CHAPTER IX
When Dennis retired for the night at The Stag, his transit from his room, which had never seemed so contracted as now, to the Land of Nod was somewhat delayed by reason of the exhilarating conditions through which he had just passed.
Toward midnight, however, his pulse had resumed its normal, and the young man, reaching his drowsy destination at last, began a series of the most surprising horticultural experiments until, what with orchids as big as a barrel, and geraniums which could be reached only by a ladder, he had converted the silvery strand of the dreamful domain into a forest of atrocious color and floral monstrosity.
Awakening on the succeeding morning, Dennis, accepting the sense of general lassitude which oppressed him as an indication ofthe arduous nature of his efforts in his dreams, began to prepare for the activities of the day.
On this occasion he was compelled to attire himself in the shirt which he had worn on the occasion of his visit the evening before, since his remaining bosoms, along with his heart, were in the possession of the beautiful widow.
But the extravagance of such indulgence did not alarm him now.
Under the circumstances, what did a shirt more or less matter?
Was he not about to be admitted into paradise and receive twenty dollars per week besides?
“Shirt, ha!” he exclaimed with a touch of Celtic wit; “it’s a robe of white I want.” However, he compromised on a new necktie, and almost ventured the length of patent leathers.
Stimulated by the prospect of all this beatitude, Dennis proceeded to the dining-room and revived the spirit of the discouraged waiter by ordering a liberal breakfast.
At the conclusion of the meal he further celebrated his disposition to mortgage providence by the bestowal of a gratuity moderate enoughto renew the waiter’s original unflattering estimation.
Had his father witnessed this imprudence he would have been prepared to believe that Dennis was under the influence of a danseuse, and the proportions of the breakfast could only have indicated a determination to commit suicide by repletion.
On his way to the street Dennis paused to inform the barman of his intended departure.
As an indication of his sentiments at this announcement, the barman, who was engaged in the mixture of a mysterious decoction, said, as he poured an amber-colored fluid into the glass: “This wan is fur grief at the goin’, an’ this wan”—pouring from another bottle—“is fur good luck when ye git there,” and he pushed the mixture toward Dennis.
But the young Irishman, remembering his recent experience, declined with thanks.
“No?” queried the barman. “Well, an’ that’s not a bad idea at all. It’s the right sthart fur a bad day an’ a bad sthart fur a right wan. ’Tis th’ divil’s own way av showin’ wan’s sintimints.” Then, reaching for theglass, he added: “I’ll do th’ honors fur th’ two av us”; and with the singular tendency, so often noted under such circumstances, to swallow with haste that which it required such trouble to prepare, the barman bolted the contents of the glass and looked his appreciation through moist eyes.
As Dennis neared the establishment of his employer, he recalled his obligation.
He must begin the day by informing the foreman of his changed intentions.
He disliked the idea of the possible friction involved in the performance of this disagreeable duty, but there seemed to be no other way out of the dilemma.
His announcement, however, was to be less embarrassing than he anticipated.
His providence was about to take a short nap.
As he approached the foreman, he discovered that individual, several degrees less breezy than usual, engaged in an animated conversation with a young man whose prevailing expression was so penitential that Dennis, withprompt Celtic intuition, decided that he was gazing upon his predecessor in office.
He was assured of this by the glance of belligerent appraisement with which the young fellow surveyed him from head to foot, in response to some suggestive indication from the foreman.
He seemed, to the apprehensive eyes of Dennis, to be calculating his chances in the event of a physical contest.
And this recalled what the foreman had said about his biceps.
“You want to see me?” queried the latter with an expression in which the sunshine seemed overdue.
“Yes,” answered Dennis as his employer stepped aside to hear what he had to say.
As Dennis proceeded the look of perplexity which he had noted upon the face of his listener seemed to give way to one of unmistakable relief, and when Dennis had stated his case he exclaimed: “Shure, now, it’s an aisy way out av a bad muss, so it is. Here, Phil!” he shouted, turning to the young fellow in the background, who had witnessed this briefinterview with scowling interest, “here, you two can t’row th’ gloves down an’ shake; Muldoon here wants to hand yure job back to ye.”
At this announcement, the disfavor in the countenance of the other disappeared and was replaced by an expression which indicated that he regarded such liberality as something in the nature of a freak.
Some evidences of his debauch still clung to him.
His eyes were moist and heavy-lidded; his lips dry and tremulous, and the hand which he extended to Dennis shook somewhat.
“Come, now!” exclaimed the foreman, “that’s well over”; and addressing the one he called Phil he added: “Now get to work.”
Dennis looked his astonishment.
He had not calculated upon such a prompt acceptance of his resignation. He felt that he presented an absurd appearance, and that the foreman did not appear to his usual bluff advantage.
“Come this way,” said the latter to Dennis, who followed him into his office with a strange sinking at heart.
“I did not mean to hand over everything right off!” exclaimed Dennis.
“Well,” replied the foreman, “Phil’s wife came here early this mornin’ an’ put up a few tears, an’ Phil made all sorts av promises; an’ you have no children an’ he has, an—oh, the divil!” cried the foreman, weary of the series of explanations in which he was getting involved. “I can’t kape th’ two av ye, an’ Phil there is an ould hand at th’ paint-pot.”
“Then,” cried Dennis, “you mean that I must leave at once?”
“That’s about th’ size of it.”
“Why,” exclaimed Dennis, indignant at this injustice, “I tried to be fair with you, and you haven’t——”
“Here,” interrupted the foreman, in evident haste to conclude a disagreeable interview; “there’s no use talking about it, it’s got to be done”; and turning to a drawer in the desk he extracted Monday’s pay and placed it in the young man’s hand.
At that moment a burly porter filled up the doorway.
“What is it?” asked the foreman, glad ofthe interruption, as he hastened, with unnecessary and suspicious promptness, to attend to the wants of the intruder.
In a little while Dennis realized that he waited in vain for the return of the foreman, and that, in so far as he was concerned, he was out of a job.
Dennis had been, at various times in his life, subjected to some rugged experiences, but could not recall any treatment quite so heartless as this.
It upset all his calculations.
He must exist somehow between the unhappy realities of the present and the blissful expectations of the approaching Monday.
He recalled, with the self-accusation of a repentant prodigal, his needlessly elaborate breakfast, the extravagance of the necktie.
His return led him past the cheap amusement district of the Bowery.
Never had their tawdry invitations seemed so alluring.
By that singular perversity which opens up every suggestion of riotous expenditure to destitution,the poor fellow felt inclined to indulge himself regardless.
An obese nymph pictured in the foam of a beer sign, apparently elaborated with a whitewash brush and finished in the throes of an epileptic fit, solicited a share of his patronage.
Long rows of slot machines offered all sorts of libidinous suggestions in placards, which proposed to debauch his morals for a penny a sight.
And with absurd propriety a vender of shoddy jewels presented the chance of his lifetime in bizarre decoration.
But somehow Dennis reached Broadway at last, and faced the unpleasant prospect of the next few days with despairing calculation.
As Dennis looked up and down this busy thoroughfare, with its thousands speeding oppositely in preoccupied interest, as if all that was vital and worthy was to be found at either extreme of its splendid distances, he paused for a moment to account his meager finances.
He found that he possessed just four one-dollar bills and about eighty cents in small change.
Since he was compelled to pay a half dollar each night in advance for his lodgings, a little over two dollars would remain to him.
With rigid economy and almost miserly abstemiousness this sum would suffice for his meals, unless he developed a mania for Delmonico’s, and for his carfare, provided he did not venture outside the possibilities of the elevated.
As he was about to return his resources to his pocket there was a rattle and clamor up the street, and looking in that direction he beheld a glittering engine, drawn by a splendid team of white horses, speed along with plunging dash and portent rumble.
Along the sidewalk directly in his rear the usual mob of men and boys who have nothing more to do apparently than to attend fires and scramble with a morbid curiosity to behold the misery of some victim of accident, ran in scuffling uproar.
With a pathetic realization of his own idleness, Dennis turned to join the speeding throng, when suddenly he became aware of a desperate clutch at his hand, heard the rattleof scattering change at his feet, and felt the bills which he held slip away from his grasp and disappear in the rush.
It was over in a second. Apparently no one noticed him or his loss. He was as abandoned as the unfortunate marooned by rushing waters; as unheeded as a lame lamb in the multitude of the flock.
Not a head turned, and by the time he realized precisely what had happened and prepared to give chase to the thief, a score of other men and boys formed an unconscious barricade between the unfortunate boy and the rogue.
His suddenly created interest in the fire vanished and was replaced by the despair of his own disaster.
The nap of his providence was developing into a sound slumber, and since this deity never gets up before noon Dennis had still two hours of despair before him.
And what despair!
Of his pitiful hoard of a few moments since only a few dimes and nickels remained.
And just across the street was the Third National Bank with barrels of them.
The whimsies of the contrast almost amused him; but there was not enough of the Tapley about him to detect its humor.
Again he counted his resources.
Fifty-eight cents!
He could lodge to-night, at any rate, and dine on one of those sidewalk pretzels.
“The darkest hour is just before the dawn.” Dennis tried to cheer himself with this reflection, but the only dawn upon which he could calculate was five days off.
In vain the poor fellow adjured his brains for some homely suggestion, some meager inspiration.
Nothing responded but his destitution, like the echo of a groan; and through such mental straits he arrived, at last, at The Stag.
He decided that he would do nothing radical until the following day.
He could afford a night’s rest, at least, and that might revive his numbed faculties.
As he reached the office he glanced at the proprietor.
Could he persuade that cynical-visaged individual to trust him until he received his first week’s pay?
Would he be credited if he related his prospects?
As a measure in this assurance, would not the proprietor feel justified in calling upon the widow for indorsement of the statement of the young man?
This would never do.
He could not endure the humiliation of such a revelation.
The poor fellow got little encouragement from the face of the proprietor.
This was suspicious and hard. It had scarcely the perfunctory smile of the professional boniface.
The prospect of having to address that forbidding ensemble was disheartening.
Suddenly his reflections were interrupted.
The proprietor waved a beckoning hand to him.
Dennis hurried to the desk.
“A letter for you,” said the proprietor, as he placed in the young man’s hand an envelopeaddressed in a handwriting which he recognized at once.
“‘Dennis Muldoon’; yes, that’s mine,” and hastening to an unoccupied seat in a remote portion of the office, Dennis hastily opened the envelope and withdrew a short letter, and—ye gods! was it possible?—a postal order for twenty-five dollars.
Philadelphia.
Dear Dennis:
It’s a hard row you have to hoe, I’m a-think-in’, and it’s a bad spot you have to hoe it in. I know New York of old, and it’s a lonesome place for a poor lad.
I send you the week’s wages due you, and an extry five to come back with in case your dreams don’t come true.
I’ve got over my mad, my boy, and I’ll be glad to see you.
Run over annyhow; it’s a dull place without you. The mother misses you bad.
Come Saturday if you can; I’ve got a business proposition I want to make.
Tell me how you’re getting on, annyway.
The Old Man.
“Oh, ho!” cried Dennis. His providence was wide awake now, had made its toilet, and was ready for business.
For a long while Dennis sat with the letter in his hand, gazing, with unseeing eyes, upon its eccentric chirography.
His exultation had not fully materialized.
To grope in the valley of despair one moment and skip along the summit of beatitude the next was a little too much for immediate comprehension.
Somewhat in the manner of the metaphysician, he was inclined to believe, since his misfortune was no longer a reality, that his prosperity might be equally immaterial, and in unaware corroboration he made a minute tear in the edge of the postal order to establish its tangibility.
In the evening, influenced perhaps by his comparative weal, Dennis decided that he would purchase a ticket to the Olympus, and climbing the rear approach to that elevation, found himself seated shortly with the gallery gods, viewing with uncritical contrasts the relativemerits of the clown, the harlequin and the columbine.
Between the acts his roving glance found a sudden destination and his elation went into abrupt decline, for seated in one of the boxes, her glass surveying the house in all sorts of disconcerting directions, sat the beautiful widow.
Instinctively Dennis crouched into his seat.
Fortunately he was able by thus collapsing within himself, to escape the radius of her vision, which was interrupted by the railing extending around the balcony.
It would never do to be discovered in his present situation. The elevation was degrading, and Dennis understood the unhappy paradox.
It emphasized the social distinctions too much, and caused the distance from where he sat to the placid beauty below to appear immeasurable.
But this was not the least of his perturbations.
Near the widow a gentleman sat, solicitous, engaging, persistent.
A certain air of distinction rendered doubly obnoxious the assumption of proprietorship which Dennis believed he remarked, and while the young man was able to comfort himself with the discovery that his bewitching companion devoted more attention to the stage and the house than to her escort, still, as Dennis contemplated the faultless attire of the gentleman in the box and contrasted it with his own modest apparel, he felt unaccountably depressed.
All this was revealed by the furtive glances which the young Irishman ventured over the gallery rail.
A strange foreboding overwhelmed him.
The bewildering tinsel of the stage no longer diverted, and he would have been astonished to analyze the reason why.
As the last curtain fell and Dennis was no longer able to adjust his gloomy contemplation to incongruous orchestration, he hastened from the theater, scrambled down the precipitate stairs and hastened to The Stag.
It was midnight before he slept, and scarcely morning when he awoke.
He dressed himself like an automaton, and breakfasted like an anchorite.
He left the hotel without his personal knowledge, and traversed half the length of Broadway without volition. His mind was making the visit in advance of the appointed time, and his torpid body alone observed the social usages.
By noon the patent leathers were a reality; by six-thirty he had assumed a clean shirt and his new necktie.
When the clock struck seven he hastened to the elevated; a half hour later found him parading the street opposite the conservatory, and at eight he arrived with a promptness which, persistently observed, commends a young man to a junior partnership.
When the widow finally presented herself, Dennis was more than ever convinced, by the richness of her attire, that the business must be in a flourishing condition.
For some unknown reason the beautiful woman was dressed entirely in black with the exception of some exquisite traceries in white about her throat and wrists.
Had his life depended upon it Dennis could never have described the fabric of her gown.
He only knew that it was distinguished by a sort of subdued sheen; that it rustled with an entrancing swish and suggestion of femininity as she moved, and that it was adjusted to her shapely figure as though her delightful personality had been moulded into it.
A slim wonder of a white hand was extended to him, a bright smile illumed her bewildering eyes and bent the Cupid bow of her lips into a curve which sent an intangible arrow into the young man’s heart as she said with musical simplicity:
“I am glad to see you.”
To this Dennis made no direct reply.
His eyes gleamed their idealized eloquence, however; his attitude presented unmistakable shades of deference, and to save himself further revelation he collapsed into the chair indicated by his hostess.
Apparently the widow extracted the same enjoyment from these ingenuous acknowledgments as ever, for she did not immediately resume the conversation.
Fortunately, Dennis assembled himself, so to speak, and realized his psychological moment.
“Shure,” he said as he became aware of his involuntary self-revelations, “’shure, an’ you would know that I am glad to see you if I was deaf and dumb.”
The widow laughed heartily at this, as she replied:
“I’m afraid that you have kissed the blarney stone, Mr. Muldoon.”
Having no response for this, Dennis substituted: “I saw you at the theater last night,” and a palpable degree of joy left his countenance at the announcement.
“Ah!” exclaimed the widow, regarding him curiously. “Where were you?”
“In th’ lobby,” replied Dennis unblushingly.
“What did you think of the performance?” asked his companion after a moment.
Dennis looked her directly in the eyes with the light of inspiration in his glance as he said:
“I did not see it.”
The widow gazed at the young man for onesearching moment, reddened slightly, and, rising, proceeded to the music rack, from which she extracted bosoms Nos. 2 and 3.
“Suppose we read the story,” was her reply.
As the widow extended the bosoms toward him, Dennis could not avoid the thought which had presented itself to him on the day before, that this woman had not only two bosoms of his in her possession, but his heart as well; and a certain degree of the animation of this reflection found its way into his eyes.
“Well,” inquired this observing woman, “what is it?”
Dennis flushed as he replied: “I’ll tell you by-and-by,” and added: “Will you do me a great favor?”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Why,” answered Dennis, “I would like to hear you read bosom No. 2.”
“Why?”
“Well,” replied the young man, with a sincerity that was unmistakable, “I think it would sound like a song then.”
“Very well,” she assented, “let me have it”;and with a voice that reflected, to this young man’s ears, at least, at one moment the rippling of silver brooks, the trill of woodbirds, the sigh of zephyrs scented with daffodils, and the next the full, round resonance of an animated day in June, she read:
“Now!” exclaimed Gratz as the familiar click assured him that the handcuffs were in place, “now you can lower your hands and come over here.”
As the Sepoy advanced into the light, Gratz instructed Robert to pick up the remaining coins and restore them to the bag.
During all this time the Sepoy had not uttered a word, but his fierce eyes, which stared with savage intentness in the direction of the disk of light, from the rear of which issued that implacable voice, were vital with rage and impotent menace.
As he gazed thus with his distorted countenance concentrated into a look of bitter speculation in his futile attempt to discover by whom he was addressed in this tone of insolent authority, there was something frightful in thequest and uncertainty of the disturbed features.
An unnatural luster, partly the reflection of his somber eyes and partly from the tawny hue of his saturnine visage, added an inexpressible degree of malignant rancor to his expression.
His hands, which he was compelled by the manacles to hold directly in front of him in an absurd travesty of penitential clasp, gripped each other in his consuming resentment until the tendons of his wrist stood out with the tense distinction of whipcords.
While Robert was engaged in restoring the coins to the bag, the only sound came from the derisive click and fall of the gold-pieces as they chinked their mockery into the ears of the raging prisoner.
As the last coin joined its fellows a neighboring clock chimed the hour of two.
“Good!” exclaimed Gratz; “there is time to settle this business before morning”; and turning to the Sepoy he added: “I will trouble you to precede me to your room.”
There was something unreal in the silence which the Sepoy still maintained and the enforcedapathy with which he proceeded to obey these instructions, and Robert, unaccustomed to such episodes as this, in which he was a contributing factor, was more affected than if he had witnessed some violent demonstration or listened to a raging vituperation.
The transit of the trio from the cellar to the apartment of the Sepoy was effected without attracting further regard, and the balance of the boarders slept away in snoring oblivion and provided another instance of the frail partition which separates the violent from the placid.
Arrived at the room of their swarthy prisoner, Gratz provided the uncomfortable Robert with the relief he required by instructing him to hasten to his uncle and summon him to the scene, and to avoid giving him any of the details of what had transpired.
Glad to escape the depression of the gloomy vicinity, and the unabashed directness of the Sepoy’s glance, the young man hurried away.
If the terrible concentration which the Sepoy resumed, with his luminous eyes upon the countenance of the detective, affected the latter, there was certainly no such evidence.
It was as dull and lifeless as ever; the eyelids had fallen to their accustomed suggestion of ambush, and it seemed scarcely possible that the sharp directions of a few moments since could issue from such flaccid lips, and so much determination could dominate such an insignificant figure.
Apparently exasperated by the undemonstration of this negative aspect, the Sepoy was near the limit of his repression.
The lines about his lips relaxed somewhat, the pupils of his eyes reduced their staring diameter, and his head was inclined forward a trifle.
Gratz concluded that his companion had decided to speak.
He was not mistaken.
“Can I be spared the humiliation of meeting that old dotard you have sent for?”
“I do not see how,” replied Gratz.
“What do you gain by it?” asked the Sepoy.
“I cannot tell that in advance; possibly nothing,” replied Gratz.
“That is likely,” replied the Sepoy quietly.
“We shall see,” exclaimed the detective. “Iam working out a theory; I need the assistance of all concerned.”
“Look at me!” exclaimed the Sepoy abruptly. “I will credit you with being something of a physiognomist. Do you see any evidences of determination in my face?”
“And if I do?” queried Gratz.
“Only this,” was the reply: “No matter what your object may be, I will oppose it with all the resolution and dexterity at my command, if you conduct your inquiries as you contemplate.”
In reply Gratz offered an exasperating shrug of the shoulders.
“There is no mystery to be solved,” he said. “I have no further facts to discover; I know that you have managed to secure three separate bags of coin from Raikes, and I am aware of your process.”
“If you know all this,” replied the other with curious calmness, “why do you——”
The question was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Now!” exclaimed Gratz, as if with sudden determination, “I will try to grant your requestin part. Retire into your bedchamber, leave the door open, and listen.
“I will place Raikes and his nephew where they cannot see you, but I will sit here where I can note your slightest move.”
The Sepoy arose hastily and entered the bedchamber, seating himself according to the direction of the detective.
At that moment there was a knock upon the door.
In answer to the salutation of the detective Raikes and his nephew entered.
Seating themselves in the chairs indicated, they awaited with intense curiosity the proceedings of this enigmatical man.
Noting the alert questioning in the eyes of the young man, and the half-awakened inquiry in the sordid countenance of Raikes, Gratz, in order to prevent the intrusion of any disturbing remark upon his present purpose, said impressively:
“I must ask you both to listen without interruption. When I want you to speak I will question you”; and fastening his strange eyesupon the blinking Raikes, he added: “Now we will proceed.
“You have lost four bags of coin.”
“Three!” corrected Raikes, despite his instructions to silence.
“Pardon me,” continued Gratz, “and please do not interrupt. I said four—and here is the fourth,” and he pointed to the bag upon the table.
The miser’s jaw dropped helplessly, and he stared at the bag with a superstitious terror.
“But,” continued Gratz, “what seems so incredible to you is merely the logical outcome of a cunningly established sequence,” and the speaker shot an incredibly quick glance at the silent figure in the adjoining room.
“Now attend me closely.
“During the last few evenings you have heard some very curious narratives.”
Raikes nodded with gloomy corroboration.
“A series of well-arranged events have introduced a startling episode—the substitution of pebbles for diamonds.”
Again Raikes nodded.
“At this point in the narrative the first instalment concludes. Am I right?”
“Yes,” answered Raikes.
“Then,” continued Gratz, “you went directly to your room; you retired. In the morning you are prompted, with more than your usual eagerness, to open your private safe.”
“Right!” exclaimed Raikes in indorsement of this relentless résumé.
“You find the locks undisturbed; the contents apparently as you left them on retiring. Some difference in the conformity of one of the bags urges a nearer examination. You discover that this indicates a difference in the contents. You grasp it; it comes away in your hands with startling lightness. You discharge its deposit upon the table—a shower of coals follows.”
“Yes, yes!” stammered Raikes with impatient eagerness.
“Well, you are convinced, by an examination of the fastenings of the door, an inspection of the window, that no human being could have effected an entrance from either direction.
“The next evening is a repetition of the history of the night before.
“The strange Indian narrative, another gem to examine—an additional loss on the succeeding morning.”
Raikes nodded savagely.
“On the following night the same unhappy series of events occur, followed by the loss of the third bag.”
“But why all this again?” inquired Raikes.
“That concerns me,” exclaimed the detective with another rapid glance at the undemonstrative figure in the next room. “You must follow my instructions or you will conclude as badly as you have begun. Now,” continued Gratz, “it is incredible to me that, with the astuteness with which you are credited, that having such a good standpoint to begin with, you did not proceed upon that basis.”
“I?” questioned the astonished Raikes. “What standpoint had I?”
“Elimination,” replied Gratz.
“Several puzzling possibilities were retired permanently.
“Recall the details as we have enumeratedthem: An impossible door; the window equally out of the question; the substitution of the coals for the coin.
“It is very simple. The outside agency unfeasible, we must look within. There is but one conclusion——”
“And that?” interrupted Raikes.
“An accessory.”
“Ah!” cried Raikes, “unthinkable!”
“Not at all,” replied Gratz; “there was an accessory—yourself!”
At this announcement Raikes seemed about to collapse into his original helplessness. The facts of his losses were extraordinary enough, but this was too much.
But Gratz hurried on, explained the unconscious visits of his astounded hearer to the cellar, and all that followed.
“Then,” exclaimed Raikes, when he had concluded, “I have been the victim of hypnotic suggestion.”
“Precisely!” replied Gratz. “The story was merely the medium of transmission, and through this weird conduit the story-teller conveyedhis instructions to your subconsciousness.”
“But,” demanded Raikes, “why this substitution of coals? It strikes me that a scheme so clever as all this would scarcely be jeopardized by such an absurdity.”
“That contingency,” answered Gratz, “was never intended. In your condition of mind, having discharged the coin upon the floor of the bin, a mental idiosyncrasy of years insisted upon recognition.
“In some inexplicable way you retained enough of your mental identity to preserve some manifestation of the law of equivalents. In other words, having parted with something, you demanded something in return.
“With as much deliberation, therefore, as you manifested in contributing to your loss, you attempted to reimburse yourself by filling the bag with coal.
“In some occult way you assured yourself that you were engaged in a transaction where one commodity took the place of another.
“To this freak of mentality the idea of the pebbles in the story being substituted for thediamonds contributed; and what was intended by the narrator as a consistency of detail, to be explained later on, made an unforeseen appeal to your native cupidity and provided me with a very satisfactory clue.
“Moreover, the narrator assisted himself by allowing you to contemplate some brilliants—a sapphire, a diamond.
“In such demonstrations a centralizing object is an almost indispensable adjunct; and putting the two together, the stories, the brilliants, it is not difficult to see that you have received your instructions in the manner indicated, and obeyed them with unexpected consistency.”
For a moment there was silence, which was sharply disturbed by an unexpected and apparently unsuggested query from Gratz.
“Were you ever,” he asked, looking directly at Raikes, “in this apartment during the absence of its occupant?”
“No!” stammered Raikes, apparently very much astonished at the question.
“You lie!”
Raikes and his nephew sprang to their feet,their eyes bulging in the direction of the bedroom.
In the doorway stood the Sepoy.
“You lie!” he repeated, “you miserable husk, you! You were here one evening in my absence, or, at least, what you supposed was my absence,” and raising his manacled hands the speaker pointed to the closet. “I was there,” he said.
“Ah—ah!” faltered Raikes chokingly.
“And now,” continued the Sepoy, “let us get to the end of this business. It ought to be a simple proceeding. You want three missing bags of gold; they will be forthcoming on one condition.”
“And what is that?” cried Raikes, beginning to withdraw into himself as if he expected a sharp bargain.
“That you leave the details of the transaction in the hands of this gentleman,” answered the Sepoy, pointing to Gratz. “You had better consent,” he added as he analyzed the hesitation of the startled Raikes, “or I shall describe, with photographic minuteness, all that occurred in the few short moments of your visit.”
Raikes regarded Gratz helplessly.
During all this conversation the detective had been doing some rapid thinking and had decided upon his course, so nodding to Raikes, he said: “Leave the matter to me; I will restore your coin to you in the morning. See that neither of you leaves the house until then, or speak to a soul before I see you.”
Whatever objections may have been forming in the mind of the miser were quickly dissipated by a look from the Sepoy, and without another word Raikes and his nephew departed.
“Well,” inquired Gratz, when the two were again alone, “what have you to say to me that you do not want Raikes to hear?”
“You will know shortly,” replied the Sepoy after a few moments of reflection, with his eyes directed upon the handcuffs. “I do not have to resort to your elaborate reasoning to discover the nature of your profession. These,” holding up his hands, “are unmistakable.”
“Yes,” answered Gratz drily, “they require no trope or metaphor to illustrate their application.”
“However,” continued the Sepoy, “I havejust listened to the deductions of an unusual acumen for analysis along abstract lines.”
Gratz bowed his acknowledgments.
“That is simple,” he said, “when there is such a liberal supply of data.”
“True,” responded the Sepoy. “That was an oversight on my part. Still, your constructive application, too, is no less convincing.”
“But to what does all this lead?” inquired Gratz with a degree of impatience. “Suppose we admit that there is an exquisite balance maintained between my analysis and my synthesis, and have done with it. You have some appeal to make to one or both of these faculties.”
“Your penetration is the peer of your reasoning. Listen: Will you do me the favor of assuming that your comprehensive résumé of a few moments ago is all I care to hear on the subject?” asked the Sepoy.
“I understand,” replied Gratz.
“Very well, then,” continued the Sepoy. “I will extend to you the courtesy of offering no denial to anything you have said.”
“That,” laughed Gratz, “is the height of affability, under the circumstances; but proceed.”
“Good!” responded the Sepoy. “I have a suggestion to make. It is understood, in the first place, that Raikes is to recover his coin; on that point he will be fully satisfied. But there still remains the recognition of your services to him; you will have more difficulty in convincing him of his obligation than you had in persuading me of your acumen.”
“Ah!” murmured Gratz; “it is coming.”
“Are you any judge of brilliants?” inquired the Sepoy abruptly.
“Somewhat,” answered Gratz; “I have seen a few in my time.”
“Well,” continued the Sepoy, “kindly put your hand in my right vest pocket and withdraw a small case of shagreen which you will find there.”
Gratz obeyed.
“Now,” continued the Sepoy, “press the spring.”
As Gratz complied with this instruction, the lid of the shagreen case flew open and revealedthe superb sapphire which had radiated such insidious depravity into the mind of the miser.
“What do you think of that?” inquired the Sepoy.
For a moment or so Gratz did not reply. The mastery of its cutting, its magnificent bulk, its unrivaled purity overwhelmed him. “I have never seen one like it,” he said finally, “if it is genuine.”
“Oh, you need not doubt it!” exclaimed the Sepoy, “or, if you do, you can assure yourself on that point. Now follow me. Six bags of Raikes’ coin could not buy that.”
“You set its value high,” suggested Gratz.
“Naturally; its like does not exist. Money has never been able to purchase it. There is just one consideration I can accept for it.”
“And that?” inquired Gratz as the Sepoy paused.
“A lapse of memory,” replied the Sepoy.
“A lapse of memory!” repeated Gratz.
“Yes. Unlock these handcuffs and forget that you have done so.”
A sudden irradiation seemed to shoot from the gem. It was the impulse communicatedby the trembling hand of the detective, who, either to conceal the flush that was gradually transforming his pallid face, or from his reluctance to remove his gaze, continued to hold the brilliant in much the same oblivious regard as that bestowed upon it by the unhappy Raikes.
Gratz was having the struggle of his life.
The veins fretted through his temples with frightful distinction; his forehead was moist with a profuse perspiration; his breath labored with intermittent entrance and egress.
His well-known apathy, his exasperating negation of demeanor, where were they now?
Gradually, however, in the manner of disheartened stragglers whipped again into the firing line, there shadowed in his expression evidences of moral recovery which the Sepoy did not like.
The professional instincts of the detective, reinspired by his better nature, were making some very obvious appeals.
The éclat of this singular case beckoned. He seemed to brace himself morally and physicallyas he leaned back in his chair and again looked at his desperate companion.
At once the Sepoy, upon whom no vestige of this mental tumult was lost, again restored the ebbing temptation to its flood by exclaiming:
“Here is a more convincing reason still,” and raising his hands to his breast, in order to give the detective easier access to the point designated beneath his arms, he said: “Reach into the pocket on the left.”
For a moment Gratz hesitated. If he had found the first subsidy difficult to refuse, how might he resist the second, or, he added to himself, with a sort of usurious exaltation, the depravity of the two combined?
Curiosity, too, without which no detective is truly fit for his calling, moved him, so with the impatient impulse we so often witness when rectitude is about to subject itself to the persuasions of the evil one for the ostensible purpose of combating them and the private determination to yield, Gratz extended a trembling hand toward the Sepoy, who had drawn himself to the extreme limit of his sinewyheight, the better to accommodate his figure to the intent search of the detective, and then——
Just as Gratz managed to insert his trembling fingers over the edge of the pocket rim, a pair of tense, sinewy hands shot upward and with incredible dexterity encircled the throat of the detective.
The surprise was complete.
The hands of the unfortunate man flew out wildly, grasping at nothing, and the next instant closed upon the wrists of the Sepoy.
But the recoil was too late. The frightful grasp concentrated its deadly pressure.
The livid face of the detective grew purple. His eyes seemed about to bulge from their sockets. His grip relaxed from the wrists of his antagonist, and then all vigor seemed to vanish from his body, and he sank inertly to the floor.
As the malignant Sepoy bestowed the stiffening body upon the carpet, he released his horrible clutch upon the detective’s throat, and, despite his manacles, began with desperateagility to search the silent man’s waistcoat pockets.
From one futile quest his implacable hands leaped to another, the length of chain which held the two handcuffs together rattling an eerie accompaniment to his eagerness.
At last he withdrew a tiny key.
Grasping the precious bit of steel in his right hand the Sepoy inserted it in the latch-hole of the left manacle; a quick turn, and the steel clasp relaxed its obnoxious embrace.
It was but the work of a second to repeat these operations on his right arm, and the Sepoy was free.
“Ha!” The breath seemed to whistle from his lungs with one sharp, exulting impulse.
He stretched his superb figure to its utmost, and with the smile of a re-embodied Lucifer restored the sapphire to its case.
For a brief space he gazed upon the man extended upon the floor, and then, urged by some devilish impulse, if one might judge from the expression of his countenance, he knelt by the prostrate body and placed his ear to the pulseless breast.
The next instant, stimulated, apparently, by some unexpected endorsement of a vague possibility, he was upon his feet and had darted to a small cabinet near-by.
His hasty foray among its drawers was rewarded with a small bottle, the stopper of which he removed.
With a quick motion of the head to escape the full force of the pungent odor of ammonia which issued, the Sepoy returned to the unfortunate Gratz, and wetting the tip of his handkerchief with a few drops from the vial, he passed it gently to and fro under the nostrils of the detective.
Repeating these maneuvers several times, the Sepoy believed that he remarked a faint twitching of the eyelids.
At this manifestation he seized a sheet of paper and directed a mimic breeze upon the drawn face.
Again he attempted an enforced inhalation of the strong odor, this time from the bottle itself.
The result was startling.
There was a scarcely perceptible attempt to turn the head; a spasmodic throb in the throat.
Renewing his efforts with the paper, the Sepoy, encouraged by what he saw, placed his arms beneath the body and lifted it to a semi-reclining attitude, so that it rested, with a tilt forward, against a chair-arm.
From the table the evilly-smiling man took the handcuffs, and grasping the unresisting arms of the unfortunate Gratz, bent them with cruel force until the hands met behind the gradually stiffening back.
There was a sharp click, and the next instant the manacles embraced the wrists of the detective.
Again the Sepoy placed the bottle so that a concentration of the stinging odor, which by now permeated the atmosphere of the entire room, could attack the sensitive nasal membranes more directly, and unmistakable evidences of imminent reanimation quickened the twitching features.
Again he lifted the uneasy figure and placed it upon the reclining chair, into which it collapsed helplessly with a nerveless huddle.
A few minutes more of alternate fan andbottle resulted in the opening of the eyes and the utterance of a choking gasp.
Assured now, the Sepoy rushed to the bedroom, threw aside the coverlets and possessed himself of one of the sheets.
With the aid of his pocket-knife he ripped this into several lengths, with which he returned to the rapidly reviving Gratz.
In his grim struggle for reanimation the firm lines about the mouth of the unfortunate man had finally relaxed, and into this ugly opening the Sepoy inserted a strip of the sheet and secured it in a rigid knot behind the neck of his victim.
With a few dexterous turns and knots he bound the body to the chair with the remaining lengths of linen, and hastening to the washstand grasped a water pitcher and deluged the face of the now thoroughly awakened Gratz.
From the look in his eyes it was evident that his senses had not only fully returned, but that he was perfectly aware of the changed conditions and their relative humiliations.
For a moment an expression vaguely suggestive of admiration shadowed through theslightly flushed countenance, and the next instant it returned to its customary apathy, from which it was not again disturbed during the bitter ordeal to which the helpless Gratz was subjected.
“And now,” exclaimed the Sepoy with a frightful grin of malice, “I trust that your senses are sufficiently restored to receive a farewell suggestion or two. You will notice,” he went on with evil emphasis, “that I say ‘farewell suggestions,’ for I assure you that you will never set eyes on me again.
“A little previous to the change which resulted in your present predicament, I extended to you the courtesy of all sorts of tribute to your acumen.
“Now—note my liberality—I do not insist upon a reciprocal indorsement of my dexterity, since I see”—pointing to the gag which he had inserted in the mouth of the detective—“since I see, with deep regret, that you have an impediment in your speech.
“I excuse you in advance.
“Still, I cannot resist the temptation of chiding your indifference to such a brilliantargument as this,” and the Sepoy caused the sapphire to scintillate its mocking rebuke into the eyes of the wretched Gratz.
“I must also improve the occasion by calling your attention to the reprimand offered by your plight to your curiosity, for you see to what a pass it has brought you.
“However, since it would be a malice of which I am incapable not to gratify it, I will show you what it was I had in reserve,” and the Sepoy produced the small shagreen case with which Raikes had been on such questionable terms of familiarity, and pressing back the lid revealed the splendid diamond to the still impassive Gratz.
With a continuation of his elaborate courtesy and his purposely stilted phrasing, the Sepoy said: “If the sapphire was argument, this was certainly conviction. The moral barrier which could withstand the assault of the first, must, unquestionably, have yielded to the insidious attack of the second.
“But since you have managed to place yourself beyond the reach of such considerations, I will be compelled to discontinue my futileeloquence and leave you to your more mature reflections.
“Observe!” he continued, as he replaced the sapphire in the case and restored the latter to the right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, “I place the argument in this repository”; and treating the diamond in like manner, he deposited that in the left-hand pocket and added: “And place the conviction on this side.
“It is not often that one is the embodiment ofbelles-lettres, having such details of logic so easily within reach.”
During all this travesty of demeanor and phrase, with its tantalizing mockery and its crafty insinuation, Gratz had betrayed no emotion whatever, nor did his eyes lose one whit of their usual placidity as he beheld the Sepoy, with a sort of lithe, animal rapidity, produce a small traveling-case from the wardrobe and return with it to the bag of coin on the table.
“You see,” continued the Sepoy as he was about to deposit the bag in the case, “I have left room for this. I anticipated its addition to my paraphernalia and made preparations accordingly.
“Notice how neatly it fits in. And now I offer you my sympathy for the miscarriage of your plans.
“This, to a man of sentiment and enterprise, is always obnoxious. I feel myself indebted to you for some exceedingly intelligent mental processes, and, believe me, I part with you with a feeling so nearly resembling regret that I will not do you the discourtesy of doubting that the sentiment is genuine.
“I leave you to make explanations to your clients in whatsoever way you may see fit. I salute you!” and the next instant the Sepoy had slipped through the doorway into the hall, along which he hurried until he reached the main entrance of the house.
To make his way through this into the vestibule and thence into the street was the work of the next few moments, and with a grin of malicious triumph he descended the steps which led to the pave.
Scarcely had his feet touched the ground when a man from either side of the stone balustrade stepped out, and each grasped an arm of the scowling Sepoy.
“A moment, please!” exclaimed one of the men, as he snapped back the shield of a small lantern he carried and directed its searching light into the distorted countenance.
“Ah!” exclaimed his captor to the fellow on the other side of the prisoner, “this is the chap, Tom.”
“Now, mister, you can walk back. Not a word; you may be all right and we may be all wrong; it can soon be settled in there.”
“One question, please,” begged the Sepoy. “Who are you? By what right do you detain me?”
“One at a time, mister,” replied the man with the lantern. “There’s a man inside who can answer these questions for you.”
A sudden light penetrated the mind of the Sepoy. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I understand.”
“That’s good, mister; it will save a deal of explanation.”
“These men, then,” muttered the Sepoy to himself, “are the subordinates of the detective within.”
At that moment the moon slipped out frombehind a mask of cloud and silhouetted the three.
By its light the prisoner examined the grim countenances before him. “Surely,” he decided, “there is nothing in these features to indicate a strenuous moral objection to the bribery of the contents of my traveling-case,” and at the thought of the absurd discrepancy between his present predicament and the cynical altitudes of a short time since, and as he considered the humiliation awaiting him when he was compelled once more to face the detective, he decided to venture on another attempt to purchase his freedom.
With this thought he was about to place the case he carried on the ground, when one of the men, remarking his movement and mistaking its purpose, cried: “Here; none of that!”
“But,” expostulated the Sepoy, “you do not——”
“Shut up!” replied the fellow coarsely. “Come inside and show us where you have left the chief. You here, the boss in there—something’s wrong.”
With a muttered curse, and urged by no ceremonious hands, the Sepoy reascended the steps.
Having in his haste to escape neglected to latch the doors, the raging Sepoy had no difficulty in conducting his captors along the hallway to his room.
In a few moments this strangely assorted trio reached the apartment in which the Sepoy had but a short time before disported himself, so to speak, with such waspish reprisal, and delivered such a farrago of ridicule and cynicism upon the defenseless head of the silent figure bound to the chair.
At sight of this extraordinary spectacle the two understrappers came to a standstill and looked upon the Sepoy with a species of respect.
Never before had they beheld their chief in such a predicament; the means of its accomplishment must have been amazingly clever, and the agent himself somewhat of a marvel.
However, while one of the men stood guard over the Sepoy, with a renewal of his watchfulness awakened by what he saw, the otherproceeded to unfasten the gag and remove the strips which bound the unfortunate Gratz.
After a pause of inscrutable regard of the Sepoy, who, despite the embarrassing dénouement, managed to maintain a fair degree of composure, Gratz, addressing the man who had released him, said:
“You will find the key of these handcuffs on the table yonder.”
Obedient to the direction of the detective’s glance, the man proceeded to the table, found the object of his quest, and inserting it in the handcuffs detached them from the hands of the still impassive Gratz.
“Now,” continued the latter calmly, “I will transfer these ornaments to that gentleman. Secure him precisely as you found me, with the exception of the gag.”
Presently this was done.
At this, turning to his subordinates, the detective said: “Leave me with this gentleman for a while; I will call you in case of need.”
As the pair passed through the doorway, Gratz, with no intimation of triumph or exultation in his manner, addressed the unhappySepoy, with an emphasis, however, which implied that he had not forgotten the experience to which he had been subjected.
“Andnowwhat have you to say?”
The Sepoy looked his questioner directly in the eyes, with a glance that was subtle in its insinuation and eloquent of collusive suggestion, and replied:
“The sapphire is still in my right waistcoat pocket, and the diamond in the left.”
THE END
As the beautiful reader reached this singular conclusion, which came with an abruptness that indicated the decrepit imagination of the author and his overworked vocabulary, she looked up from the absurd vehicle of all this hectic style and incident and beheld in the eyes of her auditor a suggestion of the light that is indigenous to neither land nor sea.
To Dennis, who had in his composition the material of a poet, if not the finish, the melodious intonations of the widow had seemed like the incongruous orchestration of birds in thetreetops to some minor tragedy among the denizens of the underbrush.
Her elocution was exquisite and provided the bizarre narrative with a refinement which contrasted with its crudities, like Valenciennes lace on a background of calico.
“Well,” she said smilingly, after she had subjected his ingenuous glance to the rapid analysis of her intuition, with a satisfaction which it startled her to recognize, “what do you think of it?”
“Is that the end?” asked Dennis.
“Yes, it is the end.”
With a shade of emphasis, intended by Dennis to indicate that the words of the reply of the widow were suggestive of other finalities which he did not like to consider, he said:
“That is no end; it looks to me as though the author has struck his limits.”
“No,” objected the widow, “I fancy that he has left the subject open so that the reader can solve the riddle in his own way.”
“There is no riddle!” exclaimed Dennis.
“No?” inquired the widow; “and that splendidsapphire, that magnificent diamond to tempt the detective?”
“They will not tempt him,” said Dennis with simple conviction and a degree of feeling that might lead one to suppose that he was an indispensable element in the situation. “He will recollect his professional pride; he will remember that he is a man.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the widow with an indescribable intonation.
“Don’t you think that I am right?” asked Dennis.
“Yes,” replied his companion with a pronounced emphasis on the personal pronoun which followed, “yes,youare right”; and as she considered the frank revelation of character in his reply and contrasted it with the possible disclosures of similar situations among the majority of men she knew, she added:
“I am glad that we have read the story.”