house gang.
Woglom was "down on his luck" so badly as to have been obliged to dispose of his burglarious implements. He had visited Cap to be supplied with some tools.
Cap demanded to know what Woglom was going to do with them, and what were the chances of his success, before lending him what he wanted—for a good round consideration.
Thus, while in concealment in the passage under the junk pile, Shadow had learned the particulars of this "job."
"You wished to see me?" said the master of the house, as he entered the library, where Shadow had been shown.
The detective bowed, pointed to the open desk, then took paper and pencil and wrote:
"A plan has been formed to rob your house."
Reading this, the gentleman gave a start of surprise, then looked more closely at Shadow.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"A detective," Shadow replied, in writing.
In terms as brief as possible he outlined the case, spoke of the tramp they had given food and a day's work to, and told him he would find that the fastenings of the cellar windows had been tampered with.
Having warned the gentleman, Shadow retired, refusing either pay or refreshment tendered him.
At once the owner of the house had prepared his trap and the spring guns, while Shadow went back to the city to continue the discouraging search for a criminal to whose identity he had only the faintest possible clew.
Like a very shadow he was, as he silently stole hither and thither, and glided in and out of the haunts of vice, searching for the man who had done him a great wrong and had aroused his enmity.
And then, ere night, his lips involuntarily parted, and the long silence was unconsciously broken, as he fervently exclaimed:
"Thank Heaven!"
His keen gaze rested on a man whom he felt an inward conviction was the individual whom he had for so long in vain endeavored to discover. And, with eyes beginning to flame, the mysterious detective gradually drew nearer to the individual, while one hand rested on his revolver.
Was the hour of his vengeance at hand?