We walked down to the drug store. On entering, Mr. Harrison ordered a couple of glasses of soda water and then called the proprietor aside.
"Can you tell me anything about the lady that keeps the boarding-house below here?" he asked.
"Which one?"
"Mrs. Agatha Mitts."
"I've heard it's a very good house," was the noncommittal reply.
"You know the lady?"
"She comes in here once in a while for drugs."
"May I ask what kind of a woman she is?"
"Well, she's good enough in her way, though rather eccentric. I understand she furnishes good board, however. She has kept the house for many years."
"Has she many boarders?"
"Eight or ten. She used to have more. But they were rather a lively set and hurt the reputation of the place."
Mr. Harrison paid for the soda, and a second later we quitted the place.
"Not much information gained there," said my Chicago friend, when we were once again on the street.
"One thing is certain," I replied. "She is the right party. It would never have done to have tackled the wrong person."
"I guess the best thing for us to do is to call on the woman without waiting further."
"So I think."
"She may be a very hard person to manage. Strong, you must be careful of what you say."
"I shall, Mr. Harrison," I replied. "But that woman must do what is right or go to prison."
"I agree with you."
Ascending the steps of the house, I rang the bell. A tidy Irish girl answered the summons.
"Is Mrs. Agatha Mitts in?" I asked.
"Yes, sir."
"We would like to see her."
"Will you please step into the parlor?" went on the girl, and we did so.
"Who shall I say it is?"
"Mr. Harrison," put in my Western friend.
"Yes, sir."
The girl disappeared. My heart beat strongly. It seemed to me as if life and death hung upon the meeting that was to follow.
I could not help but wonder, as I sat in the parlor with my friend Mr. Harrison, waiting for the appearance of Mrs. Agatha Mitts, what kind of a person the keeper of the boarding-house would prove to be.
For some reason the name suggested to me a tall, gaunt female with sharp features; and I was taken by surprise when a short, dumpy woman, with a round face, came wobbling in and asked what was wanted.
"This is Mrs. Agatha Mitts?" asked Mr. Harrison, as he arose.
"Yes, sir. And you are Mr. Harrison, I suppose. I don't remember you."
"I didn't think you would," laughed my friend from Chicago. "I am from the West, and have never before been in Brooklyn."
"Yes? Then your business with me is—? Perhaps you desire board?" and she smiled; first at him and then at me.
"No; we do not wish board," was the quiet reply. "We come to see you on business."
"And what is it?"
"We would like to see you privately."
"Certainly. Pray take a seat. I will close the doors."
She shut the folding doors leading to the sitting room, and then the door to the hall.
"Now I am quite at your service," she said, and peered at us rather sharply.
There was an awkward pause for a moment, and then Mr. Harrison went on bluntly:&—
"Has Mr. Aaron Woodward or Chris Holtzmann been here since yesterday, madam?"
Mrs. Mitts started at the mention of the two names. Then she recovered herself.
"Whom did you say, sir?" she queried innocently.
Mr. Harrison repeated his question.
"Why, I really haven't heard of those two gentlemen in so long a time I've nearly forgotten them," she said sweetly.
"They weren't here yesterday?" I put in.
"No." And this time her tone was a trifle cold.
"Do you expect them to-day?" I went on.
"No, I don't." She paused a second. "Is that all you wish to know?"
"No, ma'am," I replied promptly. "There is a good deal more I wish to know."
"Who are you, if I may ask?"
"My name is Strong."
She looked puzzled for a moment.
"I don't recognize the name," she said, and then she suddenly turned pale.
"I am the son of Carson Strong, who was sent to prison for alleged forgery and the passing of worthless checks," I continued. "I suppose you remember the case."
"Har—hardly," she faltered. "I—I heard something of it, but not the particulars."
"That is strange, when you were so interested in it."
"I?" she repeated, in pretended surprise.
"Yes, madam," said Mr. Harrison. "You were very much interested."
"Who says so?"
"I say so," said I.
"You! You are only a boy."
"I suppose I am, but that doesn't make any difference. You know all about the great wrong that has been done, and&—"
"It is false! I know nothing!" she cried in anger.
"You know all, and we want you to tell as all you know before we leave this house."
Mrs. Agatha Mitts arose in a passion.
"I want you to get out of my house at once!" she ejaculated. "I won't stand your presence here another minute."
"Excuse me, madam; not so fast," said Mr. Harrison, calmly. "My young friend Strong is quite right in what he says."
"I don't care what you think about it," she snapped.
"Oh, yes, you do. Perhaps you don't know who I am," went on my Western friend, deliberately.
The sly insinuation had its effect. Evidently the woman had a swift vision of a detective in citizens' clothes before her mind's eye.
"You come in authority," she said faintly.
"We won't speak about that now," said Mr. Harrison. "All we want you to do is to make a complete confession of your knowledge of the affair."
"I haven't any knowledge."
"You have," I said. "You know everything. I have papers here belonging to Woodward, Holtzmann, and Ferguson to prove it. There is no use for you to deny it, and if you insist and make it necessary to call in the police&—"
"No, no! Please don't do that, I beg of you," she cried.
"Then will you do as I wish?"
"But my reputation? It will be gone forever," she moaned.
"It will be gone anyway, if you have to go to prison," observed Mr. Harrison, sagely.
"And if I make a clean confession you will not prosecute me?" she asked eagerly.
"I'll promise you that," I said.
"You are not fooling me?"
"No, ma'am."
She sprang to her feet and paced the room several times.
"I'll do it," she cried. "They have never treated me right, and I do not care what becomes of them so long as I go clear. What do you wish me to do, gentlemen?"
I was nonplussed for an instant. Mr. Harrison helped me out.
"I will write out your confession and you can sign it," he said. "Have you ink and paper handy?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Mitts brought forth the material, and we all sat down again.
"Remember to give us only the plain facts," I said.
"I will," she returned sharply.
In a rather roundabout way she made her confession, if it could be called such. It filled several sheets of paper, and it took over half an hour. It contained but little more than what my readers already know or suspect. She knew positively that Mr. Aaron Woodward was the forger of the checks, Holtzmann had presented them, and Ferguson had so altered the daily reports that my father had unwittingly made a false showing on his books. About Weaver she knew nothing.
When once explained the whole matter was as clear as day.
When he had finished the writing, Mr. Harrison read the paper out loud, and after some hesitation the woman signed it, and then we both witnessed it.
"I guess our business here is at an end," said my Western friend.
"I think so," I replied. "But one thing more, Mrs. Mitts," I continued, turning to her. "If Mr. Woodward or Chris Holtzmann calls, I think you will find it advisable to keep this affair a secret."
"I will not be at home to them," she replied briefly.
"A good plan," said Mr. Harrison. "Now that you have done the right thing, the less you say about the matter the better for you."
A few minutes later, with the paper tucked safely in my pocket, we left the house. Mrs. Mitts watched us sharply from behind the half-closed blinds.
In half an hour we were down town and across the ferry once more.
"I suppose you wish to get home as soon as possible," said Mr. Harrison, as we boarded a street-car to take us to his hotel.
"Yes, sir. My sister and the rest will be anxious to hear how I've made out, and besides I'm anxious to learn how things have gone since I have been away."
"I've no doubt of it."
"What do you intend to do?"
"I hardly know. I have some business, but I am quite interested in your case, and&—"
"Would you like to go along! You'll be heartily welcome, sir."
"Thank you, I will. I want to see how this drama ends," said Mr. Harrison.
A little later I procured my valise, and we set out for Darbyville.
I am sure my readers will well understand why my thoughts were busy as the train rolled on its way to Newville. I could hardly realize that I held the proofs of my father's innocence in my possession; and I was strongly tempted several times to ask my kind Western friend to pinch me to make sure that I was really awake, and was not merely dreaming my good fortune.
Mr. Harrison probably guessed what was passing in my mind, for he placed a kindly hand upon my shoulder, and said, with a smile:&—
"Does it seem almost too good to be true?"
"That's just it," I returned. "The events of the past week have so crowded on each other that I'm in a perfect whirl."
"You will have a little more excitement before it is over."
"I suppose so. But now that I know it is all right I shall not mind it. I wonder if I couldn't send my father the good news by telegraph?"
"You can easily enough. But don't you think you had better wait until all is settled? You might raise false hopes."
"No fear; Aaron Woodward is guilty beyond a doubt. But I will wait if you think best."
It was not long before the train rolled into Newville. On alighting Mr. Harrison insisted on hiring a cab, and in this we bowled swiftly on our way to Darbyville. As we passed out of the city and up on the country road I wondered how matters had progressed during my absence. Had the merchant returned home?
At Darbyville a crowd of men gazed at us with curious eyes. Among them was Parsons the constable and others who knew me.
"Hello, you back again?" shouted Parsons.
"Yes, indeed," I replied. "I suppose you didn't expect me so soon?"
"I'll allow as how I didn't expect you at all," he returned, with a grin.
"Well, you were mistaken. I'm back, and back to stay," said I.
My heart beat high as we turned into the side road that led to the Widow Canby's house. I strained my eyes to catch sight of the first one who might appear. It was my Uncle Enos. He was doing a bit of mending on the front fence. As soon as he saw me he threw down his hammer, and ran toward us.
"Well, well, Roger, struck port again, have you? Glad you're back."
And he shook my right hand hard.
"My friend, Mr. Harrison, from Chicago," said I. "This is my uncle, Captain Enos Moss."
They had hardly finished hand-shaking, when Kate and the Widow Canby came out of the house.
"Oh, Roger, I'm so glad you're back!" cried Kate. And then she looked earnestly into my eyes. "Did you—did, you&—"
"Yes, Kate, I've succeeded. Father's innocence can be proven."
"Oh, thank God!" cried my sister, and the tears of joy started from her eyes. I felt like crying, too, and soon, somehow, there was hardly a dry eye in the group.
"You must have had a hard time of it," sail the Widow Canby.
"My kind friend here helped me a good deal," I said.
Mr. Harrison was introduced to the others, and soon we were seated, on the piazza, and I was relating my experiences.
The interest of my listeners grew as I went on. They could hardly believe it possible that Mr. Aaron Woodward, with all his outward show of gentlemanliness, was such a thoroughly bad man. When I came to speak of John Stumpy, alias Ferguson, Kate burst out:&—
"I declare, I've almost forgotten. I've got good news, too. This very morning I went hunting again and picked up the paper that was lost. I was trying to read it when you drove up. Here it is."
And my sister handed over Nicholas Weaver's dying statement.
"It is hardly of use now," I said. "Still, it will make the evidence against Mr. Woodward so much stronger."
"I've discovered that this Nick Weaver was a chum of Woodward's," said Uncle Enos.
"A chum?"
"Yes. He came from Chicago."
"From Chicago!" I ejaculated.
"Exactly."
Meanwhile Mr. Harrison was examining the statement, which Kate had produced from her dress pocket.
"I see it all," he cried. "Nicholas Weaver was the man who helped Holtzmann concoct the scheme whereby a relative in Chicago was supposed to have died and willed Aaron Woodward all his money."
"I see. But why did he leave the statement?" I asked.
"Because, he says here, Woodward did not treat him right. This Ferguson or Stumpy was a friend to Weaver, and the paper was gotten up to bring Woodward to terms."
That explanation was clear enough, and I could easily understand why John Stumpy had come to Darbyville, and how it was the merchant had treated him with so much consideration.
"And there is another thing to tell you, Roger," put in the Widow Canby. "Something I know you will be greatly pleased to hear."
"What is it?" I asked, in considerable curiosity.
"I have evidence to show that this John Stumpy was the man who robbed me of my money. Of course I knew it was so when Kate and you said so, but outsiders now know it."
"And how?"
"Miles Nanson saw the man running from the house. He was hurrying to get a doctor for his wife, who was very sick, and he didn't stop to question the fellow."
"But why didn't he speak of it before?" I asked. "He might have saved us a deal of trouble."
"He never heard of the robbery until last night, his wife has been so sick. He can testify to seeing the man."
"I'm glad of that," I said. "But unfortunately, that doesn't restore the money."
"No, I suppose not. This Stumpy still has it."
"No; he claims to have lost it," I returned, and I related the particulars as I had overheard them in the boarding-house on the opposite side of the Pass River.
"I wish I could find it—the money, I mean—as I did the papers," put in Kate.
"Where did he jump over the fence?" I asked suddenly.
"Down by the crab-apple tree," said Uncle Enos.
"Have you looked there?" queried Mr. Harrison.
"No," said Kate; "you don't think&—" she began.
"There is nothing like looking," said my Western friend, slowly.
"I guess you're right," I replied, "and the sooner the better."
In a minute I was out of the house. Kate was close on my heels, and together we made our way to the orchard, followed by the others.
"Now, let me see," I went on. "If he went over the fence here he must have vaulted over. I'll try that, and note how the money might have dropped."
I placed my hands on the top rail and sprang up to vault over. As my head bent over, my eyes caught sight of an object lying in the hole of the fence post.
I picked it up. It was the Widow Canby's pocketbook.
Of course I was highly delighted with the success of my search, and as I brought forth the pocketbook all the others gave a cry of surprise.
"You've got it, Roger!" ejaculated my uncle. "You've got it, just as sure as guns is guns!"
"So I have," I replied, as coolly as I could, though I was at the top notch of excitement.
"Better examine it," put in Mr. Harrison, cautiously. "It may be empty."
"Empty!" cried Kate in dismay, and the word sent a chill through my own heart.
With nervous fingers I tore the pocketbook open. I suppose I ought to have given it to the widow, but I was too excited to think of what was just right and what was not.
"The money was in a piece of newspaper," said the Widow Canby. "I had—ah, there it is!"
And sure enough, there it was—nearly three hundred dollars—safe and sound.
I almost felt like dancing a jig, and could not refrain from throwing up my hat, which I did in such a way that it caught in a limb of a tree, and forced me to climb up to recover it.
As I was about jumping to the ground I heard a buggy pass on the road. Looking down, I was surprised to see that it contained Mr. Aaron Woodward and Chris Holtzmann. On seeing the party on the ground below, the merchant stopped his horse and jumped out.
"How do you do, Mrs. Canby?" he said, as he came over to the fence without catching sight of me.
"Pretty well, Mr. Woodward," was the widow's reply.
"Have you heard anything of your money yet?" went on the merchant, with apparent concern.
"Oh, yes&—" and the widow hesitated.
My sister whispered something in her ear.
"It was just found," said Kate.
The merchant gave a start.
"You don't mean it!" he cried. "Where?"
"Down here by the fence."
"Who put it there?" asked Mr. Woodward, sharply.
"No one. It was dropped by John Stumpy."
"Humph! Perhaps so!" sneered the merchant.
"It's true," exclaimed Kate, stoutly.
"More likely by your brother Roger."
"Avast there!" cried Uncle Enos. "You're saying too much."
"I don't think so," replied Mr. Woodward, in deep sarcasm. "Of course you want to shield the boy all you can, but I 'm sure in my mind that he is guilty."
"And I'm positive in my own mind that I'm innocent," said I, and I jumped to the ground.
"Roger Strong!" he cried, stepping back in surprise; and I saw Chris Holtzmann give a start. "Where did you come from?"
"I came from—up a tree," I returned lightly, and I may add that never before had I felt in such particularly good humor.
"Don't trifle with me," he cried in anger. "Answer my question."
"I will when I get ready."
"You refuse?"
"Oh, no. But I'm not compelled to answer, understand that, Mr. Aaron Woodward. I'll answer because I choose to do so."
"Never mind," he snapped. "Where have you been?"
"To Chicago—as you know—and to Brooklyn."
"To Brooklyn!" he cried, growing pale.
"Yes, sir, to see Mrs. Agatha Mitts."
"And did you see her?" he faltered.
"Yes, sir."
"And she&—" he began.
"What she said or did will be produced in court later on," put in Mr. Harrison.
"Eh?" the merchant wheeled around. "Who are you?"
"My name is James Harrison. I am from Chicago. I am this boy's friend, and I am here to see justice done."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you and your colleagues—Chris Holtzmann there, John Stumpy, alias Ferguson, and the late Nicholas Weaver—have foully wronged this boy's father."
"It's a lie!" cried Aaron Woodward, with a quivering lip.
"It's the truth," I said. "The plain truth, and I can prove every word of it."
"Prove it!"
"Yes, in every detail, Mr. Aaron Woodward. I have worked hard fighting for honor, but I have won. Soon my father shall be free, and for aught I know to the contrary, you will occupy his place in prison."
"I!" cried the merchant, in horror. "A likely thing!"
"We shall see," I said. "In the meantime be careful of what you say against me, or I will have you arrested before sundown."
Mr. Woodward gave me a look that was savageness itself. Apparently he was on the verge of giving way to a burst of temper. But he seemed to think better of it, and turning, he jumped into his buggy and drove away.
It was the last time I ever saw him. On the following day Mr. Harrison, Uncle Enos, and myself drove down to Newville and engaged a first-class lawyer to take up the case. This legal gentleman pushed matters so fast that on the following Monday all the papers necessary for Woodward's arrest were ready for execution.
The officers came to Darbyville late in the afternoon to secure their man. They were told that Mr. Woodward had gone to New York on business. They waited for him the remainder of the day and all of the next.
It was useless. The highly respected head merchant of Darbyville did not appear; and an examination showed that he had mortgaged his house and his business, and taken every cent of cash with him.
It was an open acknowledgment of his guilt, and Kate was for letting it go at that.
"It will do no good to have him locked up," she said.
"One thing is certain, sech a rascal ain't fit to be at liberty," put in my Uncle Enos.
"He may turn around and rob somebody else," added the Widow Canby.
"That's just it," I said; and determined to bring the man to justice, I set a detective on his track.
The search was successful, for in a week Aaron Woodward was caught in Boston, preparing to embark for Europe. He was brought back to Newville to await the action of the grand jury. But he never came to trial. In less than a week he was found in his cell one morning, dying. Rather than face the humiliation of going to jail he had taken his life. What became of Duncan I did not know for a long while until, through Mr. Harrison, I learned that he was in Chicago working for one of the railroads. He had the making of a good fellow in him, and I trust that he became one. Chris Holtzmann disappeared, and his Palace of Pleasure is a thing of the past. John Stumpy went to Texas, and I heard that Pultzer went with him.
It was not long before my father received his pardon and came home. I cannot express the joy that all of us experienced when he came forth from prison, not only a free man, but also bearing the proofs of his innocence. We were all there to greet him, and as my sister Kate rushed into his arms I felt that fighting for honor meant a good deal.
Five years have gone by. My father and I are now in business in Newville. We live in Darbyville, along with my uncle,—who married the Widow Canby,—and my sister Kate.
Holland & Mack have recovered all that was stolen from them. They were profuse in their apologies to my father, and offered him a good situation, which he declined.
We are all happy—especially Kate and I. During off hours we are all but inseparable. I like my work, and expect some day to be a leading merchant. The clouds that hung over the family honor have passed, and sunshine seems to have come to stay, and that being so I will bid my readers good-by.