"Well," said the banker, "if you can make anything out of that gibberish, your imagination is more active than mine."
"It is not a question of imagination," said Sturgis; "let us proceed systematically. Here is a telegram blank detached from a pad I found on Arbogast's desk. Compare its size with the outline of the marks on the blotter, and you will see, in the first place, that the message would just fit snugly on this sheet. Next, you will probably admit that the first line of marks on the blotter probably contain a date; the second, a name; the third, an address; the last, a signature, and the intermediate lines a message."
"I am quite willing to concede so much; for no business man would be likely to write a telegram differently."
"Very well. Now, then, let me hold this blank so that the reflection of its vertical rulings may appear just above the image of the message. These lines, remember, separate the words of the message. Extend them mentally and note how they divide the letters of the blotter. Will you hold these sheets while I transcribe the result?"
In a few minutes more the reporter had drawn several lines on his copy of the reflection in the mirror.
"I don't see that you are any better off now than you were before," remarked Dunlap, examining the result.
"Wait a minute. These vertical lines, we say, divide the words of the message. There are five words to the line; only two on the last line before the signature; that is to say, twelve words in the message. Now, consider the first word. Evidently the 'G' begins this word, since it is a capital; and the flourish on the tail of the 'e' tells us plainly enough where the word ends. Note the space between the 'G' and the 'e.' Have you ever taken the trouble to ascertain how constant in any given handwriting is the space occupied by the different letters? Try it some time. Count the characters which you have written in a number of different lines, reckoning spaces and punctuation marks each as one character, and observe how closely the results will tally. Basing my conclusion on this fact, I may safely affirm that the first word of the message is 'Game, 'Gave, 'Give, ' or some other word of four letters beginning with 'G' and ending with 'e.' I shall proceed to fill up the balance of the message as I read it between the letters."
Sturgis wrote slowly and carefully for a few minutes.
"There; behold the result."
The message had now assumed this form:
"Compare this with the reflection of the original and tell me if you do not now detect various isolated marks and incomplete letters, all of which tally with the text I have inserted here."
Dunlap made the comparison.
"I am obliged to admit that your conclusions now appear plausible," he reluctantly admitted.
Sturgis shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, call them plausible and let us proceed. Chatham kept the appointment yesterday; but for some reason Arbogast was delayed in leaving the bank. Perhaps the necessary preparations for his flight took longer than he expected."
"You think he intended to abscond?"
"Why should he have changed the combination of his safe, as he did, if not to give himself as much time as possible to reach a place of comparative safety before the books could be examined?" asked Sturgis. "Chatham, becoming impatient, forgot the dictates of prudence and started for the bank to ascertain the cause of his accomplice's delay. He met Arbogast at the Wall Street door. The two men re-entered, Arbogast setting down his satchel in the vestibule and leaving the outer door ajar, as Quinlan found it a few minutes later, when he stole the satchel. I have every reason to believe that it was at Chatham's request that the men returned. He wished to use the telephone, and he did so."
"Your story is connected, and it is certainly not lacking in details," said Dunlap incredulously; "in fact, the details are far too abundant for the evidence thus far advanced."
"Every one of the details is based upon facts," replied Sturgis. "What I have accomplished thus far has been simple enough, because luck has favored us. Yesterday being cleaning day at the bank, the floors were scrubbed some time during the afternoon, before Arbogast was ready to leave and before Chatham had arrived. It thus happens that almost every footstep of the two men has remained faintly but distinctly outlined upon the wet floors, which have since dried, preserving the record. The detectives last night obliterated a portion of this record; but they have left traces enough for our purpose. If you care to crawl around on all fours as I did you can readily distinguish these traces for yourself."
"No, thank you," answered the banker. "I prefer to take your word for this part of the evidence."
"Then I shall resume my story," said Sturgis. "The footprints show that Arbogast stood at his desk while the scrubbing was going on. We may safely say that it was after half-past four o'clock when he started to leave the bank; for otherwise it is presumable that Chatham would have waited for him at the corner of South and Wall Streets, as he was asked to do in the bookkeeper's telegram. He first walked over to the safe and closed it, changing the combination, so that the lock could not be opened until he had had a fair start. Next he went to the clerks' room for his hat and coat and for the satchel in which he had packed just the few necessaries for immediate use in his flight. He started to leave the building through the Exchange Place door; but probably remembered that the Wall Street door was not locked, and went back to lock it. As he was about to close the outer door, Chatham arrived on the scene, and the two men re-entered, as we have already seen. The footprints tell their story fully and absolutely, their chronological order being established by the occasional obliteration of a footprint in one trail by another in a subsequent trail. The two men walked back into the room in which we now are. Their actions after this will be clearer to you if you will follow on this diagram."
A RECONSTRUCTED DRAMA.
As he spoke, Sturgis handed Dunlap the sheet of paper upon which he had traced a plan of the Knickerbocker bank.
"From this point on," he continued, "I have indicated the various trails on the diagram. The dotted lines represent Arbogast's footprints; the continuous lines show Chatham's trail."
"How can you distinguish between the two?" inquired Dunlap.
"There is no difficulty about that," replied Sturgis. "The differences are very marked. I know Arbogast's foot because I have seen it; and I know that the other one is Chatham's because you recognized the man from the description I gave of him."
"Yes, I know. But how could you describe him so accurately when you have never seen him?"
"I shall come to that presently," said Sturgis, smiling; "you must let me tell my story in my own way, if I am to tell it connectedly."
"Very well," said the banker, resignedly. "Hold on, though," he exclaimed; "you speak of two sets of trails; but what is this third set of lines, marked by alternate dots and dashes?"
"They represent the traces of a third individual, who will appear upon the scene later on. He has not yet received his cue. But, since you mention him, we may put him down in the cast as 'X,' the unknown quantity of the problem; for I do not yet know his name. Now, then; let me see. Where was I? Your interruption has made me lose the thread. Oh, yes; the men were in this room. Arbogast, nervous and excited, paced back and forth, like a caged animal. Chatham was more collected. It was warm in the bank, as compared with the intense cold outside; he removed his overcoat and threw it over the back of that chair in the corner. This fact is shown by the direction of the footsteps toward the chair, and by a mark directly below the arm of the chair where the garment trailed upon the wet floor. Chatham's carelessness was fraught with serious consequences; for, as luck would have it, there was, in one of the pockets of his coat, an important letter, which slipped out and fell upon the floor superscription uppermost. Here is the envelope itself, which I have pieced together. You will see that it is soiled only upon the back, and here near the chair is the faint oblong mark which it left upon the floor. Chatham went to the telephone in the cashier's office. He probably did not see the letter fall. It caught Arbogast's eye, however; and you may imagine his surprise when he saw that it was addressed to his wife. What had his accomplice to write to his wife? Arbogast evidently was not restrained by any feelings of delicacy in the matter, or else he was already suspicious of Chatham; for he picked up the envelope, tore it open, and read the letter which lies before you, as I have pieced it together. It makes interesting reading. I do not wonder that Arbogast lost his head when he saw it. Read it for yourself."
"Why," exclaimed Dunlap, after reading the letter, "this announces his intention of committing suicide."
"Precisely; and yet Arbogast did not commit suicide; probably never had any intention of doing so; and, at any rate, did not write that letter. You will observe that it is not signed; the name is typewritten, like the rest of the letter, which, moreover, was not written here, as the superscription would seem to indicate. I have tried your typewriter, and although it is of the same make as the one upon which this letter was written, there are several characteristic differences in the alignment and in the imperfections of the type.
"Besides," continued Sturgis, thoughtfully, "the letter itself bears evidence, on its face, that it could not have been written by Arbogast. Your bookkeeper was of a weak, nervous, excitable temperament, as all his actions plainly show. Before such a man is brought to the point of taking his own life, he must have passed through a more or less protracted period of agonizing nervous tension, of which you and I can hardly form any adequate conception. Under the circumstances, if he loved his wife, conscious that by his guilt he was about to plunge her into the depths of grief and shame, he might have written her an incoherent and hysterical letter, or a tender and repentant letter, but never this frigid matter-of-fact statement of a supreme decision. This letter is the work of a cold and calculating nature, incapable of ordinary human feeling. The man who wrote it would not have written to his wife at all, or would have written only to serve some selfish purpose. From what I know of Arbogast, I do not believe he was capable of composing these lines."
"You think, then, that the letter was written by Chatham," said Dunlap. "But what object could Chatham have for writing such a letter?"
"No," answered Sturgis, "I do not think that Chatham wrote this letter. That is the curious part of it. I cannot believe that if Chatham had been aware of the important nature of its contents, he could have been willing to leave it for an instant within Arbogast's reach."
"But who, then, could have been its author, and why should he have intrusted the letter to Chatham?"
"To your second question, my answer is, probably because he wanted it mailed from the main Post Office at about the time that Arbogast would leave the bank. To the first, I cannot yet give any positive answer, although, as you will presently see, there are some clues pointing to our unknown quantity 'X' as the author of this letter. But let us not anticipate. Suppose we return to our drama. When Arbogast read this letter, he evidently thought, as I do, that somebody was playing him false; that he was to be gotten rid of in some safer way than exile; in short that, as somebody said of one of the Turkish sultans, he was to be 'suicided.' He must have had strong reasons to suspect Chatham of treachery; for he at once impulsively jumped to the conclusion that his only chance of safety lay in striking before he could be struck. At any rate, while the accountant was busy at the telephone, Arbogast stood near this desk, mechanically tearing to pieces this letter, while he planned the accountant's death. He had taken with him your revolver. As the thought of it flashed upon his mind, his resolution was instantly taken. He stealthily crept to the paying teller's wicket. Through it he could see the telephone closet, the door of which stood open. Chatham was in direct range, as Arbogast raised the pistol, and, without a word of warning, fired. The accountant held the receiver of the telephone to his ear. This saved his life; for the bullet entered his left hand and remained embedded in his flesh. I shall show you the blood-stained receiver in proof of this assertion. When the bullet struck him, Chatham fell forward, striking his head against a corner of the telephone box, and inflicting a slight scalp wound. I found a few hairs of an intensely red hue, which are evidently his. I also found shreds of his clothing which caught on a projecting nail as he fell; and I infer from these his taste for loud dress. He recovered himself before Arbogast was ready to fire a second time and ran into the clerks' room, probably hoping to make his way to the street through the Exchange Place door. But at the same time, Arbogast rushed through the reception room and this office, reaching the vestibule in time to head off Chatham, who then turned back and ran through the secretary's room, with Arbogast in pursuit. In the meantime, 'X,' to whom I have already alluded, was waiting in Exchange Place, where Chatham had a cab. Upon hearing the pistol shot, he went to the accountant's assistance. He passed into this office, which he probably reached in time to see Chatham rush in from the secretary's room, closely followed by Arbogast. 'X' seized that chair over there in the corner and sprang between the hunted man and his pursuer as the latter raised his arm to fire. Our anonymous friend is probably a man of great strength; for with one blow of the chair, he broke the bookkeeper's wrist. The hammer fell; but the weapon was deflected, and the bullet, instead of reaching its intended victim, passed through the upper lobe of Arbogast's left lung, and out at the back at an angle of about sixty degrees. The bookkeeper was standing not far from the mantel-piece yonder. Do you see that broad black line on the hearth? That was made by the bullet. Its direction and the angle enabled me at once to see that it must have ricochetted into the fire-place; and there, sure enough, I found it in the soot in the bend of the chimney. Here it is."
Dunlap had listened to this narrative with evident interest. But now, recovering from the spell of Sturgis's persuasive conviction, his skepticism regained the ascendancy for a moment.
"Mr. Sturgis, you have missed your vocation," he said, laughing good naturedly; "you ought to have been a playwright. You have a most convincing way of presenting both your facts and your theories. While you are speaking, one is ready to admit the plausibility of every statement you make. But now that you have finished, I have become a hard-headed banker once more, and I beg to submit one or two facts—since we are seeking facts—which it seems to me are enough to demolish all your elaborate structure."
"Go on," said Sturgis; "it goes without saying that any theory is worthless unless it takes into account and explains every existing fact. If there are any in this case which have escaped me—a contingency which is quite possible, for I have no pretension to infallibility—I shall be glad to hear about them; and naturally, if my conclusions do not tally with the facts, the conclusions must be altered, since facts are absolute."
"Well then," said Dunlap, "assuming, for the sake of the argument, that these various marks which you have called trails were made by the feet of three different people; admitting even that one of these individuals was Arbogast, who often stays here after banking hours, I do not see that you have established by any satisfactory evidence your assumption that the other so-called trails are those of Chatham and a stranger. For aught I know to the contrary, they may have been made by some of the bank employés in the discharge of their regular duties. Chatham's coat may have caught on a nail in the telephone closet last week, while he was here in his legitimate capacity of expert accountant. The change of the combination of the safe may be the result of an error; for we have no direct proof whatever that Arbogast is a defaulter. And then, when it comes to your interesting description of the alleged shooting of Arbogast, it strikes me that you are entirely carried away by your enthusiasm; for, in your minute description of the path of the bullet, at a certain angle, of which you seem to know the measure almost to the fraction of a second, you overlook several important things. Two shots were fired yesterday in or near the Knickerbocker bank.In, say you, because here is a revolver with two empty cartridge shells; here is a black mark, which may have been produced by the ricochet of a bullet, and here is a shapeless piece of lead, which may be that bullet. As, however, one bullet cannot account for two shots, you are forced at once to assume that Chatham has carried away the second one in the palm of his hand. This is ingenious, very ingenious, but——"
"His blood is on the telephone receiver," observed Sturgis quietly.
"Blood!" exclaimed Dunlap; "why, with the carnage that you have imagined here, there should be oceans of blood. Here is a man, running around with a wounded hand, who leaves a few drops of blood on the telephone receiver, and nowhere else. And here is another man, shot through the lungs,—excuse me, through the upper lobe of the left lung,—who does not bleed at all. And where is he now? Such a wound as you have given him must, I take it, be fatal, or, at any rate, serious. Yet here is a dead or, at least, a dying man, calmly walking off as if—as if the curtain had fallen at the end of your drama, and the corpse had hurried off to his dressing-room."
"You have forgotten something else," suggested the reporter smiling.
Dunlap looked at him questioningly.
"Yes; you have forgotten the pistol replaced in the drawer after Arbogast was shot, and the doors of the bank carefully locked."
"True. No, my dear sir; your elaborate theory will not bear an instant's calm examination."
"And yet," rejoined Sturgis, "my conclusions, as far as they go, are absolutely correct. Every objection which you raise is plausible enough when considered by itself; but we have not to deal with a lot of isolated facts, but with a series of connected events, each of which depends upon and supports all the others. Let me finish my story, and I think you will then be prepared to admit that what seems to you now a flight of fancy on my part, is nothing but a sober exposition of plain unvarnished facts."
Dunlap, with a deprecating gesture, settled back into his chair once more.
"We left Arbogast shot through the left lung,—fatally wounded, as you have just remarked. He probably fell like a log; while Chatham, weak from shock, leaned against the door jamb yonder. He had probably stanched his wound with his free hand as he ran; I have been unable to find any trace of blood between the telephone and this spot. On the door jamb, however, the blood left a stain which has not been completely wiped out and which enabled me to judge of Chatham's height. 'X' was the only one of the trio who knew what he was about at this time. I have a genuine admiration for 'X'; he must be a man of marvelous nerve. Instead of flying panic-stricken from the scene, as any ordinary criminal would have done, he calmly proceeded to protect his retreat and to systematically cover his trail. His first step was to lock the Wall Street gate and the inside door. Quinlan had doubtless pulled the outer door to as he ran away, so that 'X' probably thought this also locked. He then, with Chatham's assistance, helped Arbogast, who was not yet dead, and who perhaps by this time had regained consciousness, into the cab which was waiting near by in Exchange Place, where I found the blood-stains on the curb, as you will remember. After starting off his two accomplices in the cab, he returned to the bank, put away the pistol in its proper place, which, by the way, he seems to have known, and washed up all or nearly all the blood-stains. There is a sponge and bucket under the sink in the clerks' room, which were used in this operation. After, as he thought, completely obliterating all traces of the tragedy, he quietly walked off by the Exchange Place entrance, locked the door and threw away the key. All this, while policeman Flynn was chasing Quinlan. You will note that 'X,' knowing nothing of the Quinlan episode, was quite justified in believing that the shots had failed to attract any attention outside of the bank. Very likely he was disturbed by the return of the policeman and Quinlan; I cannot otherwise account for his having left the gas burning. Had he had the time, I feel confident that, with his customary thoroughness, he would have turned it out. As to my minute description of Arbogast's wounds, there is nothing remarkable in that. I know that the weapon used by 'X' was yonder chair, because I found particles of the bookkeeper's epidermis upon one of the legs, which was considerably loosened by the blow. But I know exactly what the wounds were, because I have examined them. I told you that I had seen Arbogast yesterday."
"What!" exclaimed Dunlap, "you mean after he was wounded?"
"Yes," replied Sturgis; "his body is at the morgue now. You might call there this afternoon to identify it, if you choose; but, everything considered, it might be as well not to make the identification public until we are well on the track of Chatham and our friend 'X.'"
THE BOOKKEEPER'S CONFESSION.
Late that same evening, Sturgis returned to his lodgings, after a busy day spent in working upon the Knickerbocker bank case. He was tired and he was perplexed; for, with all his unflagging energy, his quick intelligence and his plodding perseverance, he had come to a standstill in his investigation. TheEvening Tempesthad appeared with no further mention of the Quinlan case, and with only a perfunctory report of the Cab Mystery, no attempt having been made to connect the two, for Sturgis would not consent to publish his evidence until he was sure of complete success in his undertaking.
As he approached the house, the reporter saw a light in his window, and inferred that a visitor was awaiting his coming. It was Mr. Dunlap, who, pale and care-worn, was striding nervously back and forth in the room, with his hands behind his back and his head bent forward upon his breast.
"Ah, there you are at last!" exclaimed the banker eagerly; "I have been waiting for you for over an hour."
"Has something new turned up?" asked Sturgis.
"Yes; read that."
At the same time Dunlap handed the reporter a letter.
"Let me tell you about it first. After leaving you this morning, I went to the morgue and saw the body. You were right; it is Arbogast's. I had been only half convinced by your evidence; but I now saw that you were probably right in all your other inductions, and I became anxious to learn something definite concerning the amount of Arbogast's defalcation. As I could not reach the books for some time, I called upon Mrs. Arbogast, thinking I might be able to learn something from her. You had not been to see her, had you?"
"No," answered Sturgis gravely, "I did not think it likely she knew as much about this matter as we do, and I shrank from the ordeal of revealing to her the fact of her husband's crime and tragic death. I wished, at any rate, to exhaust all other means of obtaining information before resorting to this one."
"Of course, of course," said Dunlap somewhat impatiently; "the woman is naturally to be pitied; but I could not allow any sentimental consideration to stand in the way of the discharge of my duty to our depositors."
"What did you learn from her?" asked the reporter.
"When I reached the house the maid told me that Mrs. Arbogast had spent the previous evening at her sister's house in the country and had not yet come back. I was about to leave, intending to return later in the evening, when the lady herself arrived. Upon learning who I was she seemed somewhat surprised but invited me in. As we passed into the parlor the maid handed her mistress a letter, stating that it had come by the morning's mail. Mrs. Arbogast glanced at the envelope but did not open it. At my first cautious questions she seemed to be very much surprised. Arbogast had announced to her by telegram the previous day that he would be obliged to go out of town for a few days on business. He allowed her to infer that he would soon return, and that his business was connected with the affairs of the bank. She could not understand how it happened that I knew nothing of this trip. 'But,' said she, 'I have just received a letter from him, which will, doubtless, explain matters.' She evidently knew nothing of her husband's peculation. Thereupon, she opened the envelope and took out this letter. I observed her closely. At the first words I saw her cheeks blanch and a look of agony pass over her features as she instinctively pressed her hand to her heart. I knew then that the letter contained some important revelation, and I became anxious to obtain possession of it. When she had done I could see that she was laboring under a strong emotion; but she controlled herself, replaced the letter in its envelope, and said merely: 'This does not tell me my husband's whereabouts; but I shall doubtless have further news of him in the course of a few days.' I saw that she was attempting to shield him in the supposition that he was still alive. I therefore broke the news of his death to her as gently as I could. The first shock seemed to utterly unnerve her; but after awhile she became somewhat calmer. 'After all, it is better so,' she said, at last. Then she handed me this letter. There was no further reason for withholding it. Read it now."
"It is postmarked at the general post-office at five o'clock," said Sturgis; "it was therefore mailed before or during Chatham's visit to the bank. It may have been mailed by Arbogast before the scrubbing was done, or perhaps by the chorewoman when she left the bank."
The reporter drew the letter from its envelope and read:
"The Knickerbocker Bank,"New York, December 31, 1896."My Darling Wife,"When you receive this letter I shall be far away—a disgraced criminal—and you will be worse than a widow."I dare not ask your forgiveness for the trouble I am bringing upon you; for I realize all too clearly the extent of the wrong I have done you. But I feel irresistibly impelled to lay before you in all their nakedness, as I do before my own conscience, the circumstances which have led to my downfall. A knowledge of these may perhaps enable you to understand, in a measure, the temptation to which I have succumbed; although I find it hard myself, now that all is over, to realize how I came to yield to it."Perhaps you may remember the celebration of my fiftieth anniversary. We were having a most enjoyable evening in the company of the friends whom you had invited to participate in the festivities, when a caller was announced. I was obliged to leave our guests in order to receive him in the library. This man lost no time in stating the nature of his business with me. His name was Thomas Chatham; he was an expert accountant, who had been employed at the Knickerbocker bank to examine the books, and he coolly informed me that he had just discovered a serious error in my books—one that had enabled a depositor to overdraw his account by a large amount. At first I refused to believe him, although he submitted copies from the books showing exactly how the blunder had been made. When he intimated that it only rested with me whether the error should be reported to the bank, I indignantly refused to listen to him. He remained perfectly unruffled during our interview and left me at last with the statement that he would wait twenty-four hours before handing in his report to the president."My first step on reaching the bank the next day was to verify Chatham's statements. Alas! they were only too true. There was the terrible blunder staring me in the face. I could not understand how I had come to make it; but there it was, and nothing could explain it away. I had hoped against hope up to this time; now I saw clearly that I was a ruined man."There was only one honorable course open to me—to frankly confess my responsibility for the blunder and take the consequences, whatever they might be. I hesitated, and I was lost."I hesitated because I felt that my position was at stake. Would not my error appear inexcusable to the officers of the bank, since I could find no palliation for it in my own eyes. I was fifty years old. I shrank from the necessity of beginning again at the foot of the ladder which I had so laboriously climbed after a lifetime of conscientious plodding. It would be no easy matter for me to find another position."The more I thought the matter over, the more I became convinced that there might be another way out of my trouble. Was it not probable that the depositor who had profited by my mistake, had done so innocently? If so, would he not be willing to repay the amount overdrawn? At the worst, if he should refuse to do this, might it not be possible for me to scrape together and borrow enough to make good the deficiency? In this way I could correct the blunder and no one would be the wiser for it. But what of that man Chatham? Would not his report betray me? I recalled his intimation that the nature of his report depended upon myself. What did he mean by that? Probably he would set a price upon his silence. This would add considerably to the amount I should have to raise; but would not this be better, after all, than the loss of my position. At any rate, I should not be any the worse off for listening to his proposal, whatever it might be."That afternoon, as soon as the bank had closed, I called at the address Chatham had given me. He evidently expected me. With him was a man whom he introduced as James Withers, the depositor in whose favor my blunder had been made. Had I not been laboring under great excitement, it is likely that my suspicions would have been aroused by the strangeness of Withers' presence in Chatham's room. The two men received me pleasantly, and the alleged Withers, even before I could broach the subject, expressed his regret at hearing of the error which had been committed, and assured me of his willingness to re-imburse the bank; but——ah! there was an ominous 'but.' He was short of ready money just then; everything he had was tied up in a promising enterprise which was bound to bring in a magnificent profit in the course of a few days, if only he could raise a few paltry hundreds to enable him to hold out a little longer. If he failed to scrape together this small amount, all would be lost. Insidiously and relentlessly they drove me toward the trap they had prepared, and I was weak enough to fall into it. Before the interview was over, I had consented to allow Withers to still further overdraw his account, and I had received his solemn promise to refund, before the end of the week, the entire amount he owed the bank. Then Chatham suggested that it would be wiser to let the second overdraft come from another account. Withers agreed with him, and stated that the check could be made out in the name of Henry Seymour, a relative of his, who had recently opened a small account with the Knickerbocker bank. I strongly objected to sharing the secret of my infamy with any others; but I finally allowed myself to be overruled by the plausible scoundrels into whose clutches I had fallen."The next day I took my first step in crime, by making such entries as would insure the honoring of Seymour's check. After that I was completely in the power of these two men. It was not long before I discovered that I had been their dupe. Chatham's accomplice was not the true Withers; for this man, a few days later, made a large deposit, which more than covered his previous overdraft. The false Withers was Henry Seymour himself."As soon as I had committed a felony, it became unnecessary for Seymour to keep up any further pretense of a desire to refund the money I had helped him steal. I was now in the meshes of crime as deeply as my accomplices; and, from that time to this, they have forced me to act as their catspaw. During this period of two years the bank has been robbed in this way of over $250,000.00, every cent of which has gone to Chatham and Seymour."You can perhaps imagine what a hell my life has been during that time. With prison and disgrace staring me in the face; and with the absolute conviction that exposure must inevitably come sooner or later, I have suffered the tortures of the damned. At the bank, I have been in a perpetual state of suspense. I have started at every word spoken to me; I have seen suspicion in every glance which has met mine; I have trembled and paled at every approach of one of the officers of the bank. And yet I have not dared to absent myself from my desk for an hour, lest an examination of my books during my absence should reveal my crime. I have been the first to reach the bank in the morning and the last to leave it at night; I have not even taken the few minutes during the day which would have been required to enable me to obtain a hurried meal. On one pretext or another, during the last two years, I have had to forego my annual vacation. I have dragged myself to my post when I was so ill that I could hardly stand, because I could not afford to have any one take charge of my books for even an hour. And all that time, with a full realization of my degradation and infamy, I have been forced to continue my frauds, knowing that each one brought me nearer to the inevitable final exposure; but knowing equally well that a refusal on my part to continue my stealings would result in an instant betrayal by my accomplices."At last further concealment became impossible. A week ago the yearly examination of the books took place. The expert accountant employed was, as usual, Thomas Chatham, and of course, as usual, his report was entirely satisfactory. It seemed, therefore, as though discovery could be postponed a little longer; when suddenly, this morning, we were informed that a change in the system of bookkeeping would be adopted after the first of January. I saw at once that all was over. The discovery of my crime is now a matter of hours. I must be out of the way before the crash comes or I am doomed. I can already see the felon's stripes upon my back; the clang of the prison gates rings in my ears."I am too dazed to think; but I feel that my only escape is in death. And yet I cling to life. I know that the happy days of the past are gone forever; and yet I feel a sort of numb relief at the thought that the worst is now certain to come, and to come at once."I have carefully prepared my flight, so that I shall have plenty of time to reach a place of safety. Once there, I shall be free from pursuit; but I shall be an exile, and I shall carry with me to the grave the burden of my sin."The most bitter pang in my remorse is caused by the thought of the great wrong I have done you, dear wife. You will now be forced to face the world not only unprotected by the one whose duty and whose desire it was to smooth the way for you; but, what is worse, oppressed by the burden of his sin."What little money I have left in the savings bank I have transferred to your name. You may use it all with a clear conscience; for every dollar of it was honestly mine. I swear I have never had a single cent of the money I have stolen. It has all been drawn by Henry Seymour, and used I know not how."As soon as I am settled in the place to which I am going, I shall try, as far as lies in my power, to redeem my past by a life of honest labor; and I hope to be able to contribute to your support in the near future."Oh! my wife! my darling wife! Would that the past could be blotted out, and that I could once more place my hand in yours, an honest man. Though you may find it hard to forgive me now, perhaps in time you may be able to think gently of him who through all his crime and degradation, has remained"Your devoted husband,"John W. Arbogast.
"The Knickerbocker Bank,
"New York, December 31, 1896.
"My Darling Wife,
"When you receive this letter I shall be far away—a disgraced criminal—and you will be worse than a widow.
"I dare not ask your forgiveness for the trouble I am bringing upon you; for I realize all too clearly the extent of the wrong I have done you. But I feel irresistibly impelled to lay before you in all their nakedness, as I do before my own conscience, the circumstances which have led to my downfall. A knowledge of these may perhaps enable you to understand, in a measure, the temptation to which I have succumbed; although I find it hard myself, now that all is over, to realize how I came to yield to it.
"Perhaps you may remember the celebration of my fiftieth anniversary. We were having a most enjoyable evening in the company of the friends whom you had invited to participate in the festivities, when a caller was announced. I was obliged to leave our guests in order to receive him in the library. This man lost no time in stating the nature of his business with me. His name was Thomas Chatham; he was an expert accountant, who had been employed at the Knickerbocker bank to examine the books, and he coolly informed me that he had just discovered a serious error in my books—one that had enabled a depositor to overdraw his account by a large amount. At first I refused to believe him, although he submitted copies from the books showing exactly how the blunder had been made. When he intimated that it only rested with me whether the error should be reported to the bank, I indignantly refused to listen to him. He remained perfectly unruffled during our interview and left me at last with the statement that he would wait twenty-four hours before handing in his report to the president.
"My first step on reaching the bank the next day was to verify Chatham's statements. Alas! they were only too true. There was the terrible blunder staring me in the face. I could not understand how I had come to make it; but there it was, and nothing could explain it away. I had hoped against hope up to this time; now I saw clearly that I was a ruined man.
"There was only one honorable course open to me—to frankly confess my responsibility for the blunder and take the consequences, whatever they might be. I hesitated, and I was lost.
"I hesitated because I felt that my position was at stake. Would not my error appear inexcusable to the officers of the bank, since I could find no palliation for it in my own eyes. I was fifty years old. I shrank from the necessity of beginning again at the foot of the ladder which I had so laboriously climbed after a lifetime of conscientious plodding. It would be no easy matter for me to find another position.
"The more I thought the matter over, the more I became convinced that there might be another way out of my trouble. Was it not probable that the depositor who had profited by my mistake, had done so innocently? If so, would he not be willing to repay the amount overdrawn? At the worst, if he should refuse to do this, might it not be possible for me to scrape together and borrow enough to make good the deficiency? In this way I could correct the blunder and no one would be the wiser for it. But what of that man Chatham? Would not his report betray me? I recalled his intimation that the nature of his report depended upon myself. What did he mean by that? Probably he would set a price upon his silence. This would add considerably to the amount I should have to raise; but would not this be better, after all, than the loss of my position. At any rate, I should not be any the worse off for listening to his proposal, whatever it might be.
"That afternoon, as soon as the bank had closed, I called at the address Chatham had given me. He evidently expected me. With him was a man whom he introduced as James Withers, the depositor in whose favor my blunder had been made. Had I not been laboring under great excitement, it is likely that my suspicions would have been aroused by the strangeness of Withers' presence in Chatham's room. The two men received me pleasantly, and the alleged Withers, even before I could broach the subject, expressed his regret at hearing of the error which had been committed, and assured me of his willingness to re-imburse the bank; but——ah! there was an ominous 'but.' He was short of ready money just then; everything he had was tied up in a promising enterprise which was bound to bring in a magnificent profit in the course of a few days, if only he could raise a few paltry hundreds to enable him to hold out a little longer. If he failed to scrape together this small amount, all would be lost. Insidiously and relentlessly they drove me toward the trap they had prepared, and I was weak enough to fall into it. Before the interview was over, I had consented to allow Withers to still further overdraw his account, and I had received his solemn promise to refund, before the end of the week, the entire amount he owed the bank. Then Chatham suggested that it would be wiser to let the second overdraft come from another account. Withers agreed with him, and stated that the check could be made out in the name of Henry Seymour, a relative of his, who had recently opened a small account with the Knickerbocker bank. I strongly objected to sharing the secret of my infamy with any others; but I finally allowed myself to be overruled by the plausible scoundrels into whose clutches I had fallen.
"The next day I took my first step in crime, by making such entries as would insure the honoring of Seymour's check. After that I was completely in the power of these two men. It was not long before I discovered that I had been their dupe. Chatham's accomplice was not the true Withers; for this man, a few days later, made a large deposit, which more than covered his previous overdraft. The false Withers was Henry Seymour himself.
"As soon as I had committed a felony, it became unnecessary for Seymour to keep up any further pretense of a desire to refund the money I had helped him steal. I was now in the meshes of crime as deeply as my accomplices; and, from that time to this, they have forced me to act as their catspaw. During this period of two years the bank has been robbed in this way of over $250,000.00, every cent of which has gone to Chatham and Seymour.
"You can perhaps imagine what a hell my life has been during that time. With prison and disgrace staring me in the face; and with the absolute conviction that exposure must inevitably come sooner or later, I have suffered the tortures of the damned. At the bank, I have been in a perpetual state of suspense. I have started at every word spoken to me; I have seen suspicion in every glance which has met mine; I have trembled and paled at every approach of one of the officers of the bank. And yet I have not dared to absent myself from my desk for an hour, lest an examination of my books during my absence should reveal my crime. I have been the first to reach the bank in the morning and the last to leave it at night; I have not even taken the few minutes during the day which would have been required to enable me to obtain a hurried meal. On one pretext or another, during the last two years, I have had to forego my annual vacation. I have dragged myself to my post when I was so ill that I could hardly stand, because I could not afford to have any one take charge of my books for even an hour. And all that time, with a full realization of my degradation and infamy, I have been forced to continue my frauds, knowing that each one brought me nearer to the inevitable final exposure; but knowing equally well that a refusal on my part to continue my stealings would result in an instant betrayal by my accomplices.
"At last further concealment became impossible. A week ago the yearly examination of the books took place. The expert accountant employed was, as usual, Thomas Chatham, and of course, as usual, his report was entirely satisfactory. It seemed, therefore, as though discovery could be postponed a little longer; when suddenly, this morning, we were informed that a change in the system of bookkeeping would be adopted after the first of January. I saw at once that all was over. The discovery of my crime is now a matter of hours. I must be out of the way before the crash comes or I am doomed. I can already see the felon's stripes upon my back; the clang of the prison gates rings in my ears.
"I am too dazed to think; but I feel that my only escape is in death. And yet I cling to life. I know that the happy days of the past are gone forever; and yet I feel a sort of numb relief at the thought that the worst is now certain to come, and to come at once.
"I have carefully prepared my flight, so that I shall have plenty of time to reach a place of safety. Once there, I shall be free from pursuit; but I shall be an exile, and I shall carry with me to the grave the burden of my sin.
"The most bitter pang in my remorse is caused by the thought of the great wrong I have done you, dear wife. You will now be forced to face the world not only unprotected by the one whose duty and whose desire it was to smooth the way for you; but, what is worse, oppressed by the burden of his sin.
"What little money I have left in the savings bank I have transferred to your name. You may use it all with a clear conscience; for every dollar of it was honestly mine. I swear I have never had a single cent of the money I have stolen. It has all been drawn by Henry Seymour, and used I know not how.
"As soon as I am settled in the place to which I am going, I shall try, as far as lies in my power, to redeem my past by a life of honest labor; and I hope to be able to contribute to your support in the near future.
"Oh! my wife! my darling wife! Would that the past could be blotted out, and that I could once more place my hand in yours, an honest man. Though you may find it hard to forgive me now, perhaps in time you may be able to think gently of him who through all his crime and degradation, has remained
"Your devoted husband,"John W. Arbogast.
"My safety depends upon your keeping the contents of this letter secret for at least three days. After that time, please send to Mr. Dunlap, president of the Knickerbocker bank, the inclosed papers, which will reveal to him the full extent of my defalcations.
"I do not hesitate to betray Chatham and Seymour; they did not scruple to ruin me. I have sent for Chatham, and I shall give him warning of my intended flight. If he sees fit, he can take such steps as he may choose to escape his own richly deserved punishment."
While Sturgis was reading Arbogast's letter, Dunlap, restlessly pacing the room, had observed him furtively.
"Well?" he now inquired, stopping before the reporter; "what do you think of that?"
"Poor woman!" exclaimed Sturgis feelingly; "it is terrible to think of the suffering brought upon her by her husband's guilt. I ought to be hardened to a situation like this; for it is the inevitable sequel of almost every crime that is ever committed. But I am moved every time by the pathetic expiation of the innocent for the guilty."
"Yes, yes; I know," said Dunlap indifferently; "that is not what I meant. Did you note the amount which this scoundrel confesses he and his accomplices have stolen from the bank?"
"Yes; it is a large sum."
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Why, man, if that is true, it is enough to cripple the bank——No, no; I don't mean that, of course; the bank is rich and could stand the loss of four times that amount. But a quarter of a million is a round sum, for all that. It does not seem possible that, in spite of all our care, they can have succeeded in making away with so much money. But they did. There can be no doubt about that; for in the papers which Arbogast inclosed for me in his letter to his wife he explains just how the thing was done. It is simple enough when you know the trick; but it took fiendish cunning to devise it. I never would have thought that rascally bookkeeper intelligent enough to concoct such a scheme."
"If the scheme is a work of genius," said Sturgis, "you may rest assured that 'X'—who may very well be Henry Seymour—was the author of it."
"Well, at any rate," observed Dunlap, "there is one thing that must be done at once; and that is to find both Chatham and Seymour. It is not possible that in two years these men have spent a quarter of a million dollars between them."
"It is at all events possible that they may not have done so," replied Sturgis, "for my investigations show that both Arbogast and Chatham have been men of regular and exemplary habits in their private lives. They do not appear to have been living much, if at all, beyond their means. There does not seem to have been, in the case of either man, any room for a double existence, which might otherwise have explained the situation. Neither was a spendthrift nor a gambler, and neither was dissipated."
"Then you have not the faintest idea of the present whereabouts of Chatham or of his mysterious accomplice?"
"Let me tell you exactly what I have done up to the present time; and then you will be able to judge for yourself. And I, too, shall see more clearly where we stand; for the necessity of putting one's thoughts into words is an aid to clear thinking."
THE LOST TRAIL.
So saying, Sturgis settled himself in his chair and began his narrative.
"After leaving you this morning, my first step was to gain admission to the Tombs——"
"To the Tombs?" interrupted Dunlap.
"Yes; the cabman has been remanded to the Tombs to await trial for complicity in the murder of the unknown man whose body was found in his cab."
"Arbogast's?"
"Yes, Arbogast's. But of course the police do not yet know that."
"Were you allowed to see the cabman?"
"Yes. As reporter ofThe Tempest, I was able to obtain an interview with him. When first arrested, the man, whose name, by the way, is Reilly, was incapable of making a connected statement; the lawyer assigned to defend him laughed in his face when he heard his story, and advised him to leave the romancing to a trained lawyer as his only chance of escaping the electric chair. Naturally, under the circumstances, the poor fellow hesitated to unbosom himself to a stranger. But I finally managed to gain his confidence by showing him that I believed his story, and that I was trying to find the men whose scapegoat he now is. It seems that yesterday afternoon, at about three o'clock, he was stationed at the cab-stand in front of Madison Square, when he was accosted by a man, answering Chatham's description, who engaged him to drive him to the Fulton Street ferry. On reaching the ferry, the man ordered Reilly to proceed to a low grogshop on South Street. Here he entered, returning in a few minutes to invite the cabman to take a drink with him. The men seated themselves at a table upon which a bottle and two filled glasses were already placed. Chatham handed one of these glasses to Reilly, who drank it and probably many more. At all events, he remembers nothing further until he was rudely shaken by Chatham, who led him out into the street. Here the cold air revived him, and he remembers noticing several things to which he did not pay much attention at the time, but which seem significant now as he recalls them:
"Firstly,—It was now quite dark.
"Secondly,—The cab, which had been facing south when he entered the barroom, was now facing north.
"Thirdly,—Chatham persistently carried his left hand in the bosom of his coat; he was very pale and seemed weak and ill.
"He with difficulty climbed upon the box beside Reilly and ordered him to drive uptown. Presently the cabman became drowsy again. The next thing he remembers is coming to himself after the overturning of the cab by the cable car. That the man was drugged there can be no doubt. It is probable that while he sat apparently drunk in the barroom, Chatham took the cab to the Knickerbocker bank, expecting to smuggle Arbogast into it without Reilly's knowledge;—a deep move, since it would effectually cover up the trail, if they wanted to make away with the bookkeeper, as they evidently did. Seymour may have met him at the bank by appointment; but I am more inclined to believe that he was there unknown to Chatham, and possibly for the purpose of spying upon the latter, to see that his instructions were carried out. He lent his accomplice a hand in the nick of time; and then, like a prudent general, he retired to a safe position, thence to direct further operations. What I cannot yet understand is, why Chatham should have taken the enormous risk he did in conveying Arbogast's body from the bank, since Seymour's intention was plainly to make away with the bookkeeper in any event. I can explain this only on the supposition that Seymour thought he could conceal the body in some way and prevent it from falling into the hands of the police. On the part of any ordinary criminal this would have been rank folly; but the resources of such a man as Seymour are such that I do not feel disposed to criticize his generalship in this particular without first understanding his ultimate object. From what I have seen of his work thus far, I have derived a profound admiration for the man's genius and cunning deviltry. Fortunately, fate was against him this time. Its instrument was the cable car which overturned the cab, thus delivering Arbogast's body into the hands of the police and furnishing the key without which, it is quite likely, Seymour might have remained forever undiscovered."
"You think, then, that you will succeed in unearthing this villain?" asked Dunlap eagerly.
"While there's life, there's hope," said Sturgis, with grim determination; "but I must confess that the outlook at present is not exactly brilliant. However, let me finish my report. During the excitement that followed the overturning of the cab, Chatham managed to escape, as you know, and he has thus far succeeded in avoiding arrest, although the police have kept a sharp lookout for him. Every steamship that sails, every train that leaves New York, is watched, but thus far without result. For my part, I am convinced that Chatham has not yet attempted to leave the city."
"Isn't it probable, on the contrary, that he fled from New York immediately after running away from the overturned cab?" asked Dunlap.
"I do not think so," replied Sturgis; "with his wounded hand he is a marked man; he would be easily recognized in a strange city. His safest hiding-place is here in New York, where he doubtless has friends ready to conceal him. Be that as it may, he remains for the present under cover and the scent is lost. The police are groping in the dark just now, and,——and so am I."
The banker looked sorely disappointed.
"And so that is all you have been able to discover? Not a trace of the money? It does not seem possible that a quarter of a million dollars can disappear so completely without leaving the slightest trace."
"If we can ever find Seymour," replied Sturgis, "I make no doubt we shall be able to locate the lion's share of the money.
"Yes," he added, thoughtfully, "that is all I have been able to discover up to the present time; or, at least, all that seems to be of any immediate importance. Of course, I called on both Mr. Murray and Mr. Scott; but, beyond the fact that Chatham, like Arbogast, was a model employé, all I got from them was the address of Chatham's boarding-house; there I was informed that the accountant had moved on New Year's eve without leaving his new address. There is one other link in the chain of evidence which I have investigated; but I cannot tell yet whether it will lead to anything or not. It may be immaterial; but who knows? Possibly it may prove to be the key to the entire problem."
"And what is this promising link?" asked Dunlap eagerly.
"There is not much to tell on this score," answered Sturgis. "You will recall that according to the evidence which we have thus far collected, Chatham was attacked by Arbogast while he was in the act of using the telephone."
"Yes; I remember how minutely you reconstructed that scene."
"Well," continued the reporter, "I saw at once that the telephone might possibly prove to be an important witness for the prosecution, if I could only discover the name of the person with whom Chatham was talking when he was shot. I therefore called at the Central Office to make inquiries. As I was able to specify almost the exact minute at which this call was sent, it was an easy matter to find the young woman who had answered it; but the chances were that she would not remember the number called for. She did, however, for it had been fixed in her memory by some unusual circumstances. It seems that after giving Chatham the connection he wanted, the operator rang him up. While she was listening for a reply, she heard a sharp report, followed by a scream; then a sound of confused voices, and presently another sharp report. After that came complete silence, and she was unable to obtain any reply to her repeated calls."
"You have here corroborative evidence of the scene between Chatham and Arbogast," said Dunlap.
"Yes; but I did not need that. What I wished to know was the name of the person with whom Chatham wanted to converse."
"Did you discover it?"
"The number of the telephone he gave is that of the Manhattan Chemical Company."
"And what is the Manhattan Chemical Company?"
"That is the question I asked people connected with the commercial agencies. They replied that they knew very little concerning this firm; because, although it has been in existence for a couple of years, it apparently never asks any one for credit, preferring to pay cash for all the goods delivered to it. I called at the office of the Manhattan Chemical Company to investigate on my own account. The office and store occupy the basement of an old ramshackle building, whose upper stories are rented out as business offices. The laboratory and manufacturing department are down stairs in the cellar. The store contains only a few chairs and a long counter behind which rise shelves containing rows of bottles with brilliantly colored labels. A few painted signs upon the walls vaunt the merits of Dr. Henderson's Cough Cure and Dr. Henderson's Liver Specific. I did not expect to find any one in on New Year's day. I was, therefore, surprised to see a solitary clerk sitting with his feet upon a desk and apparently absorbed in the reading of a newspaper,—a pale young man of the washed-out blond type, with watery green-blue eyes and a scant moustache which fails to conceal a weak mouth. He rose to greet me with an air of surprise which does not speak well for the briskness of trade in the establishment. Indeed, if we are to judge by the aspect of things in the office of the Manhattan Chemical Company, business in patent medicines does not appear to be flourishing just at present. By the way, did you ever hear of Dr. Henderson's remedies?"
"No; I cannot say that I have," answered Dunlap.
"That is the curious part of it," said Sturgis. "I have been unable to discover any advertisement published by this firm; and it is only by profuse advertising that such a concern can live."
"Yes, of course," exclaimed Dunlap, somewhat impatiently; "but what has all this to do with Chatham?"
"I don't know," replied Sturgis; "possibly nothing; perhaps a great deal."
"I asked to see Dr. Henderson," he continued, "at which the sleepy clerk stared at me in open-mouthed amazement. Dr. Henderson was not in; it was quite uncertain when he would be in. Indeed, as far as I was able to judge, Dr. Henderson appears to be a rather mysterious personage. No one knows much about him. Even his clerk admits that he has seen him only once or twice in the eighteen months during which he has had charge of the office. The Doctor attends to the manufacturing part of the business himself; his laboratory, which is down in the cellar, is a most jealously guarded place. No one is ever admitted to it under any pretext. He is evidently afraid that some one may discover the secret of his valuable remedies."
"You say that as if your words were meant to convey some unexpressed meaning," said Dunlap, studying the reporter's face.
"No," Sturgis answered, thoughtfully, "but I am trying to attach some ulterior significance to the facts. There is certainly something mysterious about Dr. Henderson and the Manhattan Chemical Company; but whether the mystery is legitimate or not, and if not, whether it is in any way connected with the Arbogast case, is more than I am at present able to determine."
After a short pause he continued:
"When I found that there was no chance of seeing Dr. Henderson himself, I inquired at a venture for the manager. For an instant a puzzled look lent expression to the otherwise vacuous features of the young man. Then a sudden inspiration seemed to come to him. 'Oh! ah! yes,' he exclaimed, 'you mean Mr. Smith.' 'Yes,' said I, catching at the straw. 'Well, but Mr. Smith is not in either.' I offered to wait for Mr. Smith, and started toward the door of the private office in the rear, because it bore in prominent letters the inscription, 'NO ADMITTANCE.' I had turned the knob before the clerk could stop me; but the door was locked. Mr. Smith, it seems, comes to the office only once a week to receive the clerk's report and to pay him his salary. I tried to make a special appointment to meet Mr. Smith, on the plea of important business. I left a fictitious name and address so that Mr. Smith's answer might be sent to me. That was all I was able to do for the time being; but I thought it worth while to keep an eye open on the Manhattan Chemical Company; so I have engaged private detectives to watch it for me night and day until further notice. And there the matter stands."
Dunlap rose wearily from his chair. He looked anxious and care-worn.
"Mr. Sturgis," he said, "if you can find any part of that two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, a good share of whatever you can recover for the bank is yours."
The reporter flushed and bit his lip; but he answered quietly:
"You mistake me for a detective, Mr. Dunlap; I am only a reporter. I shall be paid by theTempestfor any work I may do on this case. You would better offer your reward to the police."
THE LETTER.
There is a magic in the refreshing sleep of youth, calculated to exorcise the megrims. When Sprague, arising after a good night's rest, found the world bathed in the sunshine of a crisp January day, he felt the physical pleasure of living which comes from supple muscles, from the coursing of a generous blood through the veins, from the cravings of a healthy appetite.
He remembered the "blue devils" of the day before, and found it difficult to account for them. He was in love, certainly. But that in itself did not furnish a sufficient reason for despondency. It was rumored that the object of his affections was on the eve of betrothal to another. But what dependence can be placed upon a public rumor? As a matter of fact, Miss Murdock wore no rings; in the absence of the badge of the betrothed woman, was he not justified in believing her fancy free?
In that case, there was a fair field and no favor. Why should not he have as good a chance of winning the prize as another man? No man, of course, was worthy of Agnes Murdock. That was the fundamental axiom. But in love success does not perch only upon the banner of the worthy. If it did, the human race would soon become extinct.
So the young man's thoughts ran on, while hope once more found a resting place in his heart.
Miss Murdock was not to pose again, but Sprague was eager to work on the portrait. He was about to step into the studio after breakfast, when the housekeeper announced a call from his lawyer, who wished to consult him about some important matters. The entire morning was thus consumed in necessary but tedious business, and it was not until after luncheon that the artist was at last free to set to work.
Uncovering the portrait, he stood off to examine it. As he did so, something white upon the floor caught his eye. He stooped to pick it up. It was a letter in a beautifully regular masculine hand. Mechanically he turned it over and unfolded it. His eyes carelessly swept the written page; then in a flash he realized what it was, and he flung it violently from him.
Only a few words had left their impress upon his retina—a few scattered words and a signature. But these were branded deep upon his brain for all time, in letters of fire which burned their way to his very soul. For he had recognized the letter which had been delivered by the messenger to Miss Murdock the day before, and he had seen enough to know that it was couched in words of passionate love. In that instant was quenched the last ray of hope which had lurked within his heart. Overwhelmed with a sense of utter desolation, he sank back upon a divan; and for a long time remained lost in bitter reflections.
But Sprague, in spite of his dilettanteism, was a man of grit when occasion called for it. Summoning at length his fortitude and his pride, he proceeded to carry out what he conceived to be the duty of a gentleman under the circumstances.
Picking up the letter again, he placed it unread in an envelope, into which he slipped his card, with a brief explanation of the finding of the paper. Then, after addressing the envelope, he started out to mail it himself.
"Thomas Chatham!" he mused, as he went down the stairs; "Thomas Chatham! Why, he is the man who took such pains to inform me that Miss Murdock was betrothed, or on the point of being betrothed,—the flashily dressed young man with red hair who is so regular an attendant at the Murdocks' informal receptions, and who never seems to be invited on state occasions; an insignificant and conceited puppy. Poor girl, what a pity that she should throw herself away upon such a man. But if he marries her, he shall make her happy, or else——"
The balance of his thought was not put into words; but his face became set in stern lines and his hands clenched in grim determination.
Sprague, with the letter for Miss Murdock in his hand, hurried to the nearest letter-box, raised the lid of the drop, inserted the letter in the slot and then tightened his grasp of it and began to think.
The letter, if mailed, might perhaps not reach its destination until the following morning. It might be of importance, since it had been sent by messenger and to the studio instead of to Miss Murdock's house. Besides, Miss Murdock would probably be worried when she discovered that she had lost it. It ought therefore to be returned to her at once.
The letter, by this time, had been withdrawn from the slot of the letter-box.
Yes, it ought to be returned by messenger instead of by mail. By messenger? It was about half a mile to the nearest district-messenger office. The Murdocks' house was not much further. Why not deliver the letter himself?
Why not, indeed? The human heart has unfathomable depths. Why should a hopeless lover pine for a mere sight of the woman whose presence only adds to his misery? Explain that who can.
Sprague carefully placed the letter in his breast pocket and started off again, this time directing his steps toward the Murdocks' home.
TWO LOVERS.
Miss Murdock was seated at the piano in the drawing-room, her shapely fingers wandering dreamily over the keys, when a servant knocked at the door.
"A gintleman to see yer, Miss," said the maid.
"A caller!" exclaimed Agnes in surprise. "At this time of day? Did he give you his card?"
"No, miss. Nor his name nayther."
"Well then, Mary," said Agnes, with a mixture of amusement and severity, "why do you announce him? I think you would better keep an eye on the hat-rack."
"He aint no thafe, Miss," said the maid, positively; "he do be dressed up too foine fur that. Besoides, Oi've sane him here before. A hansum young feller wid rid hair——Mister——Mister——Cha——Chapman."
"Chatham!" suggested Agnes, with sudden seriousness.
"Yis, Miss; it do be the same."
"I cannot receive him," said Miss Murdock in frigid tones. "I am surprised that John should have admitted him, after the explicit instructions I gave him yesterday. Hereafter I am never at home to Mr. Chatham."
"Your butler is not at fault in this instance," said a voice from the hallway, and before either of the women could recover from her surprise, a flashily dressed young man with intensely red hair entered the room. He carried his left arm in a sling. His face was pale; his eyes glittered with a feverish light; his voice quivered with repressed excitement.
"I was waiting for your father in his office, when I heard your maid go by, and I asked her to announce me. I hoped for, but I can hardly say I expected, a more hospitable reception."
Miss Murdock, after the first shock of surprise, had drawn up her graceful figure to its full height, and stood looking at the young man with undisguised contempt in her flashing eyes.
Chatham paused as if expecting a reply; and then:
"Shall I explain the object of my visit before your servant?" he asked bitterly.
"You may leave, Mary, until I ring for you," said the young girl, turning to the maid.
The woman reluctantly left the room, casting curious glances upon her young mistress and her unwelcome guest as she went.
Chatham made a motion as if to take a chair; but Agnes remained significantly standing.
"Perhaps," she said coldly, "you will be good enough to explain as briefly as possible your object in forcing your presence upon me in this ungentlemanly way?"
"I suppose my conduct does strike you as ungentlemanly," said the young man piteously; "but what could I do? I love you devotedly, madly, and you will not allow me even to tell you so. You instruct your servants to turn me away from the door like a beggar. Is it a crime to love you?"
"No, Mr. Chatham," said the girl more gently, "it is not a crime to love a woman; but it is at least a serious blunder to adopt the method you have selected of showing your affection, and it is certainly not generous to force it upon her as you are doing."
"What else can I do?" he repeated doggedly. "Here am I suddenly obliged to leave New York for a long time,—perhaps for ever,—and unable to get a single word with you. I called yesterday morning and was informed that you were at that artist fellow's studio. Then I wrote you a letter asking for an interview and I left it there for you myself. The only notice you took of it was to give instructions to your butler not to admit me if I called again. I cannot go away like that, without a ray of hope to lighten my exile, and leave you here surrounded by a lot of men who are anxious to marry you."
The tender-hearted girl felt a growing pity for the awkward and vulgar young man in whom she began vaguely to discern a genuine suffering.
"I am sorry, Mr. Chatham," she said, "more sorry than I can say. But what can I do? I do not care for you in the way you wish, and affection is not to be coerced. I have done the best I could to discourage you, because——"
"I know you have," interrupted Chatham; "you have avoided me, and snubbed me, and taken every way you could to show that you do not like me."
"It would have been mistaken kindness to do otherwise," said Agnes gently.
"No, it wouldn't," exclaimed the accountant; "I don't ask you to love me; not at once, at any rate. But give me a show; give me time; give me a little hope——"
"I cannot do that," said the girl in a low tone.
"Why can't you?" urged the young man excitedly. "I have sacrificed everything for you; I have given up all I had; I have lost my position; I have risked my life——"
"I don't understand you," said Miss Murdock, looking at him in astonishment.
"Your father would," he replied huskily; "it was he egged me on to this; he promised me that you would have me——"
"My father promised——"
"Yes, your father; and by G——"
Chatham, who was growing more and more excited, brought down his clenched fist upon a table near which he stood, and with an evident effort repressed the oath which rose to his lips. Miss Murdock, startled and bewildered, observed him in speechless amazement.
After a momentary struggle, the accountant suddenly broke forth in piteous pleading:
"I don't ask much now. Tell me only one thing and I shall go away content for the present. Say that no other man has any better chance with you than I have. Say that you do not love any one else."
The young girl tried to avoid his ardent gaze.
"Say it!" he commanded in sudden sternness.
Agnes drew herself up proudly then.
"I don't know by what right you presume to catechize or to command me," she said coldly, at the same time making a motion as if to touch the button of the electric bell.
Chatham saw the motion and sprang before her to intercept it.
"Ah! that is the way of it, is it?" he exclaimed with passionate jealousy. "You are——in love—with another man!"
The words seemed to choke him in the utterance. The blood rushed to his head; the veins on his temples stood out in purple vividness, and, as he clutched spasmodically at his collar, a wild light came into his eyes.
Agnes caught their mad glitter and shrank back in sudden terror.
"I have been duped!" he shouted frantically. "I have been a catspaw, and now that I have done all that was wanted of me, I am to be turned off like a dog, with a kick. The dirty work is done, is it? We'll see about that; we'll see what your father has to say. But, at any rate, you can be sure of one thing."
His voice sank to a hoarse whisper, and the words fell with impressive distinctness:
"If I don't marry you, no one ever shall!"
As he spoke he leaned forward upon the table which stood near him, and his fingers closed nervously upon the handle of a jeweled paper knife. There was murder in his eye at that moment, and the frightened girl quailed before it.
Suddenly her ear caught the sound of footsteps in the hallway. She opened her lips to call for help, but before she could utter a sound the door opened, revealing the anxious face of the housemaid, who had heard enough to realize that it was time to interrupt the tête-à-tête without further ceremony.
"Mister Sprague, Miss," she announced, with a comforting nod at her young mistress, whose pale face and frightened eyes had not escaped her attention.
Sprague stood on the threshold in evident embarrassment, looking from Agnes to Chatham, and uncertain how to act.
"I fear I am intruding, Miss Murdock," he said at last; "your maid told me she thought you could receive me. Perhaps I would better call again."
"No, no, Mr. Sprague," replied the young girl effusively, coming toward him with outstretched hands; "I am so glad to see you."
And then, observing his inquiring glance toward Chatham,
"I think," she added coldly, "that this gentleman has said all that he has to say to me."
Chatham's excitement had subsided; in the reaction, he seemed ill and weak as he nervously clenched his tremulous right hand.
"I will wait to see Doctor Murdock," he said doggedly in a low voice.
"As you please," replied Agnes after a slight hesitation. "Mary, show Mr. Chatham to the Doctor's study."
As the accountant followed the servant from the room, blank despair was stamped in every feature, and it seemed to Sprague, as the door closed, that he heard something like a convulsive sob.
Unconsciously Agnes had clung to Sprague's hand. Now, as the sense of danger disappeared, she became aware of what she was doing; and, in sudden embarrassment, she withdrew her hand from his reassuring clasp.
The artist, recalling the object of his visit, at once became grave and formal.
"I am sorry to intrude upon you at this unconventional hour, Miss Murdock, but I found this letter in my studio to-day. It was evidently dropped by you yesterday; and, thinking it might be important, I——"
"A letter? What letter?" asked Agnes, puzzled.
Sprague held out the sealed envelope. The young girl tore it open and cast a hurried glance at its contents. Then suddenly understanding, she tore the paper to shreds, and threw these angrily into the fire which burned brightly in the large open fire-place.
"Oh, that!" she exclaimed contemptuously. And then after a pause:
"Do you mean to say you thought——?"
She stopped short, seized by a sudden shyness.
"What else could I think?" said Sprague softly.
He was watching the fragments of paper as they flared upon the hearth. The flame which consumed them seemed to shed a radiant glow upon his heart.
"Then," he added presently and still more softly, "if there is nothing between you and—and him—perhaps—perhaps I may hope—Miss Murdock—Agnes——"
His hand sought hers and found it.
But the reaction had come at last, and the brave girl who had been able to control herself in the presence of a threatening madman now gave way to a fit of hysterical weeping.
Sprague, not being a medical man, could hardly have known what remedies to employ in an emergency of this kind. All he did was to whisper soothing words in the young girl's ear and to kiss the tears from her eyes. But apparently that was enough. Evidently for a layman he must have possessed considerable medical intuition; for, after sobbing a while upon his shoulder, Agnes quieted down gradually and remained contentedly nestling in his arms, while the artist, doubtless fearful of a relapse, continued, for perhaps an unnecessarily long time, to ply the treatment whose effect had produced upon his patient so marked, so rapid, and so satisfactory a result.
The attention of the medical profession is respectfully called to a treatment which, though empirical, may possibly possess specific virtues.