"Surely, I'm off scent this time," muttered Job to himself, as he slowly followed in the steps of the young man.
Entering the Commercial Hotel, he stepped up to the desk, and turned over the pages of the register. Presently he found the name of George Thornly, room 104. Ah! this was the man he had followed. He had missed the last syllable of the name. It was Thornly instead of Thorne. He was now certainly at sea. Moving away, disgusted with himself, he walked through the spacious office, and almost ran into a man as he reached the door. Both men exclaimed in mutual surprise, "Hello!" Neither pronounced the name of the other, and yet both spoke it mentally.
Worth was the first to recover, and said: "Pardon me, I thought I recognized a friend; possibly I'm mistaken; my name is Worth. May I ask yours?"
"O," replied the other, "I have heard of you. You are connected with theLegation in Washington."
"Well," replied Worth, "Iwassecretary, but have resigned. Where have I met you—somewhere, I'm pretty certain. Was it in Washington? One is apt to forget names, when meeting so many."
With a slight hesitancy the other answered: "My name is Thorne. I'm a stranger here. Are you stopping here?" The young man was evidently nervous, and spoke in an uneasy manner.
Job, pointing to a chair, said, quietly: "Shall we sit down? We are both strangers." The invitation to be seated was rather reluctantly accepted, and there was a shade of suspicion seen by Worth on Thorne's face.
"Where have we met, Mr. Thorne?" asked Worth again, as if still debating that question. "Wherever it was, it must have been several years ago, if it wasn't in Washington, as I was there three years ago."
The young man seemed to recover himself on hearing this, thinking at once that Worth's residence in Washington had doubtless hindered him from hearing of any occurrences near Land's End or in London, and replied: "I'm an Englishman, like yourself. You may possibly have seen me, if you have been much in London. I spent several years in Burrough Road School."
"Indeed!" interrupted Worth, "why, that is my old school; but I must have left there before you entered, and I have only visited the institute once since I graduated. It is really a pleasure to meet in this country one of the boys of old Burrough Road. How long have you been in America?"
"I have been here about a year. I am looking around for an opportunity to invest some money with which I have been intrusted, but am making haste slowly in that respect," replied the other with a faint smile.
"Well," remarked Job, "your business is just the opposite of mine. I am looking around tofindsome money. Do you know of anything that I could get to do, in order to make some cash?"
"I'm afraid I don't know enough to advise you on that line," was the answer, adding: "Where are you stopping?"
"At the Mount Vernon Hotel, down on the wharf," was the reply. "It suits my pocket."
Just then the dining room doors were opened, and Thorne cordially invited Job to stay to dinner. The invitation was accepted, and they entered the dining room together.
This was a strange fellowship. Each knew the other, and knowing him was intent on outwitting him; consequently the conversation was abstract, abstruse, and uninteresting.
It was a strange phase of hospitality. When the meal was ended neither of the men could have told what he had eaten, or what he had said.
While eating dinner the younger man assumed the lead in the matter of conversation, and it became general in its character.
"Mr. Worth," remarked Thorne, "you say that economy took you to the Mount Vernon. Now, I happen to have two beds in my room. What do you say to sharing one of them with me? It will cost you no more than you are paying, and I judge that the service here is much better than in your present hotel."
This proposition rather pleased Job, and the arrangement was accordingly perfected, and the evening found the two men genially smoking their cigars quite like two old friends.
This proposition of Thorne was not as generous as Worth might have supposed. There lurked in the former's mind an indistinct suspicion. Nay, it was more than a suspicion, and he reasoned that if this man was what he feared he was, he could parry the danger better by having him under his eye, for even now he was concocting a scheme of escape. On the other hand, Worth had no doubt in his mind that this was the man he was after; but how to proceed was the question that was troubling him. The words of the Consul still gave him no little concern. He had plainly intimated that extradition would not be possible as the case stood, and he knew that he could not secure them without the Consul's recommendation.
That Sunday night was an important point of time in the lives of both these young men. Some light wine was partaken of in addition to cigars, and each was thinking his own thoughts and forming his own plans even while the conversation was on other subjects. The bank robbery in London was spoken of, and in the course of the conversation the wreck of the yacht and the drowning of the three young men also were mentioned yet neither subject seemed of much interest, although Thorne remarked that he was well acquainted with them all.
Worth allowed the younger man to lead, and really direct the conversation, being all the while convinced that Thorne was trying to draw him out, trying to find out how much or how little he knew.
It was near midnight when Job undressed and laid down on his bed, with his mind made up that in the morning at breakfast he would arrest Thorne. The latter continued to sit at a table writing after the detective had retired.
Worth soon slept, and slept soundly. This was a new experience of late; but when he awoke, to his surprise, it was broad daylight, and yet the gas was still burning brightly. His head ached, and he raised up and looked in the direction of Thorne's bed. It was unoccupied. The instant thought that something was wrong, that something unusual had transpired aroused him, and he sprang out of bed. Just then a tap on the door startled him. "Hello!" he said, "come in."
A voice replied: "Can't come in—door is locked. Do you want breakfast?"
Job sprang to his vest, which hung on a chair, to find, by his watch, what time it was; but his watch was not there. As quickly as possible he dressed himself, and in doing so, he put his hand into a secret pocket where he carried his valuable papers, and pocketbook. It was empty. Every paper, even the warrant which the London authorities had issued, authorizing Worth to arrest James Thurston, and his pocket book, containing over a hundred pounds, had disappeared and he was locked in his room. In the midst of his humiliating astonishment, his eyes rested on a paper neatly folded and addressed to Job Worth, Esq., Bow Street Detective, London, England. Opening it, he read as follows:
"You will doubtless be surprised on perusing this affectionate note. I know you, of course. I also know why you are here. When I met you today I at once knew it was all up with me unless I could outgeneral you—and I think I have. Part of the money you seek you will find in the bureau drawer. You are welcome to it. I have carried it around a year, and have not been able to buy so much as a cigar with it. Possibly you may be able to convince the bank that you are not one of the men who stole it. But, in return for making you so liberal a bequest, I have possessed myself of your watch and pocketbook. I trust that this will not distress you. My financial condition made it a necessity. I kindly fixed your wine last night in order to give you a good night's rest. When you arrest me be sure you have the needed papers. Good-by.
"JAMES THURSTON, alias THORNE."
Worth at once drew out the drawer of the bureau and found at its further end a package securely wrapped in brown paper; but fearing there still might be deception, opened it, and sure enough, he counted fifty one-thousand-pound Bank of England notes. Securely tying them together, he placed them in the secret pocket which had been so recently rifled, and started to go downstairs, but found that the porter was right, he was locked in his room. After thumping at the door, without success, he remembered seeing a bell, which he rang lustily. After a few minutes a youth came to the door and turned the key. Worth, thus released, hastened down to discover that it was eleven o'clock in the forenoon. Within two hours a warrant for the arrest of James Thurston, alias James Thorne, was issued with a description of the watch and the amount of money stolen. A notice of reward was also issued and appeared at once in the newspapers. A general alarm was sent out by the Police Department, the railroad stations and steamboat landings were vigilantly watched, but without any results. Thorne had gotten away while Worth was asleep.
Fortunately, before leaving home Worth had sewed in the lining of his coat a sum of money as a reserve fund. This had not been discovered, but for which fact he would have found himself penniless in a strange land, with only his silver star as the insignia of his identity.
The return of Job Worth to London was not at all joyous. He sat upon the deck in his ship chair or lay in his bunk drawing darkest pictures of his defeat, as he called it. Nor was there any elation in his feelings when, upon his arrival at the bank, the cashier handed him a check for three thousand pounds, as a reward for the restoration of the fifty thousand pounds. Yes, it was something to be sure; yet not much. There was chagrin in it all, and he continually felt this, as he mingled with his colleagues. To him it was—well—failure. At this time, there was another meeting of the bank directors. Nearly all were present. The cashier presided. Something had happened again. Was it another robbery? But no, the atmosphere was different. Mr. Bone presented the case in a nutshell: A package had been received from New York containing fifty thousand pounds, and a letter had accompanied the money. It ran thus:
"MR. STEPHEN BONE, Cashier, Bank of England:
"Inclosed find a receipt from Express Company, which will be delivered to you, for the sum of fifty thousand pounds, which is one third of the amount borrowed from you a little over a year ago. Please to acknowledge its receipt to Express Company, and oblige,
"Yours penitently, ANDREW COURTENAY."
"This money," said the cashier, "was received yesterday and is now in the vault. Permit me to congratulate the Board upon having now received two thirds of the stolen money."
"Does anyone know who Andrew Courtenay is?" asked one of the directors.
"No," replied Mr. Bone, as the others sat silent, "I presume not. It is not vital, however, since the name is most likely fictitious."
Job Worth was given a vote of thanks for his services in restoring the fifty thousand pounds, and it was resolved that in each case where the money was refunded further prosecution would cease.
One day, soon after Job's return, he sat in his bachelor quarters, brooding over his ill luck, as he called it. So intense was his disappointment that he began to doubt his fitness for the calling he had entered, and to think seriously of resigning. True, he had been credited with two or three successful investigations, but this last undertaking could hardly be called a success. He had spent four hundred dollars in recovering one third of the stolen money, and had suffered the thief to outgeneral him. He concluded that he was stupid. Why had he not arrested him while he had a chance? But he had allowed Thurston to put him to sleep, and then possess himself of his watch and a hundred pounds of his money, slipping away while he slept, leaving him a prisoner in his own room. Surely Thurston, instead of himself, had played the detective. While in this despondent mood one of his brother officers made his appearance and was greeted with a decidedly doleful "Good morning, Nick."
But the other's response was more cheerful. "Job," he said, "I'm glad to see you again after your trip. I understand that the bank people honored you with a vote of thanks. That was a great thing you did in getting that pile of the bank's money."
Nick Hanson and Job Worth were of the same class in the department, and had been admitted on the same date. Nick was every inch an athlete, fearless and enduring. He was anything but good looking with his broad face, short limbs, and heavy body. He had made pugilism and wrestling his study, because they were his delight. Every man in the service respected his prowess. They all knew that Nick had never been out-classed in athletic sports. Yet, better than any or all of these qualifications, were his character and disposition. He was the soul of honor and gentle as a little child. He had a gentle and musical voice. Men used to say that Nick Hanson's laugh was worth fifty dollars a month. They called him "Old Nick," but no man among them was further away from that august personage in character and personality.
"Yes, Job," Nick continued as the two shook hands, "I came in to congratulate you on your successful trip and to welcome you home again. I think the bank has done the right thing by you."
It did not take many minutes for Nick to discover that his congratulations, while appreciated, were not entirely acceptable, and he went on to say: "Job, there was not a man among us that as much as suspected those kids of having done that slick job at the bank."
And, sure enough, this was true, and Worth unquestionably deserved credit for the original thought as well as for the ends accomplished. And although he had not succeeded in capturing the thief, he had restored one third of the stolen money. Surely, this merited the congratulations of all honest men.
Worth could not withstand the cheery words and more cheery laugh of his friend. Indeed no one could. None had ever heard Nick speak an angry word. He brought sunshine with him everywhere, even when engaged in the most serious work of his profession. He was the hardest man in the department to comprehend, and yet he was without a peer in frankness and good nature. Nick's genial spirit had somewhat restored job to his usual equanimity, and Nick knew it.
"It seems, Job," remarked Hanson, "that there were three of those rascals, and they divided the spoils equally. Let me see—Thurston, McLaren, and Blair. There is only one left. Is there no way to find out which it is? Two have been exempted from further prosecution, and I suppose the third one will be, if the money is given up."
"Would you know the third one if you could come across him, Nick?"
"Yes," replied Hanson, "I would know them all anywhere. And I think I could find McLaren, but since I believe he is one of the men forgiven—having given up the money—I don't want him. Blair is the fellow we want. Good-by, Job, I'm going away."
And it was four months before these two friends met again during which interval one of them, at least, had an eventful experience.
Doctor Marmion, of New York, was greatly drawn toward his young patient at the Monastery, and as he saw him daily wasting away, he concluded that something more than medicine was needed to save his life. The secretary still dragged himself through each day's work, spending the evening in his room with Tom. The day after the doctor's arrival the second time, Tom being in school and Bishop Albertson away, he found himself in the office alone with Carl. He had hardly hoped for so early an opportunity to interview his interesting patient. But taking advantage of the opportunity, exclaimed:
"Well, Carl, you have improved, I hope, since I was here?"
"I fear there has not been much improvement in my physical condition; nor do I much expect any; and, really, to tell you the truth, Doctor, I am almost wishing for the end," was the young man's reply.
"Carl," said Dr. Marmion in earnest tones, "if you would give me your confidence, I feel sure that I could help you, and I will be candid with you. If you don't give that confidence to someone, it will only be the worse for you. Disease is not the only thing that kills."
"Doctor," was the quiet reply, "I sincerely thank you for the interest you take in me, but really your words give me pleasure instead of anxiety. Truly, it is not unpleasant to be warned that I have no assurance of life. I have nothing to live for. My life is wrecked, and I have not a friend in the world. Why should I desire to prolong my life?"
"Carl," said the doctor, "listen. Everything you say springs from mistaken and blind selfishness. Yours is the spirit of the suicide and coward; surely, this is unworthy of you. And, besides, what you say is not true. Your life is not wrecked, only as you determine to wreck it. You say you have nothing to live for. I know of no young man that has more to live for. You foolishly and ungratefully say you haven't a friend in the world. You certainly know the contrary is true. Everyone who knows you is your friend. Is Bishop Albertson not your friend? Is Tom not your friend? Is that sweet young girl in the other part of the house, whom you have caused to give her innocent heart to you, not your friend? By some mistake you have crippled your life. But the good Lord, who pities his erring child, will help you to redeem and make it both useful and happy. Bear with me, Carl, when I say, if you know that there is a way by which the usefulness and happiness of your life may be restored and redeemed, and you refuse to adopt it, you will be guilty of self-murder. Forgive me for these seemingly harsh words. God knows they are true, and my only plea for thus speaking them to you is my love for you. I cannot refrain."
Carl sat with drooping head and with tears coursing down his pale cheeks. For a moment or two he sat silently sobbing; his whole frame was shaking, and looking up with a woebegone countenance, said: "Doctor, let me come to your room tonight after chapel prayers."
"Very well; I shall be glad to see you," said Doctor Marmion, kindly, and rising, he went out, leaving Carl alone.
At the close of the evening service the doctor and Carl found themselves alone in the vestry. The younger man took from the pocket of his top coat a package, and, handing it to the doctor, said: "I want you to take this package and open it; it will tell its own tale."
Somewhat surprised, the doctor went to a stand close by and did as he was requested. The next moment he stood speechless with astonishment, for he held in his hands money, English bank notes, more than he had ever before seen. What did it all mean?
"There, Doctor," sobbed Carl, who had approached him, tremblingly, "is my crime; and growing out of it is my other and greater crime. I have been and still am a living lie. My father and mother think me dead. They have suffered—how much, I cannot tell. And my father was here. His expected coming made me ill; nor did he see me. Are you surprised that I do not desire to live? Father's belief in my death is easier for him to bear than it would be to know that I am alive and a criminal."
Then it was for the first time that the doctor grasped the full story—that this gifted, promising young man, lovable and genial, so attractive as to appeal to him as no other had ever done, should, of all men, prove a thief, one who had stolen a large amount of money from the great bank. The doctor was dumfounded! He knew not what to say.
Silence prevailed for a few moments; then the doctor's good judgment inspired him to say in emphatic tones: "Carl, our first step in righting this great wrong is to get the money back to where it belongs. I will see to it. You may rely on me, and the sooner it is done, the better. I will take the next boat and tomorrow forward the money by express to London. This will not be difficult," added the doctor. "But you have before you another duty equally as great. You must next enlighten your parents concerning your existence and whereabouts."
This was truly the most difficult as well as delicate, and Carl shrank back from it. "Is it not sufficient to return the money?" he pleaded.
"No, my dear boy, the return of the money is only a part of your obligation. No part of your debt must be left unpaid. To fail here would mean utter failure. Everything in this matter must be made clear, and then you will be enabled to begin life anew."
But Carl, with anguish in his tones as well as in his countenance, exclaimed: "Mustmy father and mother be told everything concerning my criminality? That he has a son who deserves a prison sentence? No! no! Better to let me die; better for both mother and father as well as myself."
"Carl," sternly replied the doctor, "you know not what you ask. Would you die with a lie on your soul? You said a moment ago that you are a living lie. Would you die thus? You are willing to pay your debt to the bank, but you are not willing to be just to those who love you with a love which none but a parent can experience. I am a parent and know all about it."
"Well, Doctor," said Carl, when he had grown more composed, "can we not do one thing at a time? Can we not take the money and send it to the owners, and suffer the other matter to rest at least for the present, until we conclude how to manage it?"
"Carl," replied the doctor, as he pushed the package toward the young man, "there is only one right way, and that is to become truly sorry for wrongdoing, and cheerfully and bravely make retribution to all parties you have injured. Anything short of this is not fair, and will do you no good. If I take any hand in this matter, it must be to right the whole. But, Carl, don't you see, you make no sacrifice in sending back the money—money you have been unable to use? Had you been able to use it, it might have been very different; it doubtless would have been. Its return is not necessarily an evidence of either penitence or reform. It is simply a confession of defeat. A coward can give up that which he cannot use to his convenience. And is it possible, after all you have said about being a living lie, is it possible that you are unwilling to pay any part of the price of your unfortunate actions? Penitence is like charity. It never counts cost. It is a godly sorrow for sin, and is willing to accept results, be they ever so bitter."
"Doctor," said Carl, in complete surrender, "Let it be so. I am willing to pay the price, even to death. I plead no more for my own sake, but I would, if possible, save those who love me from humiliation and agony, which to them would be more terrible than death."
"Here you mistake again," replied the doctor. "You imagine that your father's pride is stronger than his love."
"So I do," stammered Carl. "I believe that my father would much rather believe that his son is dead than to know that he is a criminal. There has never been a stain on my father or mother's name until—until I brought this one upon it and the holy office he occupies. Then, they have lived through the anguish of believing me to be dead, and it is terrible to think of bringing into their declining years a deeper sorrow. Ah, believe me, Doctor, it is not my happiness I desire, but to save them from deeper pain. If I am acting wrongly, I pray God, whom I now ask for pardon, may direct me aright."
"I greatly fear," replied the doctor, "that you are only willing to be directed in your own way. But I must leave you. The boat passes Centerville in an hour. I will take the money and send it by express on tomorrow's steamer."
As has been told, the money was duly received by the cashier of the Bank of England.
As Mr. Bone opened the package, he discovered that the notes had been first wrapped in a sheet of substantial letter paper, and sealed at both ends. As he was about to drop this wrapper into the waste basket his eye caught sight of a water mark; the letters were "C.A. Marmion, N.Y., U.S.A." Thinking that this might prove important, he preserved it for future reference. He laid it upon his desk and a few days later he wrote and mailed the following letter:
"London, May 25, 18—.
"MR. C.A. MARMION, New York, U.S.A:
"Dear Sir: A few days since I received an express package containing fifty thousand pounds. The signature was to us unimportant, as we felt sure it was not the name of the writer, but your paper bears the imprint (water mark) of your name, and I concluded that you are interested in the matter, so I take the liberty of addressing you.
"Inclosed find an announcement we have made in many papers. The directors of the Bank of England have now received two thirds of the amount stolen April 11, 18—, and hereby announce that the persons who have the remainder of the stolen money, if they return it, will not be prosecuted.
In the upper suburb of Montreal, Canada, stood an unassuming cottage, in the midst of a spacious and well-kept lawn and garden. A young man was seen carrying a rake on his shoulder and with the other hand drawing a lawn mower toward a shed in one corner of the lot, where he was to deposit them for the night.
"Hiram, I never saw the lawn look better." These words were spoken by a venerable-looking old gentleman with cheery voice, as he came around the corner of the garden, smoking a cigar. The speaker was a large and well proportioned man of perhaps fifty-five years of age. He looked through large brown eyes, kindly but resolute. His square jaw and firm mouth denoted will power, his face was ruddy, and his head was crowned with an abundance of curling hair as white as snow. This was Abram McLain, the retired member of the firm of McLain, Shaw & Co., the originators and organizers of the first steamboat line running between Liverpool and Montreal. From this investment and an interest in building the great Victoria bridge across the Saint Lawrence, Mr. McLain had accumulated a large fortune, which, promptly invested in real estate and safe stocks which were continually enhancing in value in this rapidly growing municipality, soon placed him among the accredited millionaires of Canada.
The cottage which he owned and in which he lived was built of gray stone, one tall story in height, and crowned with a French roof. It was beautified by a wide door in front with colonial pillars and porch. The windows were tall, to which iron shutters were attached. The ground on which this building stood had been bought immediately after the conflagration of 1852, when Saint Mary's Ward was almost obliterated. From that date each year had increased the value of all property in this part of the city, so that this property alone, having five acres, would have placed its owner among the well-to-do citizens of the community. But this property was only a small portion of the holdings of Abram McLain. A unique building was this cottage.
Two skilled mechanics had been brought from Quebec, and no one was permitted to see their work nor to learn what they were doing. Their work was to be in the basement, which had been excavated ten feet deep, the massive walls reaching down until they rested upon solid rock. The building was seventy-five feet square. A furnace occupied the center of the basement. Next, in front, was a beautiful office, finished in hardwood, exquisitely polished, and furnished with most modern furniture. In the rear of this office was a smaller room, the walls of which were incased with steel plates, supposed to be both burglar-proof and fire-proof. This room contained a safe having no opening except the door into the office. It would never have been taken for anything but a closet convenient to the main office; but the door was solid iron, the lock of which none but the owner could manipulate. A reception or smoking room, which Mr. McLain called his den, was on the other side of the hallway—a cozy and yet elaborately furnished room, containing tables, sofas, and easy chairs, where the owner could meet his friends for business or pleasure.
Mr. McLain's father, a sturdy and sagacious Scotchman, had landed in Canada when Abram was about ten years of age, and began in earnest to win at least a living, if not a fortune, in this sparsely settled city, which at that time was hardly worthy the name of a city, although its thoroughgoing citizens had procured a city charter. Mr. McLain by earnest long-sightedness and industry succeeded in becoming a well-to-do citizen. Unfortunately, Mr. McLain invested most of his savings in a large banking institution, located on McGill Street—The Montreal National Bank—which a few months later was consumed in the conflagration. This unfortunate event with subsequent obligations, left him both poor and in debt, from which he never recovered, but in two years died, leaving his wife dependent upon their only son. Some years later, when Abram was accumulating money rapidly, he bought stock in gas and water works, and in both instances they collapsed, and the stockholders were left by a dishonest set of officers to meet delinquent obligations. This experience of both father and son not only met with indignant protestations, but drove Abram to a conclusion wise, or foolish, as the case may be; but he concluded that hereafter he would be his own banker, or at least the custodian of his own money. This accounted for the burglar-proof safe in the basement of the new cottage, and where he could keep every valuable paper, securities, deeds, mortgages, or money. This line of business was no secret in the community. He was his own banker, and when he sold property or anything else, the place of the money deposited was his own safe.
Much of Mr. McLain's spare time was spent at the Majestic, then the largest hotel in the city, he being its owner. Ernest Case, the acting landlord, took great pleasure in introducing him to customers, and especially if they were prominent persons or had titles attached to their names, who honored this hostelry with their presence.
One evening Mr. McLain sat in one of the cozy parlors enjoying a cigar with Mayor Dalrymple, he, himself, being an alderman. They had much in common to interest them, and were conversing interestedly, when Mr. Case, accompanied by an imposing-looking stranger, approached and asked permission to introduce Major Bancroft, of Quebec. The major took the liberty of correcting a slight mistake.
"True, from Quebec last," he said, pleasantly, "but from Devonshire, England, first. That is my home, and you know an Englishman never denies his country. I am nephew to the Duke of Devon, and"—hesitatingly—"possibly the next heir to the title. At present I am a major in Her Majesty's Twenty-first Cavalry. I am just taking a run through your grand country, while not much needed at home. Gentlemen, you certainly have the making of a great city here in Montreal."
"We think so," said the mayor.
"Yes," added Mr. McLain, "we think that much of it is already made. We have already the best schools, the best churches, the best hotels and shipping wharves on the continent, and," he added, smiling, "the most beautiful women in Canada."
"I have no inclination to doubt your word in any one of those statements, Mr. McLain, and especially your last proposition, as it accords with my own observation; but my opportunities of looking about as yet have been limited, having arrived only yesterday." Then the major continued: "Is real estate increasing in value very rapidly?"
The mayor replied: "We have been burned out three times, but each fire has enhanced the value of all real estate."
"I am glad to hear that," the major replied, "as I am traveling with an eye open for investments. It is quite different with us. Capital invested in real estate in England usually results in regrets and loss."
This young stranger was a man of sturdy frame, broad shoulders, and medium height, having a military bearing; save his mustache, his face was clean shaven, and he had full lips and large, white teeth. He looked to be possibly twenty-five years of age, and would have been called good-looking anywhere. Both the resident citizens invited the major to call at their places of business before he left the city. This he promised to do.
A few days later, Case, in a joking sort of way, remarked to Mr. McLain: "I think some of your landowners ought to sell Major Bancroft something in the way of real estate. He has plenty of money. I have fifty thousand of his money in my safe, and he seems to be aching to invest it."
"I am quite willing to sell him some city stock, if he will give me my price," remarked McLain.
"But I imagine he wants something bigger," said Case.
"Why," muttered McLain, "I don't want anything better or bigger."
"Yes, I know," replied Case, "but I think he wants something that will grow while he is fighting the Boers, as he is looking every day to be ordered home."
"Well," replied McLain, "I give you authority to sell him the Majestic, if you can. I'll authorize you to act as my agent."
"Thank you," replied Case, "but I'm not anxious to change employers."
"But," answered McLain, "I'm not joking. I will sell anything I have, except my wife and cottage, if I can get my price."
"What's your selling price for the Majestic?" laughingly asked the other.
"O, well, let me see—I suppose forty thousand pounds would buy it."
"All right," said Case, as he turned away, "I guess I'll not change employers this year."
The Montreal Daily Gazette lay upon Mr. McLain's breakfast table a few days later. Mrs. McLain called his attention to it, stating that while awaiting his coming to breakfast she had noticed that the Albermarle was about to be sold to an English capitalist, who proposed to increase its capacity, and make it the largest hotel in the colony.
"Indeed!" said Mr. McLain, sipping his coffee, and he took up the paper to read for himself.
Glancing first at the money market, his eyes next sought for local items, and he read the following article: "Changes in real estate. Rumor says that the Albermarle is to change owners. An English nobleman who is looking for profitable investments is said to be the prospective purchaser. The capacity of this excellent hostelry, according to the report, is to be greatly increased by the purchase of the two adjoining properties."
About noon the same day Mr. McLain received a call from Major Bancroft.
"This is a delightful office," remarked the major, as he lighted a cigar that had been handed him.
"Yes, Major, I had an eye to comfort as well as to business when I built it," adding in a sort of casual way, "I see by this morning's paper that you think of becoming a property owner in our city; allow me to congratulate you."
"Well," replied the major, "your newspapers are a little too rapid. I notice that they sometimes get ahead of the hounds. I'm glad you mentioned the matter. Might I ask you how much the Albermarle is worth in your opinion?"
"O!" replied Mr. McLain, "it would not be right for me to appraise it, asI own the same kind of property."
"I see," replied the major. "Of course. What, then, would be a fair selling price for the Majestic? It seems superior in both locality and capacity."
"Well," observed Mr. McLain, "the Majestic has never been put on the market, nor is it today for sale; consequently, I should ask its full value, if I mentioned any price at all. I would not look at anything less than forty thousand pounds for it."
"Would you not sell for thirty-five thousand pounds cash?"
Mr. McLain dropped his head slightly, and then suddenly replied: "No, sir, but I would sell for forty thousand pounds cash, English money."
"Very well, Mr. McLain, make out the necessary papers, and on one week from today I will pay you forty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes."
"All right, Major, I will meet you at the Montreal National Bank one week from today, at 12 o'clock. I will bring the papers."
"All right," said the Major, and departed.
A day or two after the sale of the Majestic, while the preparation of the transfer papers was going on, Mr. McLain's young man, who was acting as his secretary and clerk, asked his employer to be relieved of his present duties.
"Why, what is the matter, Hiram?" asked Mr. McLain. "Don't you like your job?"
"Yes, sir," was the prompt reply, "but I have got a place that suits me better, and, besides, I shall make more money."
"Where are you going?"
"Major Bancroft has given me the chief clerkship at the hotel."
"Ah, I didn't know that you had met the major. What will he do with Case?"
"I do not know."
"Well, it will be several days before he gets possession. When do you want to leave me?"
The reply was: "I should like to be released tonight, as Mr. Case is going to show me how to do the work."
"Very well," replied Mr. McLain, "come to me tomorrow morning and I will settle with you."
* * * * *
"Nick Hanson, Genesee House, Buffalo, N.Y., U.S.A: Come quick. Your man is here. Risis—Montreal."
Hanson received this telegram at seven o'clock in the morning, while eating his breakfast in the old Genesee House, Buffalo. In thirty minutes he was on the Niagara Express. That night about ten o'clock two men walked into the public room of the Majestic. Just outside the office door, in a lounging chair, sat the prospective landlord, as everybody called him. One of the newcomers was Ben Loring, a well-known detective of the Montreal department; the other our old friend Nick Hanson.
"Hello, Blair!" exclaimed Nick, in his usual jovial tones, as if greeting an old friend, as he confidently held out his hand.
At that instant, instead of receiving a handshake, he received a tremendous blow on the neck, just the place which pugilists aim for. Nick staggered and almost fell. This blow was not struck by the major, but by his new clerk, who had not been observed by either of the newcomers.
"Two can play at that game," muttered Ben Loring, as he felled Hiram to the floor with a sweeping blow, and in half a minute Ben had his nippers on the young man's wrists. "I'll teach you to interfere with an officer in the line of duty," he added.
In the meantime, as Nick staggered up, and the major saw him gaining his equilibrium, he succeeded in drawing a revolver, but as he raised it to about the level of Hanson's breast that athlete kicked the hand that held it, and the gun flew upward, struck the ceiling, was discharged, and fell harmlessly to the floor, while the dislocated hand of the major dropped helplessly to his side. The other wrist was instantly handcuffed, and within a few minutes both landlord and clerk were helpless prisoners on their way to the police station. Arriving at that place, they were duly searched by an officer and their pockets emptied. From the major was taken a receipt signed by Case for a package of money said to contain fifty thousand pounds. Then a doctor was found to examine his crippled hand. There was a compound fracture in addition to the dislocation.
It was now nearly midnight. After the injured hand had been properly treated and dressed the prisoners were locked up, and the officers returned to the hotel, where Case handed over to them the package of money. The two officers examined the notes and, finding them to be as the major had represented, departed with them in their possession, pending the proper disposition of the case. When they were gone the two detectives sat discussing the event that had just occurred.
"But who is the fellow that gave you the lick which so nearly put you to sleep?" asked Ben.
"O, that is Thurston, who is at the bottom of this whole Montreal scheme. He came here and learned that McLain had a safe of his own, and was the custodian of his own money, and knowing that no bank would receive one of these notes, since they have all the numbers, and that McLain would in all probability give no particular thought to the matter of the numbered notes, they both determined to risk buying and paying with this marked money, hold the property a while, sell out, if necessary for less than they gave, and, by selling, get hold of money that theycoulduse."
"Nothing plainer," said Ben, when Nick had finished, "and tomorrow was the day set for closing the deal and turning the property over to the new owner."
"This Thurston," said Nick, "is the fellow that slipped away from JobWorth, taking Job's watch and one hundred pounds of his money."
Just as they were about to go to bed Mr. McLain arrived, and in the conversation which ensued made it clear that while deploring the unfortunate developments in the case, he really entertained no regret in having failed to dispose of the Majestic.
The next day a consultation was held at the Montreal Police Headquarters. There were present Nick Hanson, Ben Loring, the chief of police, the mayor of the city, two attorneys, Mr. Cross, cashier of the First National Bank, and Mr. McLain. The money was produced, together with the announcement issued by the Bank of England, and the cashier showed the list of numbers of the missing notes. The next point considered was the official assurance of the Bank of England that should the money be returned, prosecution would cease. All the money had been captured, or returned, and yet they had two of the men prisoners. What should they do with them? It was finally agreed to set them free. Before this was done, however, Hanson cabled his chief in London identifying Thurston as the man who had robbed Worth in Evansville, Indiana, but received the answer that Thurston would not be prosecuted. Upon receipt of this order both men were allowed to go free, and Nick in a few days sailed for Liverpool.
The major was taken to the hospital, but despite the most careful treatment two of his fingers were lost. He went from bad to worse, and was finally reduced to the state of a wretched pauper, but ever bearing the derisive title of "Major Bancroft." They all remembered him as the thief who bought the Majestic. Such was the end of a young man whose future had been full of promise, the brightest student of his class in Burrough Road Institute—a poor pauper, unpitied by all who learned the history of his life. Thurston secured a place to drive an omnibus to and from the railroad depot to the Majestic Hotel. He is now an old man, white headed, unknown, forgotten, unloved, and alone.
O, the pity of it! Two young men of good parentage and of more than ordinary ability, with gracious opportunities, wrecked in early manhood by mad and reckless ambition. Haste to become rich. And after the sacrifice of honor and self-respect and the securing that which they had coveted—could not use it for any commercial purpose. Thinking that its possession would make them rich they became poor indeed. They now drop out of our story, followed by our deepest pity and commiseration.
There seemed to come to Carl some improvement in his physical condition; but there still came over him hours of great depression and despondency, when even Tom could do little to cheer him.
Dr. Marmion in his correspondence with Bishop Albertson had hitherto made no revelation of Carl's case. But the conviction came upon him that he, himself, was guilty of what he condemned in others and especially in Carl, in allowing the bishop to retain in his service a man who, in the eyes of the law, was a criminal, the perpetrator of a great crime. He concluded to write the bishop an hypothetical letter, describing this case, asking his judgment; and in this way find out what course the bishop would pursue if such a case should come into his life, and he wrote the following:
"MY DEAR BISHOP ALBERTSON: To whom but you can I go for advice in an important matter, which at this time is causing me much perplexity? I feel sure that your conscientious judgment will help me to arrive at an equitable conclusion. To you this may be hypothetical, but to me it is much worse.
"Suppose, then, a young man, well born, and so far well trained, at twenty years of age, away from home, falls into bad company, and, yielding to temptation, commits a great crime, but, escaping by a bit of sagacious stratagem, succeeds in causing his parents to believe that he is dead and mourn him as such, wholly unsuspicious in their minds that he has committed a crime. In the meantime he, in a distant land, lives a useful and honorable life, deeply repenting the sad mishap of his life, and fully redeeming his crime, so that no one but himself and the unhappy parents suffer by his unfortunate act. Furthermore, he occupies a most honorable and useful position, his employer, of course, knowing nothing of his previous misdeeds. Now, as already has been inferred, this young man is living a pure and honorable life, loved by all who know him; but he claims that to reveal to his parents the fact that he is alive would entail more and deeper sorrow upon them than to allow them to continue to believe him dead. He declares that they would suffer less in believing him dead than to know him to be a living criminal.
"Now, my dear Bishop, I write this note to you, calling it hypothetical; but to me, it is more than hypothetical—it is a real case. This young man is one of my patients, and I love him as dearly as if he were my own son for his noble qualities and his sincere penitence, as well as for the pure life he lives. His physical condition is indeed precarious, and I feel sure that his life will be shortened unless he receives relief. Kindly give me your righteous judgment of this case. I have his confidence, and cannot betray it; hence the secrecy of this inquiry.
"Sincerely yours,
A few days later the doctor received the following:
"MY DEAR DOCTOR MARMION: Your hypothetical (?) note is here. I have read it several times, with increasing interest, and with a prayerful desire to be able to assist you to arrive at a righteous decision in what seems to be a very important matter.
"First. You say (if I understand correctly) that restitution has been made to the parties against whom the crime was perpetrated. That is well and so far satisfactory.
"But, second. The crime was a double one. Whenthatwrong was righted to the first parties, then the second parties, in the deception practiced upon them, suffered more and longer than the parties of the first part, so that really the crime is only partially expiated until the wronged parents are undeceived, and he has made his peace with them. I feel safe in saying that this young man will never be happy, nor his physical condition improved, until he pays the full price of his sin. All who have been wronged must be righted. Depend upon it, his life will be chaotic, unreliable, and unhappy until he makes a clean breast of it to his parents. When he does this, if I were his father, I would take him to my heart, and give him a father's love and forgiveness. If I were his employer, and he came to me honestly confessing his sin, I should not dare to withhold either my confidence or my love. I should pity as a father pities, and I should say: "Go, sin no more."
"Now, my dear Doctor, in conclusion, this son (not you) should be the one to undeceive the parents. I can and do understand thedelicate reasonwhich actuates him in fearing to undeceive his parents in regard to his being alive, while they have and do believe him dead. If you can remove this deep impression from his mind, all will soon be right.But he must do this himself, not by letter either, he must go to his father; yes, he must arise and go to his father.
"Affectionately yours,
The bishop sat in his office six feet away from his secretary, while writing this letter of reply, and when he had concluded it he did as was his custom in his correspondence—passed both letters over to his secretary to read aloud.
In a few moments Carl picked up Marmion's letter. After reading a few sentences he halted, saying: "Bishop, this seems to be a confidential letter. Shall I continue?"
"O, yes," replied the bishop, "there are no names mentioned; read on. I want to know if my answer sounds right, and I can learn that best by hearing it read."
Carl had grasped the spirit and meaning, and he already knew what was coming. But he proceeded and somewhat hesitatingly read it through. Having done this, he was in the act of handing both letters back, when the good bishop, with a wave of his hand, said: "Now read my reply, please,thatis the most important thing—read slowly, please."
The dismayed secretary felt that this was indeed crucifixion. Why had not the doctor spared him this? Did he not know that the letter would come under his eye? His first thought was to decline under the plea of nervousness; then, he thought this would be cowardly and unmanly. No, he would read, and at the close would decide. The bishop was a poor scribe, and his writing was always difficult to decipher; so taking this as an excuse, he plodded along slowly, and thereby gave himself a chance to hide his real feelings. But still he found this a difficult task, for his voice trembled perceptibly, and when he came to the latter part, where the father said he would welcome his son back to his home and heart, he stopped, his head dropped upon his hand on the table, and the paper fell from his grasp to the floor. The bishop arose quickly, and caught him in his arms, or he too would have fallen. In a few moments, with the assistance of Alice, Carl was laid upon two chairs. The bishop with the assistance of the registrar, who was hastily summoned from the next room, bore the unconscious secretary into another room and laid him upon the bed.
The terrible strain had been too much for the young man's weak condition. It was not long, however, before he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking up, he saw Alice gazing at him with anxious solicitude, while with her soft hand she was bathing his temples and brow.
Then all the circumstances came back to him, and he heard the gentle voice of the young girl bending over him. "Carl, dear," she was saying, "you are better now, and will soon be all right again."
"Alice," said the young man, faintly, "I shall never be all right again.It is too late."
"No, it is not too late, Carl," was the smiling reply, "you have many happy years before you. You are not strong. You must have a rest, and then your strength will return and so will your courage."
Mrs. Albertson came in at this point, bringing a cup of tea and a wafer, and succeeded in getting the patient to drink the tea. Then the bishop returned quietly and took a chair by the bedside, and soon both ladies retired.
This incident had been a revelation to the slowly acting powers of the bishop's mind; a quicker perception would have grasped the whole case much sooner, and might have obviated much trouble. But now the revelation had forced itself upon the unsuspecting mind of the prelate. Now he fully understood Dr. Marmion's letter, and, also, the cause of Carl's fainting. All his fatherly instincts were aroused, and taking the hand of the revived youth, he said, very tenderly: "My poor boy."
"O, Bishop," sobbed the young man, "Let me go! Turn me out! I have been a living lie to you and yours."
In his rapidly returning strength he arose as he thus spoke. "Forgive me," he continued, disconsolately, "and let me get away out of your sight. I will disgrace you no longer." He had secured his hat and moved toward the door, but the bishop gently detained him, saying: "Wait, Carl. Do nothing in haste. If you are sufficiently strong let us walk out into the park. The fresh air will help you."
It was a beautiful autumn day. All around them the scene was bright and peaceful. The trees were beginning to cast off their leaves. In the exercise grounds the laughter of the students in their games was heard, emphasizing the happiness of life and the joy of living. They sat down on one of the rustic seats. After a few moments of silence, and when Carl seemed to have become more calm, the bishop in a subdued tone said: "My dear boy, I am glad this hour has come. You have my sincere forgiveness, as well as my unbroken confidence. Let that suffice between you and me; I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and I love you more than ever. But, Carl, there is yet another duty which you must perform. It has been left too long undone already. It should have had the first place, but it is not too late."
"I know, I know," interrupted the youth, desperately, "but it is impossible. How can I tell my father and mother that their son lives, and that he is a criminal and a liar? Can I inflict this upon them? They have by this time passed through the bitterest pang in believing me to be dead. Why now bring a deeper sorrow to their hearts?"
"Listen, my son; let me talk a moment without interruption. You are notnowresponsible for consequences.You owe this debt and it must be paid. It is just as much a part of the debt you owe—yes, just as much as the money that you returned. You cannot repudiate it and retain your self-respect. No man can respect himself any more than he can respect another who is able and yet refuses to pay a just debt. Now, you have paid your debt to the bank, and they have forgiven you. You have confessed your fault to me, and I gladly pardon you, and this confession and repentance enhances my love for you. Now, think you that your father and mother will do less? You are both unjust and unkind to him whom I have known and loved from my earliest manhood; and I must, also, add, that if you still refuse to pay this part of your debt, my confidence in your repentance will be lessened."
"Bishop," said the youth, slowly, as if weighing well his words, "I see it all now. But how can I do this? Can you not, will you not, write to my father?"
"No, Carl," was the reply, "you must, in response to your honest heart, do this yourself, nor must it be done through a letter."
Carl was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he arose. "Bishop," said he,"I will follow your advice. I will leave at once for England."
"This, my boy," said the bishop, also rising, "is what you must do. I was sure you would see it in this light. It is the only course."
At midnight Carl caught the New York boat, landing in that city in time for early breakfast.
Carl could not pass through the city without calling upon his kind friend Marmion. The Doctor was delighted to see him, and especially when he learned the young man's errand—that he was on his way to pay the last installment of his debt.
He prevailed upon Carl to stay with him until the following Saturday, and then accompanied him to the steamer Europa, on which Carl sailed for Liverpool.
The Right Reverend Leonidas McLaren, Bishop of Durham, paced his room with nervous tread that was uncommon with him. He wasthinking, and every few moments he turned to look at his wife, who had been engaged with a piece of embroidery upon her lap. The day was closing, and a soft melody from the piano, at which the young daughter sat, was the only sound which broke the stillness of the twilight hour. Frequently at this hour the little family found themselves indulging in thoughts of the sad experience which had come to them. More than a year and a half had passed since had been enacted the tragedy which brought to them their great trouble, and yet resignation had hardly been perfected—a sad lingering hope still clung to them even in the midst of their apparent despair.
"Tomorrow would have been his anniversary day," murmured the mother, sadly, "who knows, but that, after all, he may come back."
"My dear," said the bishop, pausing in front of her, and laying his hand gently upon her shoulder, "I think we mistake in trying to deceive ourselves. It is better to cultivate the spirit of resignation."
At this moment, Joseph, the house man, entered and quietly approaching the bishop, handed him a card. Glancing at the card, the bishop said: "Conduct him to the reception room. I will be there presently." Written with pencil on the card were the words: "A stranger desires to see you." That was all.
The bishop laid the card upon the stand by his wife's side and left the room.
The visitor's back was toward the bishop as he entered. He wore a long duster, and held his hat in his hand. The bishop's quiet salutation caused the man to turn partially around, and at the sight of his face the bishop started slightly and asked: "Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?"
"Father! Don't you know me?" burst from the visitor's lips, and then his eyes fell, as if he were overwhelmed with a sense of shame and remorse.
The bishop raised his hand in a gesture of blank amazement. Surely this mature man could not possibly be his son!
But at this moment his wife pushed past him exclaiming: "It is Edward, it is Edward!" She threw her arms around Carl's neck, and the next moment he was supporting her unconscious form, for she had fainted. The bishop recovering from his astonishment assisted Carl in placing her upon a sofa, and an instant later Eleen, the daughter, was at her side. The bishop embraced the trembling, tearful prodigal, but could only inarticulately murmur: "My boy—my boy—you have come back—you have come back! Can it really be you—Edward?"
"Yes, father," sobbed the young man, "I am, indeed, Edward, your son; but I am no more worthy to be thus called. I have sinned, father, against you and in heaven's sight."
"Sinned," said his father, still embracing him. "What of that? Are you not my son, and are you not living? O, how is this? We had so nearly given you up."
Nor was his sister's welcome less affectionate. "You are my brother Eddie," she exclaimed, kissing him fondly, "and you are alive! You were not drowned. O, we hardly dared to hope for this!"
The mother's eyes at last opened, and she motioned for her son to come and sit by her side on the sofa. Then, with mother's arms around him, and father and sister near, he told the sad story of his fall, with all the consequences that had followed—the return of the money, and his confession to Bishop Albertson. "The Lord has forgiven me," he said, "the bank has lost nothing and forgiven my crime. Bishop Albertson has blotted it all out and loves me more dearly than ever, and gives me, as before, his full confidence. But all this was not sufficient to give me peace, and I have crossed the sea to confess to you my sin against you, and ask your pardon." The mother's arms were around his neck, the father's hands were upon his head, and Eleen held his hands in her own. All wept in silence a moment or two, but the tears were tears of joy.
Then the father spoke with trembling voice: "My son was dead and is alive again," he said. "He was lost and is found. Pardoned? Yes, joyously pardoned! Forgiven by heaven, forgiven on earth. My heart gratefully pardons all your errors toward me and mine. And now, my son, consecrate yourself this day to God's service, and may your future life be so loyal and noble that he who has been so loving and forbearing to us all and restored you to his favor, may at last crown you with 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'"
It was past midnight before they became aware of it. Joseph came in to escort Mr. Edward, as he familiarly called him, to his room, but the young man excused himself, since he had engaged a room at the hotel and his baggage was there; but tomorrow he would come to them.
He returned to his lodging, where he slept as he had not slept during one and a half years.
The next day was a great occasion at the episcopal residence. The early morning service conveyed the strange, but glad, news to all who were present that the good bishop's long absent son had returned, and they in turn transmitted it to their friends. He was supposed to have been drowned more than a year ago, and this day was the twentieth anniversary of his birth. The house was filled with callers from early morning until late at night. And thus it was for many days.
If anyone associated the reported drowning with the event of the bank robbery, they never so expressed themselves, nor was his whereabouts during his absence discussed in other than a friendly way. Nevertheless, the returned wanderer was not wholly at ease. He suspected that the kindly and refined nature of these friends silenced many questions which doubtless were in their minds, and often a lull in the conversation filled him with fear and dread of an inadvertent inquiry.