THE ARTIST.
Sprague was a dilettante in art as he was in life. If he had not been rich, he might perhaps have become a great artist. But, lacking the spur of poverty, he seemed incapable of sustained effort. Occasionally he was seized with a frenzy for labor; and, for weeks at a time, he would shut himself up in his studio, until he had creditably accomplished some bit of work. But the fever was soon spent, and a reaction invariably followed, during which palette and brush were taken up only in desultory fashion. Thus it was that at the age of eight and twenty, Sprague had painted a few pictures which had attracted favorable attention at the annual exhibitions of the Academy of Design, and which the critics had spoken of as "promising"; and thus it was that the promise was as yet unfulfilled, and that Sprague, though a man of undoubted talent, was not likely ever to rank as a genius in his profession.
Sturgis, with his keen insight into human nature, fully realized the potential capacities of the artist, and at times he could not control his impatience at his friend's inert drifting through life. But, with all their differences, these two men held each other in the highest esteem, each admiring in the other those very qualities which were lacking in himself.
The artist lived in a fashionable quarter of the city, in a bachelor apartment which included a large and commodious studio fitted up according to the latest canons of artistic taste.
On this particular New Year's morning, after waking and observing, by the filtering of a few bright sunbeams through the closely drawn blinds, that it was broad daylight, he stretched himself with a voluptuous yawn and prepared to relapse into the sensuous enjoyment of that semi-somnolent state which succeeds a night of calm and refreshing sleep.
Just as he was settling himself comfortably, however, he was startled by a knock at the bedroom door. Most men, under the circumstances, would have betrayed some vexation at being thus unceremoniously disturbed. But there was no suspicion of annoyance in Sprague's cheery voice, as he exclaimed:
"You cannot come in yet, Mrs. O'Meagher. I am asleep, and I shall be asleep for another hour at the least. Surely you cannot have forgotten that to-day is a holiday. Happy New Year! You have time to go to several masses before——"
"Get up, old lazybones; and don't keep a man waiting at your door in this inhospitable way, when he is in a hurry," interrupted a voice whose timbre was not that of the housekeeper, Mrs. O'Meagher.
"Oh! is that you, Sturgis?" laughed the artist. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself to come routing honest men out of bed at this unseemly hour? Wait a minute, till I put on my court costume, that I may receive you with the honors and ceremonies due to your rank and station."
A couple of minutes later, the artist, picturesquely attired in a loose oriental dressing gown and fez, opened the door to his friend, Ralph Sturgis.
"Come in, old man," he said, cordially extending his hand to the reporter; "you are welcome at any hour of the day or night. What is it now? This is not your digestion call, I presume."
"No," replied Sturgis, "I merely dropped in to say that I should be unable to take our projected bicycle trip this afternoon, I shall probably be busy with the Knickerbocker bank case all day. By the way, if you would like to come to the bank with me, I shall be glad of your company. I am on my way there now."
"I should like nothing better," said Sprague, "but I have made an appointment for this morning with a——er——er——with a sitter."
"What, on New Year's day, you heathen!"
Sturgis observed the artist closely, and then added quizzically:
"Accept my congratulations, old man."
"Your congratulations?" inquired Sprague, coloring slightly.
"Yes; my congratulations and my condolence. My congratulations on the fact that she is young and beautiful, and possessed of all those qualities of mind and heart which——and so on and so forth. My condolence because I fear you are hit, at last."
"What do you mean?" stammered the artist sheepishly; "do you know her? What do you know about her?"
"Nothing whatever," replied Sturgis laughing, "except what you are telling me by your hesitations, your reticence and your confusion."
The artist spoke after a moment of thoughtful silence:
"Your inductions in this case are premature, to say the least. My sitter is a young lady, so much is undeniably true. And there is no doubt in my mind as to her possession of all the qualities you jocularly attribute to her; but my interest in her is only that of the artist in a beautiful and charming woman.
"At any rate," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "I hope so; for I have heard that she is as good as betrothed to another man."
The reporter's keen ear detected in his friend's tones a touch of genuine sadness of which the artist himself was probably unconscious. Laying his hand gently upon Sprague's shoulder, he said gravely:
"I hope so too, old man; for you are one of those foolish men whose lives can be ruined by an unhappy love affair. I suppose it is useless to preach to you;—more's the pity—but, in my humble opinion, no woman's love is worth the sacrifice of a good man's life."
"Yes, I know your opinion on that subject, you old cynic," replied Sprague, "but you need not worry on my account; not yet, at all events. I am still safe; the portrait is almost finished; and I should be a fool to walk into such a scrape with my eyes wide open."
"Humph!" ejaculated Sturgis skeptically, "when a man makes a fool of himself for a woman, it matters little whether his eyes be open or shut; the result is the same."
Sprague laughed somewhat uneasily; and then, as if to change the subject:
"Come and see the picture," he said. "I should like your opinion of it."
The reporter consulted his watch.
"I shall have to come back some other time for that," he replied; "I must hurry off now to keep my appointment with Mr. Dunlap."
He started toward the door; but suddenly facing Sprague again, he held out his hand to the artist, who pressed it cordially.
"Good-bye, old man," he said affectionately; "be as sensible as you can, and don't wantonly play with the fire."
And before Sprague could frame an answer, the reporter was gone.
The artist remained thoughtfully standing until his friend's footsteps had died away in the distance. Then he turned and walked slowly into the studio. Here, in the middle of the room, stood an easel, upon which was the portrait of a beautiful young girl.
Sprague gazed at it long and earnestly. Then he heaved an almost inaudible sigh.
"Sturgis is right," he said to himself, turning away at last, "and——and I am a confounded idiot!"
AGNES MURDOCK.
In a quarter of the city which is rapidly surrendering to the relentless encroachments of trade, there still stand a few old-fashioned houses, the sole survivors of what was once an aristocratic settlement.
One by one their fellows have been sapped and swept away by the resistless tide of commerce, until these ancient dwellings, stubbornly contesting a position already lost, now rear their sepulchral brown-stone fronts in stiff and solitary grandeur—huge sarcophagi in a busy mart.
One of these houses stands well back from the street line, the traditional backyard of the ordinary New York dwelling having been sacrificed, in this instance, to make room for a tiny garden, which is separated from the street by a tall spiked iron railing, behind which grows an arborvitæ hedge. The former serves as a defence against the marauding of the irrepressible metropolitan gamin; while the latter confers upon the occupants of the garden a semblance of protection from the curious gaze of the passers-by.
This property, having been the subject of an interminable lawsuit, had remained for many years unoccupied, and was even beginning to be regarded by some of the neighbors as haunted, when at last it was bought by Doctor Murdock, a wealthy widower with an only daughter. For some months masons and carpenters were at work; and then, one day, the new occupants entered into possession.
The Murdocks lived quietly but luxuriously, like people accustomed to wealth. They had their horses and carriages, their house at Lenox and at Newport, and their yacht. Their circle of acquaintances was large, and included not only the fashionable set, but also a scientific, literary and artistic set. For Doctor Murdock was a chemist of national reputation, a member of several scientific bodies, and a man of great intelligence and broad culture.
On this particular New Year's morning, Doctor Murdock was seated in his study, apparently absorbed in reading the daily papers, a pile of which lay upon his table. His occupation might perhaps more accurately be described as skimming the daily papers; for each journal in turn was subjected to a rapid scrutiny, and only a few columns seemed occasionally to interest the reader.
There was no haste visible in the Doctor's actions, each one of which appeared to be performed with the coolness and deliberation of a man who is not the slave of time; and yet, so systematic were they, that, all lost motion being avoided, every operation was rapidly completed.
In a short time the pile of newspapers had been disposed of, and the Doctor, lighting a choice cigar, leaned back in his comfortable armchair and placidly puffed the wreathes of fragrant smoke ceilingward. He was apparently satisfied with the world and with himself, this calm, passionless man. And yet a sharp observer would have noted an almost imperceptible furrow between the eyes, which might perhaps have indicated only the healthy mental activity of an ordinary man; but which, in one given so little to outward manifestation of feeling as Doctor Murdock, might also betoken more or less serious annoyance or displeasure.
While the chemist sat in this pensive attitude, there was a rustle of skirts outside, and presently there came a gentle knock at the door of the study.
"Come in!" said Murdock, removing the cigar from his lips.
The door opened, admitting a tall and beautiful young girl, evidently not long out of her teens.
"Do I disturb you, father?" she asked, stepping lightly into the room.
"No, Agnes," replied Murdock courteously; "as you see, I am indulging in a period ofdolce far niente."
The young girl laughed a clear, silvery laugh, as her eyes fell upon the pile of newspapers.
"If the reading of a dozen newspapers isdolce far niente, I should think you would welcome hard work as a pleasant change."
"Oh!" replied her father, "the work I have done on those has not amounted to much. I have only been gleaning the news from the morning papers.
"Yes," he added, answering her surprised look, "it takes a deal of skim milk to yield a little cream."
The last paper which Murdock had been examining lay upon the desk before him. From the closely printed columns stood out in bold relief the glaring headlines:
MURDER IN A CAB.MYSTERIOUS ASSASSINATION OF AN UNKNOWN MAN, IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.CABMAN REILLY DENIES ALL KNOWLEDGE OF THE CRIME.
MURDER IN A CAB.
MYSTERIOUS ASSASSINATION OF AN UNKNOWN MAN, IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
CABMAN REILLY DENIES ALL KNOWLEDGE OF THE CRIME.
Miss Murdock's glance rested carelessly upon these words for an instant. They aroused in her nothing more than the mild curiosity which attaches to events of palpitating human interest, when they have been congealed in the columns of the daily newspaper and served to palates already sated with sensational verbosity.
"Mary said you wished to speak to me," said the young girl, after a short pause. "I thought I would step in to see you before going to Mr. Sprague's."
"To Sprague's?" inquired Murdock, fixing his keen eyes upon the young girl. "Ah, yes; I remember he spoke of the appointment last night. How is the portrait coming on?"
"It is almost finished. Probably only one or two more sittings, at the most, will be necessary."
Agnes seemed slightly embarrassed by the fixity of her father's searching glance. She settled herself in an armchair and assumed a look of deferent expectancy.
Not a word of affection had passed between father and daughter; not a caress had been interchanged. The relations between this impassive man and his charming daughter were those of well-bred, if somewhat distant, relatives. On the one hand, there was the uniform courtesy of the man of the world toward a woman; on the other, the deference of a young girl of good breeding toward a person much older than herself. But the note of cordial and intimate affection between father and child was absolutely missing.
And yet Agnes Murdock was naturally of an affectionate and expansive nature. During her mother's lifetime the two women had been inseparable companions, united by a strong bond of sympathy.
Mrs. Murdock had been an invalid for many years before her death, and with Agnes had lived either abroad or in the South during much of the time in order to escape the rigors of the northern climate. Thus the father, engrossed as he was with his occupations and his scientific researches, had seen but little of his daughter during her childhood, and had been looked upon by the child almost as a stranger.
When at last, after her mother's death, Agnes, heartbroken at the loss of her only friend, returned to the paternal roof, she was a girl of sixteen. In the first loneliness of her bereavement, when, hungering for human sympathy and consolation, she turned to her father, she received patient and courteous attention, with an offer of all the material comforts and luxuries which wealth could procure; but she failed to find the only thing she needed—a responsive human heart.
And yet, behind the cold and selfish exterior of the chemist, the young girl had touched a chord which had never vibrated before in this strange man's being. It is probable that the feeling awakened in him by his lovely daughter was the nearest approach to an absorbing human affection of which his nature was capable. Perhaps if the child had been sufficiently experienced to read her father's heart she might have persisted in her advances, and thus ultimately have conquered the cold reserve she had at first encountered. But she was proud and impulsive, and, bitterly disappointed in her first attempt to win from her father a demonstration of affection, she withdrew into her isolation, and ever after met his calm courtesy with an equally reserved deference. The abnormal situation, which at first was maintained only by an effort on the part of the young girl, lost with time much of its strangeness, and ultimately crystallized under the potent force of habit, so that it was accepted by the two as the natural outcome of their relationship.
In the first pang of her bereavement and disappointment, Agnes had turned for consolation to her books; and, being left free to dispose of her life as she saw fit, she had planned a course of study, which had in due time received its consecration at one of the leading colleges for women.
Upon her return from college she had, as far as she was permitted, taken charge of her father's household, and had presided with charming dignity and grace over the social functions for which Doctor Murdock's house now became famous. Up to the time of his daughter's advent the chemist's relations with the world had been chiefly through the clubs and scientific bodies to which he belonged. He was well received in the homes of the members of New York society; but in the absence of a woman to do the honors of his own home, he was unable to return the hospitality which he enjoyed. Now, however, everything was changed. Agnes was glad to find an outlet for her energies in the task of receiving her father's guests, and, being a girl of remarkable intelligence and tact, she succeeded in creating a salon, in the best sense of the word. Many of the shining lights in the world of art, literature, science and fashion were among the regular devotees at the shrine of this superb young goddess.
Among the younger men more than one gay moth, dazzled by the light of the girl's beautiful eyes, had been tempted to hover near the flame, only to scorch his wings. Miss Murdock had already refused several of the "best matches" of the city during her two seasons, much to the relief of those young men who had not yet summoned up courage enough to try their fate, and much to the disgust of a few amiable young women and several designing mammas. The latter could not help but deprecate the wicked selfishness of a young girl who hypothecated and thus rendered temporarily unavailable much potential matrimonial stock, which, in the nature of things, would ultimately be thrown back on the market upon the selection by the fair one of that single bond to whose exclusive possession she was limited by the laws of church and state.
The fact of the matter was, that Agnes Murdock's ideal of life was high. She was determined, if she ever embarked upon a matrimonial venture, to do so only with a reasonably good prospect of finding in the wedded state a satisfactory outlet for the depths of affection which had remained so long unapplied in her tender maiden heart. No one among the young men who had sought her hand had seemed worthy of the great love she was ready to bestow. She was, therefore, still awaiting her fate.
"You wished to see me, sir?" the young girl gently insinuated.
"Yes," said Murdock, with great deliberation; "I wished to speak to you about——"
He watched her face intently, as if to read the effect which his words would produce. The light in his eyes was almost tender; but Agnes was not skilled in reading their scarcely perceptible shades of expression. She looked up inquiringly, noting only the slight hesitation in her father's speech.
"About a young man——" continued Murdock, with a quizzical smile.
A flush mounted to the girl's cheeks, and she fixed her eyes upon space.
"A young man who admires you greatly, and who——"
"Has he asked you to tell me this?" inquired Agnes, somewhat impatiently.
"Oh! dear no," laughed the chemist; "he is only too anxious to do so himself. He is a most impetuous fellow. But I thought it best to prepare you——"
"May I ask the name of your protégé?" interrupted the young girl.
"Did I say he was my protégé?" asked Murdock, gently. "I certainly had no intention of conveying any such impression. His name is Chatham—Thomas Chatham."
A look, half of amusement, half of vexation, came into the girl's eyes. It did not escape Murdock's close scrutiny.
"I judge from your reception of the gentleman's name, that his suit is not likely to meet with much favor in your eyes."
"I am not aware that I have ever given Mr. Chatham any reason to believe that it would," answered Agnes, stiffly.
"And yet you must have understood the drift of his attentions during the last few months, since——"
"Since it has been perfectly clear to every one else, you mean?
"And yet," the young girl continued, reflectively, "I do not see how, without downright rudeness, I could have done more than I have to show him that his attentions have been distasteful to me."
"Then I may infer," said Murdock, smiling, "that you would not break your heart if——"
He seemed to hesitate in the choice of his words.
"If he should conclude to go abroad on a long journey without subjecting you to his impending proposal."
"On the contrary, father," admitted Agnes, "I should be everlastingly grateful to you if such a consummation could be brought about without unnecessary rudeness or cruelty towards Mr. Chatham."
"Very well, Agnes, that is all I wanted to see you about."
Agnes looked curiously at her father, as if to read the purpose hidden in the depths of his inscrutable eyes. She saw nothing but a polite dismissal in his calm face; and the interview between father and daughter ended, as it had begun, with formal courtesy on both sides.
THE PORTRAIT.
Sprague was seated before his easel arranging his palette for the morning's work. The unfinished portrait of Agnes Murdock looked down upon him with eyes of living beauty. Occasionally the artist would bestow a deft touch upon the glowing canvas and would retire to a distance to note with a critical eye the new effect. Then he would consult his watch in nervous impatience; and, going to the window, he would glance anxiously up and down the street. Once or twice the rumble of wheels caused him to look up in glad expectancy, which gradually gave way to gloomy discontent as the noise died away in the distance.
At length hope seemed to depart altogether from the young man's breast. He threw down his brushes, gave up all pretence of work and drifted off into a brown study. His eyes, fixed upon those of the portrait, had a troubled look in them;—so troubled, that it was clearly out of all proportion to the professional disappointment of a painter kept waiting for a fair subject.
So absorbed did he become in his gloomy meditations, that, when at last a carriage stopped before the house, the artist did not hear it. But when, presently, a gentle tap sounded upon the door of the studio, he sprang to his feet, as if he had received an electric shock.
Perhaps he had; for it was followed by a rapid current of delicious thrills tingling through every nerve and effecting in his whole being a sudden and marvelous transformation. At once the furrowed brow was smooth; the drooping lips were wreathed in smiles; the troubled look gave way to one of glad welcome.
For she had come at last. There she stood, with laughing brown eyes and glowing cheeks, when Sprague threw open the door. Alas, as usual, she was accompanied by her maid. Never mind; was it not enough to have her there at all, to bask in the sunshine of her smile, to look into the dangerous depths of those soul-stirring eyes, to listen to the rippling of her silvery voice?
"I fear I am a little late, Mr. Sprague; I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. But you see this is how it was——"
What mattered it to him now how it was? Was she not there? An eternity of suspense and misery would have been wiped out by that single entrancing fact. Her words beat upon his ear like rapturous melody; he drank them in, hardly conscious of their meaning.
Agnes Murdock, followed by her maid, proceeded at once to the dressing-room set apart for the use of the artist's models. When she returned, dressed for the sitting, she assumed under Sprague's directions the pose of the portrait, while the artist critically arranged her draperies and adjusted the shades and screens.
The maid had remained in the dressing-room.
"And so these are positively the last final touches, are they, Mr. Sprague?" asked the young girl mischievously, after a few minutes. "You artists seem to be quite as uncertain about your farewell appearances as any famous actress or singer."
The artist looked up quickly as the girl spoke. An expression of pain crossed his features.
"Yes, Miss Murdock," he answered gravely. "I shall not have to trouble you to pose again."
Miss Murdock's attention was attracted by the melancholy note in his voice. She observed him from the corner of her eyes in kindly curiosity.
The artist fell into a moody silence. For a while he worked with feverish activity at the portrait; and then, gradually falling into a fit of melancholy abstraction, he sat, with poised brush, gazing intently at the beautiful girl before him. His task forgotten, he was apparently unconscious that he was taking advantage of his privileged position to stare at his fair subject. Agnes felt his burning glance and was embarrassed by it; but, womanlike, she retained control of herself, outwardly, at all events, as she uttered some commonplace remark, which broke the spell and brought the artist to his senses with a sharp consciousness of his rudeness. He replied to the young girl's question in a low, changed voice, and then relapsed into a gloomy silence. After an awkward interval he asked suddenly:
"Are you so very glad, Miss Murdock, that our sittings are almost over?"
"Why, no, Mr. Sprague," replied Agnes; "I did not mean that. Of course I shall be glad when the portrait is finished, because I wish to have it home and to let my friends see it. But I should be indeed ungrateful if I begrudged my poor little time and trouble, when yours have been so lavishly and so ungrudgingly spent."
"These sittings have been a source of so much pleasure to me," continued Sprague thoughtfully, "that I have selfishly overlooked the fact that they could only be an annoyance and a bore to you. I fear I have needlessly prolonged them."
"But indeed, Mr. Sprague, I assure you it has been anything but a bore to me to pose. I am sure I shall miss the pleasant morning hours I have spent here."
"They have been the happiest hours of my life," said Sprague earnestly in a low voice, "and now they are nearly gone——forever."
Agnes started slightly, blushed, and riveted her gaze upon the dainty white hands which lay clasped together in her lap. Her bosom rose and fell in quickened undulations.
"Why forever, Mr. Sprague?" she asked softly; "do you think of leaving New York?"
"No," he replied quickly; "it is you who are about to desert this studio, which for a short time has been brightened by your presence——"
"Well," interrupted Agnes, "since you are not going to leave New York, I hope you will continue to call on us."
"I suppose I shall continue to call on your reception days, if that is what you mean," said Sprague somewhat disconsolately.
"Now that," laughed Agnes, "is not in line with the polite things you have been saying."
"I did not mean to say anything rude, Miss Murdock, but a call on your reception day is a call on your guests. Surrounded as you are on such occasions, one has barely a chance to catch a glimpse of you, much less to speak with you."
"We are always glad to see our friends at other times than on our reception days."
"Do you really mean it?" asked the artist eagerly. "May I call on you sometimes when the crowd is not there?"
"We shall be happy to have you call at any time, Mr. Sprague."
Sprague thought he detected a slight emphasis on the pronoun.
"But it is notweI wish to call on. It isyou, Miss Murdock."
Once more the young girl's expressive eyes fixed their gaze upon the delicate hands in her lap, and once more there was a scarcely perceptible flutter beneath the lace which lay upon her white throat.
The artist sat with intent eyes fixed upon her.
"Of course I shall be pleased to have you call at any time, Mr. Sprague," she said after a brief instant.
What more could any sane man expect a modest girl to say? It is not so much the words spoken as the manner of their utterance that conveys meaning. But it is a truism that a lover is not a sane man. Sprague was not yet satisfied. He was about to speak again, when a knock sounded upon the door.
It was the hall-boy with a letter.
"Miss Murdock?" he inquired, glancing in the direction of the young girl.
"For me?" exclaimed Agnes, surprised.
"Yes, Miss; a gentleman left it for you."
Agnes took the letter, inspected it curiously for an instant; then, excusing herself, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the note which it contained.
At once a deep flush suffused her face, and an expression of annoyance passed over her features. She glanced up hastily at Sprague, who was apparently hard at work upon the background of the picture.
The hall-boy was waiting expectantly.
"There is no answer," said Agnes quietly.
And as the stern mandates of fashion either forbid a woman to wear a pocket, or else decree that it shall be located in some practically inaccessible position, the young girl dropped the letter and its envelope into her lap and resumed the pose.
Sprague tried to renew the conversation where it had been interrupted; but his efforts were in vain. Both he and Agnes were preoccupied during the balance of the sitting.
When at last the time came for Miss Murdock to leave, Sprague accompanied her to her carriage. After watching it until it disappeared around the corner, he returned moodily to the studio.
As he entered the room, his eyes fixed in a vacant stare upon the floor, he caught sight of something white—a sheet of paper—resting there. Mechanically he pushed it to one side with his foot.
The sunshine seemed to have gone with Agnes Murdock. A gloom had fallen upon the place and its occupant. The artist tried to work; but he was restless and depressed. At length he threw down his brushes; and rising from the easel, he put on his hat and coat and started out for a walk, in the hope that exercise would drive away the blue devils whose grip he felt tightening upon his heartstrings.
Meeting some friends in the course of his aimless wanderings, he was persuaded to spend the rest of the day in their company, and returned to his bachelor quarters late in the evening, tired enough physically to obtain that healthful sleep which is the boon of strong youth.
THE KNICKERBOCKER BANK.
Richard Dunlap was a man who had never missed a train nor been late in keeping an appointment. On the morning following Sprague's dinner party, he walked briskly down Broadway from City Hall. It was New Year's day; the great thoroughfare was deserted. As he turned into Wall Street, the hands of the clock in Trinity steeple pointed to three minutes of nine. The financier pulled out his chronometer, found that the clock in the old belfry was right, and quickened his pace.
Wall Street slumbered peacefully and silently, like a battle-field after the roar of the cannon has been hushed, after the victors and the vanquished have disappeared, leaving behind them only the ghosts of the slain. The deathlike stillness was oppressive.
At last, as Dunlap reached the Knickerbocker bank, the clock in the belfry struck the hour. The reporter was not there. The banker uttered an ejaculation of annoyance. He looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. He resolved to give Sturgis five minutes grace, and began to pace back and forth before the entrance to the bank. Then a thought struck him. There was another entrance on Exchange Place—that generally used by the employés and officials. Perhaps the reporter was waiting there. Dunlap walked around to Exchange Place and glanced up the street. He saw a man standing in the gutter and bending low over the curb. Dunlap advanced so as to obtain a front view of him and recognized Sturgis. The reporter had not noticed his approach; he held a magnifying glass in his hand and seemed deeply interested in a minute examination of the smooth-worn curb.
"Good morning, Mr. Sturgis," said the banker, "have you lost something?"
The reporter looked up quietly.
"No, Mr. Dunlap; I have found something;—something which may possibly prove to be a hyphen."
"A what?" asked the banker, perplexed.
"A hyphen connecting two parts of a very pretty little puzzle."
Dunlap stared curiously at the curb.
"I can see nothing there," said he.
Sturgis handed him the magnifying glass.
"Now look again."
He pointed out a particular portion of the curb. Dunlap looked in the direction indicated.
"I see what looks like dried mud, dust particles, and a little dark spot or stain."
"Yes," said Sturgis, "that dark spot is the hyphen. There were probably others like it on the sidewalk yesterday afternoon, but they have been obliterated by the pedestrians. Here, however, are some that have remained."
As he spoke, he led Dunlap to the Exchange Place entrance of the bank, and pointed out a number of similar spots on the stone steps.
"Fortunately," he said, as if speaking to himself, "fortunately the detectives entered through the front door last night; so that they did not interfere with this portion of the trail."
"But what are these spots?" asked the banker.
"They are blood-stains," replied the reporter. "I have every reason to believe them to be human blood. But that question I can settle positively as soon as we are in the bank, for I have brought a powerful microscope. Let us enter now, if you like; I have seen all there is to be seen outside. By the way, do you know this key?"
He held up a large steel key of complicated structure.
"Why," exclaimed Dunlap surprised, "that looks like the key to the Exchange Place door. Where did you find it?"
"In the gutter, near the sewer opening at the corner."
"But how did it get there?" asked Dunlap anxiously.
"Perhaps I shall be able to answer that question presently," said Sturgis. "Shall we go in now? No, not that way. Let us enter by the Wall Street side, if you please."
A couple of minutes later, the outer door of the Knickerbocker bank was unlocked.
"Excuse me if I pass in first," said Sturgis, entering. "I wish to see something here."
He bent low over the tiled entrance, with the magnifying glass in his hand.
"It is too bad," he muttered to himself presently. "They have trodden all over the trail here. Ah! what is this?"
"What?" inquired Dunlap.
The reporter vouchsafed no reply to this question, but asked another.
"Is Thursday a general cleaning day at the bank?"
"Yes," answered the banker. "Every evening, after the closing hour, the floors are swept, of course, and the desks are dusted; but Mondays and Thursdays are reserved for washing the windows, scrubbing the floors, and so forth."
"Then it is lucky that yesterday was Thursday," observed Sturgis. "Will you please hand me the key to this gate, and that to the inner door."
Upon entering the bank, Sturgis requested his companion to seat himself on a particular chair, which he designated. He then began a critical examination of the premises. Inch by inch he scrutinized the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling; sometimes with the naked eye, sometimes through the magnifying glass. He also constantly brought into play a tape measure; and several times he called upon Dunlap for assistance, when the distances to be measured were longer than his reach.
The Wall Street entrance of the Knickerbocker bank led directly into the space to which the public was admitted. This space was partitioned off, as usual, from the bookkeepers' and cashier's departments. At the farther end, a door led into a reception room communicating with the president's office. This office itself opened into the cashier's department on one side; and on the other, into a small room occupied by the president's secretary and typewriter, and into the vestibule of the Exchange Place entrance to the bank. On the right of the vestibule was a large room in which the bank employés kept their street clothing, and to which they could retire when they were off duty. A door from the clerks' room led into the cashier's department; while another one opened into the private secretary's room.
After he had finished his inspection of the space open to the public, Sturgis, followed by Dunlap, passed into the president's reception room, and thence in turn into the other rooms, and finally into the cashier's and bookkeepers' departments.
Several times he stopped, retraced his footsteps to some particular point, and then began his search anew. At times he crawled about on his hands and knees; at others, he climbed upon the furniture, the better to examine some spot upon the wall. In the president's office he stopped to pick up a great number of tiny scraps of paper, which lay in and around the waste-basket. These he carefully placed in an envelope which he laid upon the president's table.
On one side of the room there stood a magnificent old-fashioned carved mantel-piece. The artistic beauty of the structure did not seem to strike Sturgis; but he appeared to derive a great deal of satisfaction from an inspection of the large tiled hearth. Presently, removing his coat and his cuffs, he plunged his hand into the grimy chimney and removed a handful of soot, which he examined carefully and then threw away. He repeated the operation again and again; until at last, with evident satisfaction, he picked out a small object, which he deposited in an envelope. Then, after washing his hands in the clerks' room, he passed into the cashier's department. In a corner stood the telephone closet, the door of which was open. The receiver of the instrument was down. The reporter took it up and gazed at it long and earnestly.
Sturgis's examination of the bank must have lasted over two hours. At first Richard Dunlap looked on with a mild curiosity, in which amusement struggled with good-natured skepticism. But, as time wore on, the banker began to show signs of impatience; and when at last Sturgis returned to the private office and carefully deposited upon a sheet of white paper a miscellaneous assortment of tiny scraps and shreds, the banker could scarcely conceal his dissatisfaction.
"Well, Mr. Sturgis," he said, "I hope you have nearly completed your investigation; for my leisure is not so abundant that I can afford to waste it like this."
"I need one more witness at least," replied the reporter, "and I am afraid I shall have to ask you to help me obtain it."
"But," he quickly added as he noted Dunlap's impatient gesture, "I think I can promise you that the time you are regretting has not been wasted."
The financier did not seem convinced by this assertion; but he nevertheless consented with unwilling grace to assist the reporter to the best of his ability.
"Well, then," said Sturgis, "tell me, first of all, whether you keep any fire-arms in the bank."
"Yes," replied Dunlap; "the cashier has a small revolver which he keeps in his desk, as a means of defence in case of a sudden attack by a bank thief."
"Have you a key to the desk?"
"Yes," replied the banker.
"Will you kindly see if the revolver you mention is in its place?"
"It ought to be," said Dunlap, picking out the key on a bunch which he took from his pocket, and walking towards the cashier's department with Sturgis at his heels.
"Yes, here it is in its accustomed place."
He handed the weapon to the reporter, who examined it attentively.
"Exactly," said Sturgis, with satisfaction; "this is what I was looking for."
"What do you mean?" asked Dunlap.
"I mean that this is the revolver which was fired twice last night in the Knickerbocker bank. See for yourself; two of the cartridges are empty, and the weapon has not been cleaned since these shots were fired."
"But who can have fired the pistol, and at whom was it fired, and why?"
"Hold on! hold on!" exclaimed Sturgis, smiling; "one thing at a time. We shall perhaps come to that soon. For the present, if you will come back to your private office, I shall endeavor to piece together the scraps of evidence which I have been able to collect. There, sit down in your own armchair, if you will, while I fit these bits of paper together; and in less than ten minutes I shall probably be ready to proceed with my story."
Dunlap was still nervous and impatient; but all trace of amusement and skepticism had vanished from his face, as he took the proffered armchair and watched Sturgis patiently piece together the tiny fragments of paper he had so carefully gathered. When this work was accomplished, the reporter went to the typewriter and wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper. He next proceeded to examine under the microscope the minute fragments and particles which he had collected in his search.
When he had finished this operation, he leaned back in his chair and looked up into space for what seemed to Dunlap an interminable length of time. Then at last he glanced over at the banker, who could hardly contain his growing impatience.
"I am ready to go on now," said Sturgis, reaching for a sheet of paper, upon which he began to draw with ruler and pencil.
"At last!" sighed the banker.
"Yes; but my first, as the charades say, is a question."
"Another!" gasped Dunlap; "when is my turn to come?"
"Just a few more," replied Sturgis, "and then your turn will come for good."
"Well, out with your questions then, if you must," said Dunlap, settling himself resignedly in his chair.
PIECING THE EVIDENCE.
Sturgis was still busy with his diagram. He spoke without looking up from his work.
"Who besides yourself has a key to the drawer in which this revolver is kept?"
"The cashier has one and the head bookkeeper has another."
"You mean the bookkeeper who sits at the desk at the extreme right in the bookkeepers' department?"
"Yes," replied Dunlap, "that is Mr. Arbogast's desk. Do you know him?"
"No. What did you say the gentleman's name is?" The reporter looked up and prepared to make a note of it.
"John W. Arbogast."
"A man something over fifty years of age, quite bald, with a fringe of gray hair; wears a heavy moustache and side-whiskers; and had on yesterday afternoon, when you last saw him, a pepper-and-salt business suit," said Sturgis, writing down the name in his note book.
Dunlap stared at the reporter in amazement. Sturgis smiled slightly.
"I met the gentleman yesterday afternoon," he explained.
"Oh! that accounts for it," exclaimed the banker. "I see——but——but then, how comes it that you did not know his name?"
"He did not tell me his name," said Sturgis gravely, "and I did not know until just now that he was employed in the Knickerbocker bank. How long has he been with you?"
"Nearly twenty years; but only for the last five years as head bookkeeper."
"I suppose you have every confidence in his honesty?" asked the reporter, looking critically at the diagram before him.
"Of course. Such a position is not given to a man unless his record is excellent."
"And yet," observed the reporter reflectively, "opportunity sometimes makes the thief."
"True; but the duty of a bank president is to reduce such opportunities to a minimum," said Dunlap somewhat pompously.
"Quite so," assented Sturgis, "and this you accomplish by——"
"By having the books examined periodically," answered the banker, rubbing his hands together with calm satisfaction.
"I see," said the reporter, who had now finished his sketch. "Do the employés of the bank know when an examination of this kind is to be made?"
"They do not even know that such examinationsaremade. No one but the accountant and myself are in the secret; for the overhauling of the books is done entirely at night, after the bank is closed."
"Have the books been recently examined?" asked Sturgis carelessly.
"Yes; only last week."
"Well?"
"They were found to be all right as usual."
"May I ask by whom?"
"By Murray and Scott, the expert accountants."
"Was the examination conducted by Mr. Murray or by Mr. Scott?"
"By neither. For many years the work was done by one or the other of the members of the firm; but since their business has grown to its present proportions, Messrs. Murray and Scott are no longer able to give personal attention to their customers. For the last two years they have sent us a trusted employé, Mr. Chatham——Thomas Chatham."
"Yes," said Sturgis, who was apparently wool-gathering.
A silence of several minutes followed, during which the reporter thoughtfully inspected his collection of microscopic odds and ends, while Dunlap beat the devil's tattoo upon the desk.
Presently the reporter spoke again.
"Do you know a young man, about five feet eight inches tall, with fiery red hair, who affects somewhat loud clothes?"
"Why, that is Thomas Chatham. You know him, then?"
"I? No; I never heard of him before."
"Then, how on earth do you know——?"
"He has been here recently."
"Yes; I told you he had been here last week; but——"
"No; I mean he was here yesterday afternoon," interrupted the reporter.
"Not to my knowledge," said Dunlap incredulously.
"I thought as much," Sturgis replied quietly; "but he was here, for all that."
The banker looked perplexed.
"Now, another thing," continued Sturgis. "I notice in the bookkeepers' department an announcement to the effect that on January second,—that is to say, to-morrow,—a new system of bookkeeping will be adopted. Would this be such as to bring to light any irregularities that might exist in the books?"
"Yes; it involves the transfer of each bookkeeper every month to a different set of books. But I fail to see the drift of your questions."
"You will see it presently. Have you examined the safes this morning?"
"Yes; one of the first things I did, after you allowed me to move at all, was to examine the cash safe."
"Ah, yes; the cash safe. And you found its contents intact?"
"Perfectly," said the banker triumphantly.
"But there is also a safe in the bookkeepers' department."
"It contains nothing but the books, which of course would have no value to any one but ourselves."
"You have not examined this safe?"
"Why, no; I——"
"If you have no objection, I should like to see the interior of that safe. I suppose, of course, you know the combination of that as well as that of the cash safe?"
"Oh, yes; the combinations are changed every Saturday, and of course I am always informed of the new combination."
"Then may I examine the bookkeepers' safe?"
"I see no objection to your doing so, if you like."
Dunlap seemed surprised at the reporter's request; but he rose and proceeded to the bookkeepers' department. Sturgis followed an instant later.
When the reporter came within sight of the safe, Dunlap was closely inspecting the lock. Presently he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"What is it?" asked Sturgis.
"I don't understand it," said Dunlap. "I cannot open the safe. The lock seems all right; but——"
"Perhaps the combination has been changed."
"Apparently it has," admitted the banker; "but how came it to be changed on a week day, and without my knowledge?"
"That is rather significant, isn't it?" suggested the reporter.
"Significant? What do you mean?" exclaimed Dunlap excitedly.
"I mean that Arbogast was a defaulter. What his system of defrauding the bank was, I do not yet know; but an examination of the books will no doubt reveal this; and I should advise you, Mr. Dunlap, to lose no time in having it made."
"But," argued Dunlap anxiously, "I tell you the books were examined last week."
"Yes; by Arbogast's accomplice."
"What, Chatham his accomplice?" exclaimed Dunlap faintly.
"Chatham was in the plot beyond a doubt," answered Sturgis. "So long as no one had access to his books except his accomplice Chatham, of course Arbogast felt secure. But when, yesterday, the announcement was made that after the beginning of the new year his books would pass to the custody of another man, he saw that the game was up."
The men had returned to the president's office.
"Those are his very words," continued the reporter; "those he telegraphed to Chatham yesterday, as you will see if you hold before that mirror this sheet of blotting paper which I found on Arbogast's desk."
Dunlap, with an unsteady hand, took the blotting paper; and, holding it before the glass, studied the reflection intently.
"What do you make out?" asked Sturgis.
"Nothing whatever," replied the banker promptly.
"What?" exclaimed the reporter; "do you mean to say that you do not distinguish any marks on the blotting paper?"
"I mean to say that I do not see anything to which I can attach any semblance of a meaning. The blotting paper has been used, and, of course, there are ink marks upon it; but, as far as I can see, these are wholly disconnected. They are entirely void of sense to my eyes, at any rate."
"Examine the blotter again carefully in this direction," said Sturgis, drawing an imaginary line upon the mirror, "and pay no attention to any other marks which seem to cross these lines. Now do you see anything?"
The banker examined the image in the mirror for some time before replying.
"If I allow my imagination to enter into play, I can complete several isolated letters."
"Will you dictate these while I note them here. Be careful to distinguish between capital and lower-case letters. Also separate the lines, and state whether letters come close together or are separated by a space."
"Very well," agreed Dunlap, who then proceeded to read off the letters he saw in the reflection of the blotter in the mirror.
When he had finished, Sturgis handed him the paper, upon which were transcribed the letters he had dictated. They presented the appearance shown below: