GIFT F 
 Mrs. W. Barstow 
 
MJ&j^M 
 
 
 *^ 
 
 - -xStSFS 
 
 ^sa^ 
 
 *K- ""fx 
 
 w&^m 
 
 M^\ 
 
 o^ 
 
ITEIUII PIJIIIIS 
 
 In material, workmanship and design the very best, 
 
 and in richness and purity of tone not 
 
 surpassed by any. 
 
 Do not buy till you have examined the "STERLING," 
 its prices and terms. 
 
 FACTORIES. 
 DERBY, CONN. 
 
 MANUFACTURERS' WAREROOMS. 
 
 No. 179-181 Wabash Avenue, 
 
 CHICAGO, ILL,. 
 
 THE STERLING COMPAHY. 
 
THE CENTRAL COLLEGE 
 
 OF 
 
 ECLECTIC SHORTHAND 
 
 94 DEARBORN ST., CHICAGO. 
 
 Will give a $600 CHICKERING UPRIGHT GRAND PIANO to its pupil 
 enrolled before Christmas, who shall make the most improvement 
 during the first month's study and work. 
 
 This College is one of the best In the country. The 
 system which it teaches, 
 
 ECLECTIC SHORTHAND, 
 
 can be learned in a fraction of the time required by 
 other systems. It guarantees all its pupils success 
 and perfect satisfaction. 
 
 For full circulars, address 
 
 In writing please mention the book in which you find this adver- 
 tisement. 
 
 THE CHICAGO --- 
 
 Sag Iiamp Illummafciqg C0. 
 
 1 1 6 DEARBORN ST. 
 
 Under the Siemens-lMngren Patents. 
 
 Handsome in appearance, always ready for use and 
 
 resembling the Electric Light without its 
 
 Disagreeable Noise, Glare and Flicker. 
 
 Appropriate for Lighting Offices, Fac- 
 tories, Show Windows, Stores, Mills, 
 Libraries and all situations where 
 an increased Illumination is 
 desired AT A NOMINAL 
 EXPENSE. 
 
 A Lungren Gas Lamp burning 12 feet per hour ifives 
 a clear and perfectly steady light havihg an illuminat- 
 H ing capacity equal to 45 feet consumed in ordinary 
 burners. Easily managed and fitted to ordinary supply 
 & pipes without alteration. Thousands in use. 
 
-A SPECIAL OITEfc! 
 
 1C FIFTEEN PHOTOGRAPHS 1C 
 
 1 In Three Styles for THREE DOLLARS. I U 
 
 At STEVENS' Studio, McVicker's Theater Building, 
 
 STEVENS' reputation as a Photographer is sufficient guarantee 
 that the Photographs will be the best that can be made at any price. 
 
 IT is GUARANTEED 
 
 They are not equaled in any other Gallery in the city at leas than $5.00. 
 
 CELLULOID 
 
 Have you ever worn the 
 
 COLLARS 
 & GUFFS? 
 
 Nicest goods in the world! Never wilt down, require no 
 
 laundrying; one set -will last you for -weeks. 
 TRY THEM. - -V* FOR SALE EVERYWHERE. 
 
 tetls.0 .*xy Toxit *lxe> G-exi.i3.ixxe r^TTT T TTT OfTl 
 R. H. SANBORN &CO,.West'nAgts., UW*ULrM|V. 
 
 143 5th Avenue, -H~ CHICAGO. 
 
 HAVE YOU A GOOD MEMORY? 
 
 If not, why not, when it is so essential in all the pursuits of life, 
 and so easily acquired by a few hours ATTENTION to the instruction 
 given by Prof. A. S. BOYD? 
 
 Nine-tenths of time and labor saved in studies ! One hundred 
 difficult names memorized by one reading. Long poems memor- 
 ized by two or three readings ! No notes needed in delivering and 
 reporting sermons, speeches, etc. ATTENTION and CONCENTRATION 
 greatly improved; MIND-WANDERING, to a great extent, cured, In- 
 structions orally and by mail. Call or send for circular. 
 
 120 State St., cor. Madison, CHICAGO. 
 
 Home Office, 81 I N. Fremont Ave., BALTIMORE, MD. 
 
 IMPORTED DRESS PJTTERNS, TRIMMED IND PLJIft. 
 
 *-^ta> Fitting anC Draping, i^s^-<. 
 
 A SPECIALLY. 
 
 CHICAGO PATTERN CO., 75 E. Madison St., cor. State, 
 
 (ROOM 53). 
 
 BUDDINGTON SYSTEM TAUGHT, $6.OO. 
 Mail orders received. 
 
PHILLIPS' HAMS 
 
 ARE THE BEST. 
 
 PHILLIPS & CO. 
 
 23, 25 AND 27 NORTH CLINTON STREET, 
 
 CHICAGO. 
 
 CANDY 
 
 CANDY 
 
 Send $1.25, $2.00, or $3.50 for retail 
 box by express, prepaid, of the best 
 Candiea in America, put up in elegant 
 boxes, and strictly pure. Suitable for 
 presents. Refers to all Chicago. Try it 
 once. 
 Address, 
 
 C. F. GUNTHER, 
 Confectioner, Chicago. 
 
 ' 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S COLLEGE. 
 
 SEVENTEENTH YEAR. 
 
 " 
 
 BUSINESS AND 
 SHORTHAND SCHOo 
 
 SCHOOL OF ARCHITECTURAL 
 
 and MECHANICAL 
 School of Elocution and Oratory, 
 
 DAY GRAMMAR SCHOOL FOR BOYS AND GENTS, 
 Mathematics, Rhetoric, Modern Languages, Latin, Muaic. 
 
 DAY AND EVENING CLASSES. 
 
 MAY ENTER AT ANY TIME. 
 Thorough Academic OP 
 
 Business Education 
 
 Obtained at Moderate 
 
 _ " 
 
 "' 
 
 ADDRESS SUPERIKTENDEFT FOR CIRCULARS. 
 
DR. A. W. THOMPSON, Northampton, Mass., says: " 1 have tested the Gluten 
 Suppositories, and consider them valuable, as indeed, I expected from the excellence 
 of their theory." 
 
 DR. WM. TOD HELMUTH declares that Gluten Suppositories to be " the best remedy 
 for constipation which I have ever prescribed." 
 
 " As SanchoPanza said of sleep, so say I of your Gluten Suppositories: God bless 
 the man who invented them! " E. L. RIPLEY, Burlington, Vt. 
 
 " I prescribe the Gluten Suppositories almost daily in my practice, and am often 
 astonished at the permanent results obtained." J. MONTFORT SCHLEY, M. D., Profes- 
 sor Physical Diagnosis Woman's Medical College, New York City. 
 
 HEALTH FOOD CO., 75 4th Avenue N. Y. 
 
 HEALTH PRESERVING CORSETS. 
 
 Money 
 Refunded 
 
 If not 
 Satisfactory* 
 
 A coiled wire elastic section Corset, that combines comfort, artistic sh*pe and 
 durability. 
 
 SCHILLING CORSET CO., 
 
 7th and Abbot St9, t DETROIT, Mich. 
 
A SHARP NIGHT'S WORK 
 
 A POWERFUL DETECTIVE STORY 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES FRANKLIN FITT8 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1888 
 BY LAIRD & LEE 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 LAIRD & LEE PUBLISHERS 
 
 CtARK AND ADAM* iTRBETS 
 
/7M> , ljasi4X 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER, PACK 
 
 I. THE STARTING POINT 9 
 
 II. STARTLING NEWS 14 
 
 III. To THE RESCUE! 20 
 
 IV. ON THE TRACK 26 
 
 V. A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT 32 
 
 VI. No SUCH WORD AS FAIL 38 
 
 VII. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 43 
 
 VIII. THE LAST RALLY 49 
 
 IX. THE EVIL EYE 53 
 
 X. THE COURSE or TRUE LOVE 56 
 
 XL THE TRAIL or THE SERPENT 62 
 
 XII. THE DETECTIVE APPEARS 69 
 
 XIII. THE SILENT WITNESS 75 
 
 XIV. THE DETECTIVE AT WORK 81 
 
 XV. SHADOWED BY NIGHT 84 
 
 XVI. THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 87 
 
 XVII. UNDER THE SPELL 93 
 
 XVIII. PERVERSE FATES 97 
 
 XIX. THE TELEGRAM 100 
 
 XX. AFTER THE MARRIAGE 104 
 
 XXI. AN ESCAPE 109 
 
 XXII. IN SWIFT PURSUIT 112 
 
 XXIII. Too LATE! 116 
 
 XXIV. BAFFLED! 119 
 
 XXV. LIGHT BREAKS 125 
 
 XXVI. IN DARKNESS AND DISTRESS 131 
 
 XXVII. REFUGE AN^R^coVEHyu:^.^. 135 
 
 XXVIII. RETRIBUTION* i^o JR^uyipiJ . * v / 138 
 
 XXIX. SUNSHINE. THROUGH^ T#E, Cj+oups^. 144 
 
 XXX. A HOR'R'OR} p T^S iJiaiiT . .;. .! v \ /: 149 
 
 XXXI. THE VOICE' OF T^EA'TH I.'.IVL :..".!'/ 154 
 
 XXXII. THE DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION 158 
 
 XXXIII. RECOMPENSE 165 
 
 XXXIV. LAST SCENE OF ALL 168 
 
A SHARP NIGHT'S WORK 
 
 CHAPTER l. : \o ; ; ; ' . 
 
 THE STARTING POINT. 
 
 TUESDAY, September i8th, 1877, at 2:33 p. m., the 
 Western accommodation was precisely on time at 
 Granby Station. One passenger only alighted there; 
 and as the train departed without gaining any travelers 
 at this point, the man was left standing alone in the 
 middle of the platform fronting the little station. Not 
 another human creature was at the moment in sight. 
 The weather was unusually hot for the time, and a 
 bright sun glared down upon the traveler. As his eye 
 glanced all about him, taking in his surroundings, he 
 looked unmistakably weary. He had no baggage, not 
 even a hand-satchel. He was of medium height, spare 
 of form and face, with iron-gray hair, prominent feat- 
 ures, face slightly wrinkled, and such blue eyes as he 
 who once saw would turn to look at again. They were 
 of that cold, expressionless hue, which, accompanying 
 a thin-lipped mouth and Roman nose, give the observer 
 no kind of index to the character of the man, or even 
 to his present thoughts. His form was erect, spite of 
 the fact that his years were nearer sixty than fifty. As 
 to his real character there need be no concealment here. 
 He was a veteran detective, grown old and gray in the 
 skilled business of unearthing great crimes and bring- 
 ing to justice great criminals against wealthy corpora- 
 tions at the West; and although he had lately retired 
 from this exciting and lucrative pursuit, and had come 
 East on an errand, the nature of which will in due time 
 
 M102721 
 
10 THE STARTING POINT 
 
 be disclosed, he had undertaken the journey of this day, 
 not only because his heart was in its object, but because 
 his detective ability was urgently demanded to insure 
 its success. 
 
 The ticket agent within slammed down the window 
 , <>f his'ofjfiQe^ridJwalked lazily out into the hot sun- 
 shine.- VThe'tra.vtler accosted him: 
 
 " ;How-jfar is'it'to, (Jranby village? " 
 
 " Is there no conveyance? " 
 
 The agent laughed. 
 
 "Sometimes there is; sometimes not. It depends." 
 
 " Is there one to-day? " the other impatiently asked". 
 
 " By present appearances, I should say not. This 
 seems to be one of Simple Simon's off-days. Fact is," 
 he continued, in a half-apologetic tone, " it ain't more'n 
 once a week that anybody gets on or off here. When 
 there's anybody coming over from the village who'll 
 pay Simple Simon, as we call him, a quarter to bring 
 him, he'll hitch up his old sorrel and come. Other 
 times, when he feels like ramblin' over to see if there's 
 somebody stopped off, he comes; but he ain't to be 
 depended on." 
 
 Possessed of so much of the unpromising situation, 
 the traveler snapped his fingers briskly, and sent out 
 questions and remarks as sharply as needle points. 
 
 " Where can I hire a conveyance to go over to the 
 village?" 
 
 " You can't hire one. " 
 
 " What has nobody here got a horse and buggy?" 
 
 " Nobody but me; and I don't hire mine." 
 
 " What might your horse and buggy be worth?" 
 
 The pride of the country ticket agent was touched; 
 this man wanted to talk with him about his horse, the 
 darling of his heart! 
 
 " Well, sir," he said, " he's a good animal. He can 
 make a mile in four minutes." 
 
 " Indeed!" said the traveler, humoring him, 
 
THE STARTING POINT II 
 
 " Fact! And that buggy was new only three years 
 ago." 
 
 " I asked you what they are worth?" 
 
 " Dunno as I want to sell; but the horse ain't worth 
 a cent less than a hundred an' fifty; and the buggy's 
 worth a hundred more. " 
 
 " See here," and the traveler spoke rapidly and with 
 decision: " I've got to go to Granby, and get back 
 here in time for the west-bound night express. What's 
 its time?" 
 
 " Six twenty-seven." 
 
 " I say I must go over now, and return here in time 
 for that train. I would give you twenty dollars for the 
 use of your rig; yet, as the day is very sultry, and time 
 presses me, I cannot promise to spare horseflesh. You 
 say the establishment is worth two hundred and fifty 
 dollars; I'll buy it of you and give you fifty dollars 
 over. If you choose to take it back to-night at a fair 
 valuation, well and good; if not, I shall not complain. 
 Here!" 
 
 The speaker drew a plethoric wallet from his pocket, 
 extracted from its contents three one hundred dollar 
 bills, and offered them to the agent. The latter 
 mechanically took the money, but remonstrated with 
 amazement. 
 
 " It's a dreadful fair offer; but you haven't seen the 
 horse, nor " 
 
 " The bargain is closed, sir ! " interrupted the trav- 
 eler, peremptorily. We are wasting valuable time; fly 
 around lively, now; I must be on the road." 
 
 The ticket agent hurried away to his barn, near at 
 hand, thinking that his luck was wonderful that after- 
 noon, and wishing he might know what lunatic it was 
 that had just given him three hundred dollars for 
 property that would have been dear at two hundred, 
 and that without seeing it. But the new rustling bank 
 notes in his hand hastened his movements, and in ten 
 minutes horse and buggy were ready at the rear of the 
 
12 THE STARTING POINT 
 
 station. Without another word as to the arrangement 
 he had made for the return of the property, the trav- 
 eler climed into the vehicle, and, waiting only to get 
 directions as to the road, he laid on the whip at the 
 start, and was off like a shot. 
 
 The astonished agent watched him as he disappeared 
 in a cloud of dust, above which he could see the wav- 
 ing whiplash. He had not so much as learned the 
 man's name! 
 
 "Escaped from some mad-house, sure!" was his 
 comment. " He'll break his neck long before he gets 
 to the village." 
 
 It was just three o'clock when our traveler left the 
 Granby Station. The animal that he drove might 
 have been as good as recommended, ordinarily; upon 
 such a day and such a dusty road, he certainly was not. 
 His driver did not spare him. Never once in that long 
 nine-mile stretch was the poor beast suffered to walk 
 more than a minute at a time. The whip often 
 descended on his dusty, sweaty flanks, and his long- 
 reaching trot was not suffered to lag. 
 
 " I pity you, poor beast!" the old detective once 
 murmured, as he noticed the evident distress of the 
 animal. " Thousands upon thousands of miles have I 
 driven over the rough Western highways, and ever 
 have been merciful to the horse; but this is not the 
 time to think of such things." And the whip cracked 
 again. 
 
 In several houses on the long, straggling street of 
 Granby village the clocks were striking four as the 
 panting, sweating horse, with hanging head and quiv- 
 ering flank, stopped before the inn. The landlord 
 came out in his shirt-sleeves; two or three loungers on 
 the bench before the house roused themselves suffi- 
 ciently to stare at the new comer, and wonder who he 
 was, any way. 
 
 The detective jumped out. 
 
 "Landlord," he said, "look sharp here! listen. 
 
THE STARTING POINT 13 
 
 " D yu see this?" and he thrust a ten-dollar 
 note into his hand. " That will pay you well for all 
 you can do for me. I want your time, your wits, and 
 your best service, quickly given. Have that horse 
 taken out, thoroughly rubbed down, watered in twenty 
 minutes not before fed, and then harnessed, ready 
 to be put in the shafts in a minute. See to this, and 
 then come back. 
 
 Stimulated by the great liberality just shown, the 
 landlord succeeded in infusing vitality enough into a 
 couple of the loungers to get these directions obeyed. 
 
 " Now, then, listen to roe," said the detective, lead- 
 ing the landlord off to the end of the platform, out of 
 hearing. " I'm looking for a man; he is here in this 
 village, somewhere. His name is Ernest Mulford. Do 
 you know him?" 
 
 " Hain't no such man here," was the prompt reply. 
 
 " Are you sure?" 
 
 " Sartin sure. There's a matter of less'n three hun- 
 dred people in Granby, and I know 'em all every sin- 
 ner of 'em. Nobody o' that name here, I tell you." 
 
 " The name don't count for much ; it is the man I 
 want. Nothing is put off and on as easily as a name. 
 Are there any strangers in the village? " 
 
 " Nary one." 
 
 The detective's face clouded. 
 
 " But since July, say only two months back. Just 
 think, now, and see if you can't remember that 
 strangers, new people, have come in here within that 
 time, and stayed." 
 
 The landlord rubbed the stubble on his chin thought- 
 fully, and said, slowly: 
 
 " Why ye-e-s; I guess there has been one or two. 
 What sorter man you lookin' for? " 
 
 " I have never seen him ; but he is described to me 
 by many people, who have seen him, as five feet eleven 
 in height; slim and active; brown eyes and hair; ruddy 
 
14 STARTLING NEWS 
 
 face; abent twenty-six years old. Now, what do 
 say?" 
 
 The landlord heard, and a remarkable change came 
 over his stolid countenance. A broad ray of intelli- 
 gence lighted it. He significantly pointed backward 
 with his thumb over his shoulder. 
 
 " You're pretty good on describing stranger, " he 
 said, " you've just exactly hit off a young fellow that 
 came here 'long the middle or last of July, an' hain't 
 done nothing since but write letters and never get any; 
 take long walks all by himself; watch at the postoffice 
 for letters that never come, and make a fool of himself 
 gen'r'ly. He's been stayin' here with me, and he's 
 lyin' on that bench there this minute. He goes by the 
 name of Martin Sammons. 
 
 The detective turned abruptly, and, with his hands 
 behind his back, walked the length of the platform in 
 front of the inn. At the further end he turned and 
 walked back. Each time he passed a little nearer to 
 the lounger on the bench, and each time upon passing 
 he shot a swift glance that way. Finally he halted and 
 stood still, directly before him. The lounger opened 
 his eyes, and drowsily took in the appearance of the 
 stranger. He closed them again, when the detective's 
 voice, low as it was, broke like a thunder-clap on his 
 dozing senses: 
 
 " Well, Ernest Mulford, ho.w do you find yourself? " 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 STARTLING NEWS. 
 
 THE young man sprang to his feet and looked wildly 
 at the detective. He was thoroughly roused and 
 alarmed, and the blood fled from his cheek. He stood 
 speechless, confronting the man who had addressed 
 him. The latter stood carelessly, with his hands be- 
 hind his back, returning the young man's gaze with a 
 
STARTLING NEWS 15 
 
 quiet look. His face was absolutely without xpr6- 
 sion. 
 
 "Well! "he said. 
 
 " My name is not Ernest Mulford," the other pro- 
 tested. 
 
 " Oh yes, it is. Don't deny it. I know you, sir! " 
 
 The young man heard the quiet, determined tone, 
 and saw the resolute eyes that steadily regarded him. 
 A common expression best describes the effect pro- 
 duced upon him. He weakened. Sinking down upon 
 the bench again, he said, with a sigh: 
 
 " Let it be so, then. I don't care. Arrest me, if 
 you will. Only, mind, I don't admit any wrong- 
 doing! I'm innocent of crime, I say! " 
 
 " This is no place to talk such things over," replied 
 the detective. " Come inside with me. I want you to 
 go with me to the station; but I've something to say to 
 you first. " 
 
 He led the way into the shabby little parlor of the 
 inn, the other doggedly following him. The detective 
 locked the doors. 
 
 " You admit, then, that you are Ernest Mulford? " 
 
 "Yes. What of it?" 
 
 " You shall hear. I am Elias Lear, late chief of de- 
 tectives for several great Western railroads. Perhaps 
 you have heard of me." 
 
 " Yes; but I don't care. If you are going to arrest 
 me. " 
 
 " I am not going to arrest you," said Mr. Lear, 
 quietly. " When you said out there, a moment since, 
 that you had not committed any crime, you told the 
 truth. But you have acted foolishly, and without judg- 
 ment." 
 
 Mulford began to speak, but Mr. Lear silenced him 
 with a motion of his hand, and went on. 
 
 " It is barely eight weeks ago since you left the vil- 
 lage of Bardwell, secretly and at night. Two motives 
 prompted you. The girl you loved had rejected your 
 
1 6 STARTLING NEWS 
 
 suit, as you thought, and your heart was filled with 
 bitterness. Just at that time your employer peremp- 
 torily dismissed you without giving any true reason for 
 so doing. These two misfortunes so wrought upon 
 you that you hastily and unwisely determined to fly 
 from the place where you had been honored and 
 respected for years. Is this true? " 
 
 Ernest Mulford sat with folded arms, his eyes bent 
 upon the floor, silent under this recital. 
 
 " Since you left/' pursued Lear, " gossip and 
 rumor have been busy with your name. It has been 
 reported, and it is generally believed, that you were 
 discovered by your employer in thefts from his safe; 
 that he accused you, and that, on your confession, he 
 agreed not to prosecute you provided you would leave 
 town at once. This story, I may say, is believed by 
 nine-tenths of the people of that village." 
 
 "But it is false, "was the sullen reply. "I don't 
 know that it is any of your business, but since you will 
 talk about it, I will say that you have found out one 
 good reason for my leaving Bardwell. Right off, after 
 that, when Mr. Mayhew discharged me without fair 
 explanation, I did feel upset, and I left without a word 
 to anybody. You say it was unwise; I don't know nor 
 care. I have done with that town and its people; they 
 will never see me again. " 
 
 "You will reconsider that determination, Mr. Mul- 
 ford, within the next fifteen minutes. Did it never 
 occur to you that there was some connection between 
 your dismissal by that lady and your dismissal by Mr. 
 Mayhew?" 
 
 Mulford started to his feet. 
 
 " Sit down again, sir; be quiet; let us talk. Have 
 you heard anything from Bardwell since you left 
 | there?" 
 
 "No; not a word." 
 
 " Have you written?" 
 
 Mulford hesitated. Mr. Lear took his hand, and 
 
STARTLING NEWS I 7 
 
 addressed him in a tone of frankness and cordiality such 
 as he had not before used. 
 
 " Mr. Mulford, we must have an understanding at 
 once. I want you to return to Bardwell with me; but 
 it will not be by compulsion. I have come here as your 
 friend; some day you shall know what it was that made 
 me labor earnestly for you; it is too long a story to 
 tell now. Believe me, I want to help you to right 
 yourself and to prevent the consummation of the most 
 outrageous villainy against you and another. Will you 
 trust me? " 
 
 The honest manliness of the words and of the face 
 at that moment prevailed over the young man's doubts 
 and bewilderment. He silently returned the pressure 
 of the hand that had taken his. 
 
 " Thank you; you do well to trust me. Now tell 
 me why you are still lingering here if you have heard 
 nothing from Bardwell since you left there? " 
 
 " Because it is only a few hours' journey from there, 
 I suppose. Because," and his tone grew bitter, " be- 
 cause, like many another fool before me, I can't take a 
 woman's 'No/ and end it. Twenty times I have re- 
 solved to go to New York and enlist in the regulars, or 
 ship before the mast; once I got as far as Granby Sta- 
 tion on my way and I couldn't go. Idiot that I am, 
 I can't give her up. " 
 
 The pent-up feelings of the distressed lover almost 
 prevailed against his manhood. He lowered his head, 
 and the quick ear of the other heard a stifled sob. 
 
 " And you have written to her? " 
 
 " Yes; and to others. But nothing has come back 
 to me?" 
 
 " I suppose you did not think," drily remarked Lear, 
 " of Mr. Weston Mayhew's commission as postmaster 
 at Bardwell? " 
 
 Mulford looked up. Very slowly the sinister mean- 
 ing of the detective's words came to him. Then, 
 
 A Sharp Nighfs Work 2 
 
1 8 STARTLING NEWS 
 
 as if moved by an electric shock, he bounded to his 
 feet. 
 
 "Great heaven, sir!" he cried, "you don't mean 
 that that man " 
 
 " Weston Mayhew," interrupted Mr. Lear, " is 
 capable of anything to secure his coveted ends. What 
 he has done and what he proposes to do, you need not 
 trust my word for; here it is in black and white. Look! 
 read! and then say if you are not only willing but 
 anxious to go back with me." 
 
 He drew from an inner pocket a large, square, stiff 
 envelope. It seemed filled with inclosures. First, he 
 took from it a piece of Bristol board, upon one side of 
 which were, neatly joined together and pasted, the torn 
 and minute fragments of a letter. The envelope, bear- 
 ing the Granby postmark, restored in the same way, 
 was pasted upon the other side of the board. Save 
 one small fragment the letter was complete, and easily 
 legible. 
 
 " That is your writing, I presume," said Lear. 
 
 " One of my letters to her/" gasped Mulford. 
 " Where did you get it?" 
 
 " She never saw it ; you ought to be able to conjec- 
 ture, after what I have told you, the reason why. Well, 
 we must hasten ; we have but a few minutes more to 
 spend over these things. Look over these quickly," 
 and he took more inclosures from the envelope. There 
 were five of them. With much labor and skill the torn 
 and scattered fragments had been collected and 
 restored. 
 
 "These are all that I wrote to her," said Mulford 
 through his teeth. 
 
 Mr. Lear tapped the envelope. " Here are also three 
 letters that you mailed here to friends at Bardwell. 
 Not one of them was delivered to its address. " 
 
 " In the name of all that is wonderful, sir, how did 
 you get them and put them together this way? " 
 
 " No matter now. I can't spend time to tell you. 
 
STARTLING NEWS \ 
 
 Such work is only a bagatelle to me after the things in 
 my line that I have done at the West. Do you begin 
 to see through the plot? " 
 
 " Yes, and to blame myself for being so foolish as to 
 give that desperate scoundrel such a chance to ruin me. 
 Yes, I'll go back with you; I'll confront him, and " 
 
 " Slowly, Mr. Mulford. Brace yourself now for a 
 shock. The half has not been told. The woman you 
 love is true to you, or was, till your own willfulness put 
 it in the power of a villain to lie her heart from you. 
 Read this." 
 
 Another carefully restored letter he handed to the 
 startled young man. The envelope bore the postmark 
 of Bardwell, and it was addressed to himself at Bard- 
 well a drop letter. He looked at the date; it was 
 the day next after that, two months before, when he 
 had last seen the writer. He read the well-remembered, 
 delicate characters, and a mist obscured his eyes. He 
 kissed the paper passionately. 
 
 " O, how I have been deceived, betrayed! " he cried. 
 " Was this, too, stolen and suppressed by the same bad 
 hand?" 
 . "None other." 
 
 " Let us not delay a moment," exclaimed Mulford, 
 rushing to the door and unlocking it. " For God's sake, 
 good sir, let us hasten! I long to punish that scoundrel, 
 and and " 
 
 The fervent desire to meet that beloved one from 
 whom the basest villainy had separated him, was left 
 unexpressed, but it throbbed eagerly with his heart. 
 
 " Hold, my dear young sir; you must know the whole 
 truth. Bear what is coming like a man. I tell you 
 there is that yet in this choice repository of crime that 
 will wring your heart. There is also that which will 
 stagger you with amazement. Summon your fortitude, 
 now. Be a man, I say. Read!" 
 
 The speaker passed his arm about Mulford's should- 
 ers, evidently fearful of the effect of the disclosure he 
 
20 TO THE RESCUE 
 
 was about to make. He had need to be. The young 
 man took the tinted, cream-laid envelope, and withdrew 
 the small sheet of similar paper from it, which bore 
 several lines of print in copperplate script. His eyes 
 devoured the contents at a glance. He turned a stony 
 stare upon Mr. Lear, and the latter became aware that 
 the man's whole weight was on his arm. 
 Ernest Mulford had fainted. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 TO THE RESCUE! 
 
 ELIAS LEAR laid his inert bady down upon the 
 lounge, and vigorously fanned the white, suffering face 
 with his hat. In a moment the scattered senses 
 returned, the eyes opened, and the sufferer sat up. 
 He saw the detective standing by him. 
 
 " You are here, then ? " he said. " I have lived an 
 age in the last five minutes. I hoped it was a dream." 
 
 " It is no dream, but a stern reality. Let us see if 
 you can meet it like a man/' 
 
 " Mulford's eyes fell upon the tell-tale invitation-card 
 that had fallen from his hand. Snatching it up, he 
 carefully read it again. A groan burst from his tortured 
 breast. 
 
 " Lost lost ! " he moaned. " Half past eight 
 o'clock of the evening of September i8 y 1877! It is 
 now; this day; this very night! O pitying God, what 
 shall I do? Man, whoever you are, have you brought 
 me this cruel news only to torment me? What can I 
 do? what can I do, I say! " 
 
 His voice was raised to a despairing cry, and he 
 clutched the detective by the shoulder. Not in the 
 least discomposed by his companion's words or 
 manner, Mr. Lear consulted his watch. The minutes 
 were speeding, the time was now twenty minutes 
 before five. 
 
TO THE RESCUE 21 
 
 " And you knew of this monstrous thing, "continued 
 Mulford, bitterly. " Yes, you knew it was to be; for 
 here you have the notice of it, in black and white. 
 And you did not stay at Bardwell, to stop it, as you 
 might have done, but you must needs come posting 
 off here to find me, and torture me with the ill tidings 
 of what I cannot prevent. And you tell me you are 
 my friend; and you " 
 
 Mr. Lear's hand was laid upon his shoulder. Some- 
 thing that he saw in those cold blue eyes told him to 
 stop. 
 
 " I overlook your rashness and impatience," said the 
 detective. " I know what you are suffering, and I 
 sympathize with you; and I repeat that I have come 
 here as your friend, and that you will soon be satisfied 
 of it. But you have a right to know why I am here at 
 this hour, instead of at Bardwell, when that document 
 that you hold in your hand had warned me of what was 
 to happen there, or near there, at half-past eight of this 
 very night. Yes, I will tell you, since there is time. " 
 
 He opened the door and called to the landlord. 
 
 " How is the horse?" he inquired, when the host 
 appeared. 
 
 " Pretty stiff in the off hind leg, and sore in the 
 flanks. Pardon, sir, but you used the whip on her 
 pretty freely." 
 
 " I know it; I had to. Can she take two of us back 
 to the station in an hour? " 
 
 " No, sir ! " was the positive reply. " She's fed and 
 watered well, but with the pull you've already given 
 her, and taking into account this awful sultry weather, 
 and there being two of you to go back why, I say 
 she can't do it. It would kill her." 
 
 " I may have to kill her then," said Lear. The 
 landlord stared at him. 
 
 " Have her put to the buggy and brought round at 
 once. Have you any wine in the house? " 
 
 " Some grape wine, sir. " 
 
22 TO THE RESCUE 
 
 " Bring me a large glass of it." 
 
 The detective returned to the parlor with a full goblet 
 in his hand. Mulford was excitedly pacing the room. 
 
 " Drink this," said Mr. Lear. " Your nerves are all 
 unstrung; you need a little bracing. This is a mild 
 stimulant, and will do you good." 
 
 The young man swallowed it at a draught. 
 
 " The conveyance will be at the door in five minutes, 
 and we will make a push to head off this magnificent 
 rascal." 
 
 " Of what use? " Mulford cried. " What can we do 
 at this late hour? " 
 
 " All everything!" was the cheery response. " On 
 the way here I studied the time-table and the train 
 stops of this road, and everything is clearly laid out in 
 my mind. I tell you, my boy, if the unexpected don't 
 happen and men of my business are always on the 
 lookout for the dreadful unexpected but if we have 
 ordinary luck, we'll get there in time to-night, defeat 
 that cunning schemer, make Mr. Ernest Mulford a 
 happy man, and give Bardwell and vicinity such a sen- 
 sation as has never been known there. " 
 
 " Get there in time, to-night!" the other doubtfully 
 repeated. "Impossible! I remember that the evening 
 express is due at Bardwell a few minutes after nine. 
 It'll all be over then; but by heaven, I'll meet him there 
 at the station and kill him!" and the speaker clenched 
 his fists. 
 
 " Young man, be quiet, and listen to me. I won't 
 have any pistols or bloodshed about this affair; I've 
 laid it out differently. I believe we shall have our 
 smart gentleman inside the penitentiary before the first 
 of January; but it will be by taking my way, not yours. 
 Of course, I know what time the night express reaches 
 Bardwell; that won't do for us, as you say. Eight 
 miles this side of that village, as you know, is the little 
 way-station of Drayton. Between those places runs 
 the steep granite ridge, over which the highway is car- 
 
TO THE RESCUE 23 
 
 ried n a very steep grade too steep, the engineers 
 thought, for a railroad. That was thirty years ago, 
 when this road was first laid out; though I guess 
 engineering science wouldn't make much of it to-day. 
 And as the thick wall of granite could never be tun- 
 neled, they took the line around in a wide curve of 
 seventy miles, to a point where they could flank the 
 troublesome ridge. " 
 
 " Yes," interrupted Mulford. " I know all this; but 
 I don't see " 
 
 " Patience!" said the detective, watch in hand. " The 
 train leaves Granby, over here, at six twenty-seven, 
 and stops five minutes on a siding at Drayton for the 
 down express to pass. It is due at Drayton at seven 
 fifteen; it is a flyer you know; from there to Bardwell, 
 around that immense curve, it makes every mile in a 
 minute and a half. But you see our problem, getting 
 off at Drayton, we want to make that eight miles to a 
 certain mansion just this side of Bardwell in sixty min- 
 utes, leaving us fifteen minutes' leeway after we get 
 there. Do you think we can get up that long hill and 
 over there in that time?" 
 
 " Horse ready, sir!" said the landlord, putting his 
 head inside the door. 
 
 " Very well; in a moment." 
 
 Ernest Mulford stood grasping the detective's arm 
 with both his hands, his eyes strained, his lips parted, 
 his face pale, as he fc un g on the other's words. 
 
 " We could do it; we will if I can find Ted Vaun 
 there at the station. He's got a pair of strong blacks 
 and a stout democrat wagon; he can do it easily. 
 And Ted was my schoolmate; he'd do anything for me. 
 I tell you, sir, if we can get hold of Ted at Drayton 
 we are sure to be in time. " 
 
 " We shall find him there," said Mr. Lear, quietly. 
 " All that a detective don't know and ought to know 
 he must pick up as he goes; and I learned all you have 
 told me about Vaun on the slow accommodation train 
 
24 TO THE RESCUE 
 
 this morning. At Sunderland, twelve miles back, I 
 telegraphed to him to be ready at Drayton Station, at 
 seven fifteen, with his horses and wagon, promising him 
 twenty-five dollars for a short ride; and to make sure 
 that he would heed the dispatch, I put your name 
 to it. " 
 
 " Good glorious!" Mulford shouted. " Now we're 
 safe. Whoever you are, you are our savior, our noble 
 benefactor; blessings on you, sir! after this night is 
 well over, we'll try to thank you. But come, now; let 
 us be going. " 
 
 " Yet a moment, Mr. Mulford. We must start fair; 
 there is more yet that you must know; and," look- 
 ing at his watch, which he had not returned to his 
 pocket, " I see that I can spare two minutes to explain 
 to you why I did not stay at Bardwell and stop the vil- 
 lainy of to-night, instead of coming here. It was 
 simply because I first learned, upon the train that 
 brought me here, what was going to happen at that 
 house to-night." 
 
 "Why why!" Mulford stammered. " Has it been 
 kept secret? " 
 
 " The time yes, remarkably secret. Interested as I 
 have been in these affairs, and continually making quiet 
 discoveries, I could not but see that the scoundrel was 
 shaping everything to this supreme end. Yet you will 
 remember that it is barely two months since you disap- 
 peared from Bardwell; and all the probabilities of such 
 a case were naturally against haste and secrecy. But 
 Weston Mayhew is cunning as well as unscrupulous; 
 he is cunning as the devil, sir! and that's the truth. 
 Then he is immensely rich, as you know; I am satis- 
 fied that his figure is not short of two hundred thous- 
 and. What cannot such a man accomplish in the dark? 
 If you ask his motive for all this secrecy, it can be 
 easily explained. The dark paths that he has been 
 lately treading, and the criminal acts that he has done, 
 have made him fearful for his safety. What I am going 
 
TO THE RESCUE 25 
 
 to tell you in a moment will furnish the best reason in 
 the world for his stealthy movements. I am satisfied 
 that he does not mean to be seen in Bardwell after to- 
 night. You stare I tell you it is so. He knows that 
 a storm is gathering over his head; he means to be 
 west of the Rocky Mountains or beyond seas when it 
 bursts. I learned yesterday what no one else in Bard- 
 well knows: that he has forwarded his resignation as 
 postmaster, and that he has turned his whole property 
 into funds and securities. What does that look like? " 
 
 " Flight and with her to share his disgraceful 
 exile!" Mulford whispered. " If I miss him, may the 
 vengeance of an insulted God overtake him! Yet, 
 look at this card; here is publicity after all. How do 
 you account for that?" 
 
 " Merely by supposing that there was a point beyond 
 which poor deceived Emmanuel Gregory and his wife 
 would not go, and that Mayhew had to concede this much 
 to them. The information that I had been gathering for 
 some weeks was at last amply sufficient to justify me in 
 putting a sudden stopper on Mr. Weston Mayhew, and I 
 resolved to wait no longer. But when the expose was 
 made, I wanted you there; in fact, you are a necessary 
 witness as to the writing and posting of those letters. 
 I knew where you were; nobody else at Bardwell knew, 
 save Mayhew. The fact that you were so near prob- 
 ably hurried him up. But, much as I have unearthed 
 of this man's villainy, I took my seat in the car this 
 morning in profound ignorance of the crowning atrocity 
 that he had contrived for to-night. This side of Dray- 
 ton I overheard some of the conversation of two ladies 
 about that invitation. Detectives are not often much 
 surprised at anything; I was by what they said. They 
 left the train at the next station, and the envelope and 
 card were left on the seat in their haste. I secured 
 them, read them, and thought very fast before the next 
 station was reached. I found that I could not return 
 to Bardwell by railroad before the night express, and 
 
26 ON THE TRACK 
 
 that I should lose no time in continuing my journey. 
 I picked up the information about Ted Vaun, got an 
 opportunity to telegraph to him and you know the 
 rest. Only," and Mr. Lear's voice grew solemn and 
 impressive, " we can see something in all this far beyond 
 human contrivance. When I stepped aboard that train, 
 the only human being who could prevent the outrage 
 of to-night was ignorantly removing himself from the 
 point of danger. The hand of Him who watches over 
 the innocent was surely outstretched to throw that 
 astonishing missive in my way." 
 
 He put on his hat and stepped into the hall. Mul- 
 ford followed him. Mr. Lear paused, and took one 
 more inclosure from the great envelope. It was of fine 
 white paper, about the size of a bank-bill, partly writ- 
 ten and partly printed. He held it up before the young 
 man's eyes. It was quickly read. 
 
 " Just God," cried Mulford, " let him not escape us!" 
 
 The clock over the bar struck five. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 ON THE TRACK. 
 
 THEY went out to the buggy. Mulford, in his eager- 
 ness to be off, jumped in first. With his foot on the 
 step between the wheels, Elias Lear paused, hesitated, 
 staggered back, and would have fallen but for the 
 promptness of the landlord, who sprang forward and 
 caught him. 
 
 " Are you sick, sir? " he asked. 
 
 " A little I'm afraid," replied the detective, feebly. 
 " Help me back to the parlor." 
 
 Ernest Mulford, seeing and hearing what had hap- 
 pened, got out and called a lounger to hold the horse. 
 In the parlor he found Mr. Lear extended on the sofa, 
 while the landlord's wife was wetting his head with a 
 sponge. He smiled gravely as he saw Mulford, and 
 
ON THE TRACK 2 7 
 
 the latter saw in his face that he wished him to come 
 close. The young man did so, and sympathetically 
 took his hand. 
 
 " This isn't dangerous, my dear fellow," he whispered. 
 " I understand it perfectly. It's the after effect of a 
 slight sunstroke. All this afternoon I have felt it com- 
 ing on and have held it back by sheer force of will. 
 I couldn't be sick, you know, till I had got you started 
 on the right track. Go ahead now, and God prosper 
 you." 
 
 " But I can't leave you in this way," Mulford pro- 
 tested. 
 
 " You can, and will. You can do me no good by 
 staying here. You have heard nothing but the truth 
 from me so far, and you shall know the truth about 
 this. Three years ago, in Southern Missouri, I had 
 just such a stroke at the end of such another hot day 
 as this. 'You must be warned, Mr. Lear/ the doctor 
 said, * not to expose yourself long at a time to the 
 direct rays of the summer sun.' At that time, perfect 
 rest and quiet for twelve hours restored me, and I 
 doubt not that they will do as much now. Go on ; 
 you've no time to lose. Don't worry for me. I shall 
 follow you to-morrow morning and join you some- 
 where." 
 
 " You'll let them send for the doctor ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course, though I am sure that rest and quiet 
 are the only physicians I need. Wait just a moment." 
 
 He closed his eyes wearily and seemed gathering 
 strength to say more. 
 
 " Take the big envelope out of my pocket, " he 
 whispered again. " Take it along with you. I need not 
 tell you to keep those papers as carefully as you would 
 your heart's blood. Tons of gold could not buy them." 
 
 Mulford transferred the precious documents from the 
 detective's inside pocket to his own. 
 
 " One last instruction," was faintly whispered. " Have 
 you any money? " 
 
28 ON THE TRACK 
 
 M A few dollars." 
 
 " Take out my wallet. There are two thousand dol- 
 lars in it, in large bills. Take half of it. You are 
 starting on a mission, the length of which or the time 
 of which no man can know. You can do nothing with- 
 out money. Take it freely. I'll give you a chance by 
 and by to account for it, and do you river stop nor rest 
 till you overtake Weston Mayhew, and foil him." 
 
 It was not a time for quibbling or demurring. Mul- 
 ford took the money, pressed Mr. Lear's hands, and 
 hurried from the room. 
 
 Once more he sprang into the buggy. The landlord 
 was at the horse's head, his broad red face overspread 
 with a look of serious concern most unusual with him. 
 
 " You'll do everything for him, won't you? " Mulford 
 asked, as he gathered up the reins, nodding his head 
 toward the parlor. " You'll send for the doctor right 
 off?" 
 
 " O aye, sir; never you fear. Dr. Sumner lives just 
 below here, and my old woman is the best nuss in the 
 country." 
 
 " Let go," said Mulford. 
 
 " Just one thing, young sir. I don't want to blame 
 the gentleman in there for hard driving; I see that some 
 deviltry is afoot that you two are tryin' to head off; I 
 see that, from the talk and actions of both of you. But 
 the fact is, just the same, that poor beast has been 
 shockingly put to it this awful hot day, and I tell you 
 he ain't now in condition to travel three miles. And 
 you're going to the station and you mean to take the 
 six twenty-seven west? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mulford, impatiently. 
 
 " What's the exact time now? " 
 
 " Quarter past five. " 
 
 " Well, sir, you may do it; but you'll have a dead 
 horse on your hands at the end of the road." 
 
 " Have you any horses? " Mulford demanded. 
 
 " No; and I dunno where you'd find one here." 
 
ON THE TRACK 29 
 
 " Then it can't be helped. Let go his head, will 
 you? " 
 
 The landlord did so, and placed a small sponge and 
 bottle at the young man's feet. 
 
 " There's some spirits," he said, " when he's ready 
 to drop in the harness, sponge out his nose, and you 
 may get a mile or two more outen him. " 
 
 With a cut of a whip, the animal sprang away. The 
 hamlet of Granby was quickly left behind, and the 
 long, straight stretch of the road over to the station 
 was before them. 
 
 For the first three miles the horse kept up a long 
 trot without much urging. Then the whip had to be 
 used to urge the tired limbs off from a walk. Short 
 spurts of trotting slackened into a walk, and then into 
 a dead halt. The heat at this hour was the most 
 oppressive of the day. But for the powerful excite- 
 ment that strung every nerve and muscle to action, 
 Mulford would have sunk listless, like the poor dumb 
 brute, under the burden of the sun and the atmosphere. 
 As it was, he hardly noticed them. 
 
 Half the distance was passed. Far away eastward he 
 heard a faint but prolonged note, shrill and clear, faint 
 as it was. 
 
 " What's that? " he inquired of a man who leaned on 
 his gate and fanned himself with his broad-leaved 
 hat. 
 
 "'What?" 
 
 " That sound." 
 
 The rustic listened. 
 
 " Wai, I declare! Must be a mighty clear air to-day, 
 if it is hotter 'n Tophet. That's the Western express 
 whistling for Somers. I don't hear it more 'n three times 
 a year." 
 
 " How far is it? " 
 
 "Twelve miles." 
 
 Mulford had ceased looking at his watch. He put 
 on the lash. The horse sprang away; the lash was 
 
36 ON THE TRACK 
 
 repeated; two painful miles were passed. Then there 
 was a dead stop. The driver jumped out, filled his 
 sponge from the bottle, rubbed it freely over the nose 
 and head of the beast, and let him snuff the contents. 
 
 " You poor, brave creature !" he thought. " I do pity 
 you;. but I can't spare you, indeed I can't." 
 
 Back in his seat, he urged the horse with his voice, 
 and a fair speed was kept up for another mile. Then 
 the pace slackened. 
 
 One mile and a half still lay between Ernest Mulford 
 and Granby Station. 
 
 " It might as well be a thousand," he groaned, " with 
 this miserable blown animal." 
 
 Another noise caught his ear. It was a faint rumble, 
 a faint roar; and far off to the eastward he saw a tiny 
 thread of black smoke lengthening out over the tree 
 tops. 
 
 The express was near at hand on its rapid flight. 
 
 Unmercifully, unsparingly, now did he lay the whip 
 on the quivering, smoking flanks of the stiff and ex- 
 hausted animal. He snorted under the punishment, 
 and with a wild neigh of fright broke into a gallop. 
 The buggy swayed to and fro with the speed. The 
 driver clutched the reins with one hand and laid on the 
 lash with the other. With frantic bounds the horse 
 sped along the dusty road. Mulford heard the clang 
 of the bell, the rumble of the wheels, and, panting 
 under the whip, the animal stopped at the rear of the 
 station, and fell in the shafts. 
 
 Mulford got out and rushed around the building. 
 The train stood on the track; there was some bustle 
 and confusion. He saw three or four at the window 
 buying tickets, and he stepped up there. Two or three 
 more followed him. 
 
 " Drayton," he said, laying down a bill when his turn 
 came. 
 
 The agent seemed almost bewildered by the unusual 
 occurrence of half a dozen people wanting tickets for 
 
ON THE TRAGIC 3! 
 
 the same train. It was a rare thing at Granby. He 
 seemed to want to say something to the man who had 
 demanded a ticket for Drayton. He looked at him, 
 and saw three other men pressing up behind him. He 
 saw the conductor walking the platform, and knew that 
 there could be but a moment more of delay, and he 
 gave it up, or rather he handed Mulford his ticket and 
 change, and in the pressure of the moment forgot what 
 it was he was trying to say to him. 
 
 Mulford went out on the platform. A hand was laid 
 on his arm. 
 
 " Your horse is dead, sir," said a man. 
 
 " I am sorry," said the young man, " but I had to 
 crowd him. Who are you? " 
 
 " Simple Simon, sir, at your sarvice." 
 
 " Ah the village expressman. Here take this; 
 bury the horse, and take care of the buggy. I'll be up 
 this way again before long, and see you about it. " 
 
 He turned away, leaving Simon in that excited state 
 of mind that the gift of a five dollar bill would naturally 
 produce upon him. 
 
 "All aboard!" the conductor shouted. The bell 
 clanged. Mulford entered a car. The train was 
 crowded; he procured a seat with some difficulty. 
 
 The sun had set twenty minutes before. The brief 
 twilight was closing. The shadows of night were fast 
 enveloping the familiar objects about the station as the 
 train pulled out and gathered headway. Like a giant 
 refreshed, the engine sped onward, faster and still faster, 
 drawing its living burden of joy and sorrow, hope and 
 fear, care and content. On, on, at full speed now, 
 thundered the long train, with a rush and roar like the 
 bellowing of some demon of the Arabian Nights let 
 loose on earth; over rivers, along precipitous heights, 
 through tunnels and past villages and farms, it fled at 
 the rate of forty miles an hour. Sitting by the car 
 window, watching the lights that flashed suddenly out 
 of the darkness along the way and as suddenly disap- 
 
32 A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT 
 
 peared, Ernest Mulford felt his heart bound and swell 
 with the proud feeling of triumph yet to come, soon to 
 come. He felt that he was to be vindicated; that the 
 love of which he had been robbed by the most cruel 
 villainy was to be restored to him; that swift and heavy 
 punishment was about to descend upon the guilty. 
 His heart, if not his lips, continually murmured: 
 
 "In time! in time! Heaven bring me there in 
 time!" 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT. 
 
 "TICKETS!" 
 
 His eyes were bent upon the fleeting lights and 
 shadows outside; he did not hear the familiar 
 demand. 
 
 " Your ticket, sir, please." 
 
 The conductor's hand was laid upon his shoulder. 
 He started, looked up at the bearded face of the official, 
 which was becoming slightly clouded with vexation at 
 the delay, comprehended what was wanted, and taking 
 his ticket from his vest pocket, handed it over. The 
 conductor took it, glanced at it, and looked with a 
 frown at the passenger. 
 
 " Dray ton," he said, snappishly. " Dray ton! Well, 
 I'll be hanged if some of these agents will ever learn 
 anything. Did you get this at Granby? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " The stupid dolt! I told him myself, not twenty 
 minutes ago, that Drayton was off the card for this 
 train; that the new table was out, and he would have 
 one to-morrow; and to be sure not to sell Drayton 
 tickets for this train." 
 
 The conductor handed the ticket back. 
 
 " There's no help for it, sir," he said. " I'll take you 
 on to Bardwell without charge, since you 're not to 
 
A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT 33 
 
 blame, and you can come back by the accommodation 
 in the morning. " 
 
 He spoke quick and brusquely, as is often the way 
 with his class, and passed on. He felt a hand on his 
 arm, and looked over his shoulder. Mulford had risen 
 up, and showed a white, rigid face to him. 
 
 " Sir," he asked, " do you mean to say that this train 
 will not stop at Drayton to-night? " 
 
 " Well, that's about the size of it." 
 
 " I understood that this train waited there for the 
 express east to pass? " 
 
 " It did yesterday; it won't to-night. They pass at 
 Bardwell now. " 
 
 " The public have had no notice of this, sir. Your 
 agent sold me that ticket and took my money, without 
 notice or explanation. I demand that you let me off 
 at Drayton." 
 
 " O, come now, young man, don't put on airs. I 
 guess I know what I'm about. This is disagreeable for 
 you, to be sure, but you've got to stand it. I know 
 my business and I shan't stop for you. So you take it 
 cool. And I guess it ain't a matter of life or death 
 with you, either. " 
 
 " The happiness or misery of my whole future 
 depends upon my stopping at Drayton to-night." 
 
 The words were spoken in a tone of such pathos that 
 the conductor turned about and held his lantern up to 
 scrutinize the face of the speaker. What he saw there 
 impressed him. 
 
 "Wait a few minutes," he said; " I'll be back presently 
 and I'll see what can be done for you." 
 
 At the rate of forty miles an hour the train rushed 
 noisily through the darkness. After what seemed to 
 Ernest Wolford an intolerable time, but which was only 
 fifteen minutes, the conductor returned. 
 
 "Well! "he said. 
 
 A Sharp NighCs Work 3 
 
34 A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT 
 
 " I must stop at Drayton," was the decided state- 
 ment of the passenger. 
 
 The people who filled the neighboring seats had 
 become interested in the difficulty. Those who sat in 
 front turned round, and those sitting back of Mulford 
 craned their necks forward. 
 
 " I suppose you are strictly right, " said the conductor. 
 "The blunder of that lunkhead of an agent at Granby 
 has given you the advantage. But I tell you kindly, 
 sir, that I have my orders, and I cannot stop at 
 Drayton." 
 
 " Cannot!" Mulford cried. "You have only to pull 
 that bell-cord. " 
 
 " If I did I might never have a chance to pull it after 
 this trip," said the conductor, grimly. "In other 
 words, I dare not stop. This is the first night of the 
 new arrangement of the express trains meeting at 
 Bardwell, and I must be on time. To lose the head- 
 way that this stop would cause, would make me ten 
 minutes late there. I'm sorry for you, but I can't risk 
 it. I must obey orders, and you can settle your griev- 
 ance with the company. " 
 
 " Is that all you've got to say to me?" Mulford asked. 
 " I thought you said you would see what you could do 
 for me. What made you say that? Look here, sir! 
 I must and will leave this train at Drayton. If you 
 refuse to stop it, I shall leave, just the same. Perhaps 
 that will give you a better showing with the company! 
 I call on these passengers to witness the outrage; this 
 company sold me a ticket for Drayton, and now refuses 
 to let me off there. And if I am carried to Bardwell 
 to-night, untold misery to good people will be the con- 
 sequence." 
 
 He became vehement, raising his voice till it rang 
 through the car and sounded above the rattle and 
 rumble of the train. Not I, reader, and not you, ever 
 heard just such an appeal made in such a place; nor 
 did we probably ever see a man possessed by such 
 
A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT 35 
 
 intense and desperate agony of soul as fired that of 
 Ernest Mulford in that moment. The nearest passen- 
 gers looked sympathizingly at him; but, as is the way 
 of spectators in general of other people's distress, they 
 said nothing, and none of them ventured to interfere. 
 
 "Well, don't get huffy," the conductor said. "I 
 will do all I can, all I dare to do for you. I will slow 
 up as we pass Drayton, and you can jump if you 
 want to." 
 
 "Good!" said Ernest, with deep relief. "Excel- 
 lent! I thought you were a man. I'll take the 
 jump." 
 
 " Mind, now; I don't tell you to jump! I don't even 
 permit it; you're a fool if you do. You'll take all the 
 responsibility." 
 
 " I make no bargain," was the reply. " You are 
 bound to let me off at Drayton. If you won't stop, I 
 shall get off the best way I can." 
 
 11 You've good pluck, any way," muttered the con- 
 ductor. " You'd make a splendid railroad man. " 
 
 The prolonged scream of the whistle and the clang 
 of the bell were at this instant borne back to them. 
 
 " That's for the road-crossing, three miles this side," 
 he continued. " If you're bound to leave at Drayton, 
 you'd better get out on the platform." 
 
 He hastened along through the car. Ernest Mulford 
 rose and walked to the opposite end. Unclosing the 
 door, he stepped out upon the platform. Grasping the 
 rail with each hand, he descended cautiously to the 
 lowest step upon the side where he remembered that 
 the Drayton station stood. A brakeman stood above 
 him with his hands on the brake-wheel, waiting for the 
 signal. 
 
 " It's going to be risky, sir," he shouted. " We 
 can't check this speed enough to make it safe. Better 
 not try it." 
 
 Mulford heard him, but gave no heed. Tightening 
 his grasp on the rails, he leaned over and peered for- 
 

 36 A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT 
 
 ward. The roar of the train was in his ears, but he 
 hardly observed it; he was not then, as at any other 
 time he must have been, impressed with the fascinating 
 peril of his position. There he stood, clinging to the 
 rails, within eighteen inches of the solid ground, yet 
 borne onward with such velocity that a single step at 
 that moment would have hurled him into eternity! 
 
 He thought not of that; he thought not of death or 
 danger; his yearning soul was speeding far in advance 
 of the train, over the miles that still lay between him 
 and the mansion just out of Bardwell. 
 
 The stars were dim in the sky; the landscape was 
 rather obscure; the air was cool and refreshing after the 
 intense heat of the day, and the rtfsh of it fanned his 
 face, now glowing with anticipation. 
 
 Familiar objects began to flit by. There was a lofty 
 elm near by that he remembered; a white house, a half- 
 burned barn. 
 
 The train passed under a road-bridge; he knew it 
 well. He remembered the slight curve by which this 
 station was approached. He peered forward again. 
 There was the high light, plainly in view. 
 
 The whistle sounded in a prolonged shriek. He heard 
 the rush of escaping steam. The brake- wheel crunched 
 harshly behind him. He saw the end of the station 
 and the platform before it coming into view. 
 
 Twenty car- windows were up, and eager eyes watched 
 him. The passengers shuddered at the peril he was 
 braving. They saw and knew what he did not what 
 he would not have heeded had he plainly seen and 
 known it that the speed of the train, although largely 
 slackened, was too great for such an attempt. It could 
 not have been much less than twenty miles an hour. 
 
 Opposite the door of the little station he jumped. 
 
 His feet struck the platform together. The impetus 
 he had gained carried him two or three steps further, 
 whirled him about and flung him over. He fell pros- 
 trate, his head striking heavily as he came down. 
 
" NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL 77 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE train thundered on toward the ridge, and quickly 
 disappeared in the woods that fringed its base. Ernest 
 Mulford lay still and senseless where he had fallen. 
 
 A short distance in rear of the station two men stood 
 by the fence at the side of the highway. One, a tall, 
 strong fellow, in a blouse and overalls, held by the bits 
 two spirited horses, that fidgeted uneasily as the train 
 went by; the other, with his hands in his pockets, looked 
 at the flitting phantom and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 " Seems odd enough not to have the old flyer stop 
 here," he said. " I came over only from force of habit 
 to-night. Nothing to do here. What brought you, 
 Ted? You must have known this morning, when you 
 got that dispatch, that your man couldn't stop here if 
 the train didn't." 
 
 " Yes, I knew it. Don't know what made me come. 
 I expect it was my anxiety to do something, or try to 
 do something to oblige Erny Mulford God bless him! 
 You don't know what a big-hearted fellow that is, Mr. 
 Robbins, nor how he has helped me since we were at 
 school together. I want to be able to tell him, when I 
 see him again, that I was here with the blacks to-night, 
 all ready hitched up, waitin' for him, and willin' and 
 anxious to serve him, if he could ha' stopped." 
 
 " What d'ye suppose he wants? " 
 
 " Well, I dunno, but I guess he wants to drop in 
 on 'em over at Gregory's to-night." 
 
 The station-master gave a prolonged whistle. The 
 two as they talked had left the horses, which Ted Vaun 
 had haltered to the fence, and walked over to the plat- 
 form. They were continuing their talk of what was 
 about to happen at Mr. Gregory's, and what Mulford 
 could mean by interfering, when they both at the same 
 instant discovered the body of the latter where he had 
 
" NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL " 39 
 
 fallen. Hastily unlocking the door, the agent procured 
 his lantern, lit it, and stooped down to examine the 
 fallen man. 
 
 " Is he badly hurt? " Ted anxiously asked. 
 
 " Can't tell. It looks as though the fool had jumped 
 off the flyer, and got the breath knocked out of him, 
 any way. Bring him in here, and I'll look him over." 
 
 Ted lifted his friend bodily in his strong arms as easily 
 as though he had been an infant, and, following the agent 
 into his office, laid him down upon the lounge. They 
 loosened his clothes and dashed some water in his face. 
 Mulford groaned and opened his eyes. 
 
 " Where am I? " he asked. At Gregory's? " 
 
 " Oh, no! Erny; you're here at Drayton," Ted re- 
 sponded. " And I can tell you, my lad, you came 
 pretty near being in Heaven, with your foolishness. " 
 
 " Take me on to Gregory's," Mulford murmured. 
 " Don't delay a moment. Ted, drive your horses 
 round here, and we'll get in. You must get there 
 before half-past eight. " 
 
 He closed his eyes wearily. 
 
 " I'm afraid he's injured Internally," the agent said, 
 passing his hands over his body and limbs. " Yet I 
 don't see that any bones are broken. " 
 
 The wandering senses of the sufferer were arrested 
 by the words. He opened his eyes again, and with an 
 effort that contorted his face with pain, he sat upright. 
 
 " My watch," he said. " Show it to me. " 
 
 Ted took it from his pocket and held it up to him. 
 The hands had stopped with the shock of his fall at 
 seventeen minutes past seven. 
 
 " Mr. Mulford," the station-master interposed, 
 " please lie down and be quiet. Do you feel any pain? " 
 
 "No; only a kind of faintness and a ringing in my 
 head." 
 
 " Mighty lucky he didn't have concussion of the 
 brain," the agent muttered to Ted. " It was a narrow 
 escape." 
 
40 " NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL " 
 
 " I say, Teddy," Mulford now eagerly demanded, 
 " you got that telegram, didn't you? " 
 
 "Yes, Erny; but " 
 
 " And you've got your horses and wagon here, of 
 course? " 
 
 "Yes; but you " 
 
 " Then let's start right away. I must be at Gregory's 
 before half-past eight. You can make it, can't you, 
 Ted?" 
 
 " O, yes; but you see " 
 
 He looked appealingly at the agent, who instantly 
 interposed: 
 
 " Mr. Mulford, listen to me, and see if you can com- 
 prehend a little reason. I'm a bit of a doctor myself, 
 and you are at present under my care. You have 
 closely escaped a most serious, and probably fatal, 
 injury, and your whole system has been severely shaken 
 by the shock you have given it. Added to this, I see 
 you are laboring under strong mental excitement. I 
 tell you that the consequence of your going on to 
 Bardwell to-night would, in all probability, be a brain 
 fever. Do you comprehend?" 
 
 The patient looked at him, wearily but steadily. 
 
 " Yes, I comprehend; but I shall go, all the same." 
 
 The agent lost his temper. 
 
 " See here, sir; you don't stir a foot out of this build- 
 ing before morning. Lie down there, instantly. I'll 
 give you an opiate and send over for .Dr. Morton." 
 
 Ernest rose to his feet. He was weak and dizzy, and 
 his legs trembled under him. Ted Vaun promptly 
 threw an arm about him and held him up. 
 
 " You are very kind, Mr. Robbins," said Ernest, 
 huskily, " and you mean to do the best you can for 
 me, but you don't understand how I feel about this 
 affair. I'll take no opiate ! Sleep, sir! You want me 
 to sleep t at such a time as this, when I alone can frus- 
 trate the plans of the wicked, and save helpless and 
 deceived innocence? No, sir! I'll go to Mr. Gregory's 
 
" NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL " 41 
 
 with Ted if it kills me. I'd go if I knew it would kill 
 me. Don't argue with me; don't try to dissuade me. 
 Where's my hat? Teddy, help me out to the wagon. 
 Good night, Mr. Robbins; a thousand thanks to 
 you." 
 
 Before such a resolute spirit as this, speaking in the 
 voice and shining out of the eyes of this heroic man, 
 good Mr. Robbins weakened. He saw that all con- 
 tention was useless, and bestirred himself to do the 
 best he could for his stubborn charge. He was by 
 Ernest's side before he could take a step. 
 
 " Just a moment," he said, with the utmost kindness 
 in his voice. " If you're bound to go I won't try to 
 detain you; but you must let me send you off a little 
 refreshed." 
 
 "Time is passing; I can't wait, ' r was the impatient 
 reply. " For God's sake, let me go." 
 
 The agent took out his watch. 
 
 "Half-past seven," he said. "Ted, in how much 
 less than an hour can you make it? " 
 
 The man switched some loose papers on the floor as 
 he replied: 
 
 " It's a little short of eight miles to Gregory's. I 
 can't rise the hill this side short of twenty minutes. 
 After that, there's most six miles of beautiful down 
 road. The blacks have done that, a mile in four min- 
 utes, many a time. Say fifty minutes, at the out- 
 side." 
 
 " That gives you ten minutes to spare," said the 
 agent, briskly. " I want only one of those minutes." 
 
 He hastened to his desk, unlocked it, and produced 
 a stout wicker flask. 
 
 " It is brandy," he said as he uncorked it. " I keep 
 it here for sudden emergencies like this. Drink ! " 
 
 He offered it to Mulford, who put it away. 
 
 " Thank you, I never use it. " 
 
 " But you'll take a good dram of it now," cried the 
 agent, " or Ted shall hold you and I'll force it down 
 
42 " NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL " 
 
 your throat. Here you are suffering from a shock to 
 your whole system, not fit physically to be out of bed, 
 just about crazy yourself with nervous and mental 
 excitement, and you're going to ride eight miles in an 
 open wagon. Take it, I say, without any more fuss ; 
 I know what's good for men in your condition." 
 
 Ernest took a draught from the flask. The strong 
 stimulant coursed through his veins and colored his 
 cheek ; he felt instantly strengthened and braced for the 
 work before him. 
 
 Without further parley Ted Vaun led the way to his 
 horses and unhitched them. Ernest climbed to the seat 
 without assistance, and Ted was quickly by his side. 
 
 " Good-night," shouted Mr. Robbins, " and good 
 luck ! " 
 
 " Good-night ! " 
 
 Ted gathered up the reins. " Hie up ! " he chirruped 
 to his horses, and they reached out in a steady trot. 
 
 " Put on the lash ! " Ernest cried. " Teddy, my 
 dear fellow, don't spare them. " 
 
 " Don't fret, Erny. I know how to get speed out of 
 these animals. The hill is only a quarter of a mile off; 
 they'll get cleverly warmed up by the time they get to 
 it, so they will climb like sailors." 
 
 " Do you mean to walk them all the way up that 
 hill ? " Ernest cried, impatiently. 
 
 " Every step of it, my boy. Do you want me to 
 run 'em up and founder 'em ? You keep cool, Erny ; 
 give me twenty minutes for the rise and then I'll spin 
 you down the slope t'other side in a way that'll make 
 you hold your hair on." 
 
 To the base of the hill the noble team went with a 
 swinging trot. The driver held the reins in his left 
 hand, while his teeth labored at an enormous plug of 
 tobacco grasped in the other. . His hat was drawn down 
 to his eyes ; his eyes were steadily bent on the road, 
 over and beyond the horses' heads. 
 
 Ernest Mulford sat rather bent forward, also looking 
 
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 43 
 
 ahead. His hand grasped the iron rim at the end of 
 the seat; his heart throbbed madly; he took no heed 
 of the pains that shot through his limbs and body. 
 He was conscious of a strange exhilaration of spirits as 
 he entered on the last stage of his journey. Every 
 breath he drew was taken with an unuttered prayer 
 that he might not be too late; each throb of his heart 
 was audible. One thought, one aspiration, one prayer 
 filled his mind, to the exclusion of all else " O God of 
 the helpless and the innocent, bring me there in 
 time!" 
 
 And the wheels seemed to echo the prayer in their 
 swift revolutions, the gentle night-breeze seemed to 
 murmur it. Nature in her evening slumber seemed so 
 full of sympathetic voices, that the words were con- 
 tinually ringing in his ears: 
 
 " In time, in time O God, bring me to her in 
 time!" 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 
 
 THEY reached the base of the hill. With long, even 
 strides, without the least urging, the horses began to 
 climb the steep and winding road. It was constructed 
 up the rugged face of the jagged and irregular granite 
 cliff where in many places the masses of rock had been 
 blasted out to make foothold for man and beast. The 
 way was painfully crooked; stunted trees growing in 
 the clefts interrupted the starlight; this part of the 
 journey was obscure and gloomy. 
 
 Ted Vaun discharged a copious libation of tobacco- 
 juice over the wheel. 
 
 " How do you feel, Erny? " 
 
 " All right, Ted; but I can't talk. You say what 
 you want to; don't mind me." 
 
44 THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 
 
 " O, well, my old chum, I guess I understand you. 
 I've got to sing, or talk, or make some kind of noise in 
 this pokery place. S'pose you think once in a while, 
 Ern, about the times fourteen years ago or so when we 
 sat on the same seat in the old school-house? You 
 was a bright scholar, but I never could learn much out 
 of books. Once you got a licking 'cause you wouldn't 
 tell on me. By gum, Ernest, you was always plucky 
 when you got roused! I used to think as long ago as 
 that, that you had a kind of sneaking fondness for June 
 Gregory, small as she was." 
 
 ' Ted, don't! Don't mention her." 
 
 " O! aye, I see. What a lummocks I am, to be sure, 
 to put my foot in it that way! Well, I'll talk about 
 the horses; if you wa'n't along I should be talking to 
 them. Perfect match, you see; six year olds. Wouldn't 
 take five hundred of any man's money for em; both 
 just as good as they make hosses, but David is a little, 
 just a little, better'n Jonathan. Queer names? Yes. 
 Well, I heard the minister one Sunday reading out of the 
 Book about those two; how they was pleasant in their 
 lives and in their death they was not divided, and I 
 gave the names to the colts. You can't think now 
 those creatures love each other! I believe if they 
 were separated for a week, they'd pine to death. " 
 
 Teddy's garrulous tongue ran on thus till the top of 
 the hard hill was reached. As they passed the summit 
 Mulford's eager eyes were strained ahead. The stars 
 were shining brightly now, and he could see the broad 
 descent sweeping with an easy grade down from the 
 top of the ridge over miles of fertile territory. The 
 highway stretched like a gray ribbon due west until lost 
 in the distance, and six miles off lights were seen as 
 they flashed out, disappeared and flashed again. 
 
 " Bardwell ! " cried Mulford. " Now, Ted. " 
 
 " Hie up, boys, hie-e-e there!" 
 
 At the driver's cheery, long-drawn cry the blacks 
 broke into a fast trot, which in two minutes had 
 
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 45 
 
 increased to a tremendous pace. Faster, faster they 
 went, the wheels spinning and the iron hoofs ringing 
 on the road, while Ernest laughed and shouted with 
 the long-pent pressure that must at last have voice. 
 
 And then the unexpected! 
 
 A round granite bowlder, started by some heedless 
 or reckless hand that day, had rolled down that smooth 
 descent some fifteen hundred yards, stopping at last in 
 the wagon-track. 
 
 The horses were right upon it; they saw it and 
 swerved. It was upon Ernest's side; the driver never 
 saw it. He heard the quick, warning cry of his com- 
 panion, but he did not comprehend it. At that head- 
 long speed one of the forewheels struck the great stone 
 and was instantly shattered. The fore part of the 
 wagon tipped down; the horses began to kick and 
 bound furiously; with both hands did Ernest cling to 
 the seat; how it was that he escaped death or frightful 
 injury from those plunging hoofs he could not tell. He 
 saw, in less time than it takes to say it, the horses free 
 themselves from the gear and dash forward. Ted Vaun, 
 holding like a vise to the reins, was dragged bodily 
 from the seat and several rods along the road. With 
 one leg fractured by a kick from one of those frantic 
 hoofs the plucky fellow never released his grip of the 
 lines, nor did he cease to cry "Whoa, Davey! So, 
 Johnny!" in his efforts to calm the maddened team. 
 They knew his voice, and, presently obeying it, stood 
 still, though dripping with sweat and quivering in every 
 muscle. 
 
 Ernest clambered out of the wagon and knelt down 
 by his prostrate friend. 
 
 " Dear old Teddy," he said, " I hope you are not 
 badly hurt?" 
 
 Ted struggled hard to repress his groans; but the 
 pain was too much for him. 
 
 " No, I'm not much hurt, Ern. A few bruises, more 
 or less and Jonathan gave me a bad one on this leg." 
 
46 THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 
 
 " Can you get up? Let me help you." 
 
 He put his arms under Teddy's, and raised him. 
 The poor fellow gave a cry of pain, and sank back. 
 
 "No use, Ernest. That leg's badly fixed; I can't 
 stand. But you never mind. Get on one of the horses, 
 and go on. Cut off the traces, strip the harness, and 
 make a kind of bridle of the reins. Stick onto him, 
 and give him his head, and he'll take you through. 
 Don't mind me, old boy. Somebody'll come along 
 here and pick me up soon; and it'll be no harm for 
 me to lie on the ground awhile this warm night." 
 
 For a moment for one unworthy moment, Ernest 
 Mulford was tempted to comply. 
 
 One glance he cast far down the road toward Bard- 
 well; one fierce clamor of his heart, to mount and ride 
 away there, he resisted and overcame; and then he 
 turned back to his helpless friend. 
 
 " Teddy," he said, " you can't think so meanly of 
 me as to believe that I would leave you alone here in 
 this way! I'm going for help, to that house that we 
 passed back there. Will the horses stand or shall I 
 hitch them to the fence?" 
 
 " O, they'll stand; I'll talk to them. So, Davey! 
 quiet, John! " 
 
 Ernest ran swiftly back, and furiously assailed the 
 door of the house. No one appearing promptly, he 
 bolted in. The little place was filled by a laborer, his 
 son, and their families; and the men, wearied with a 
 hard day in the fields, were preparing for bed. Mul- 
 ford burst in on them like a hurricane. 
 
 "Here! come with me I want you both," he 
 exclaimed breathlessly. " There's a man hurt, out here; 
 I want you to bring him in, and take care of him. 
 Say do you see that ? " 
 
 He took a new fifty dollar greenback from his pocket- 
 book and held it up to them. 
 
 " Why, yes, mister, we see it," said the elder of the 
 two, " and a right good sight it is for sore eyes." 
 
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 47 
 
 " Take it! " and the impatient Mulford threw it to 
 him. " Keep it; it's yours; only fly round lively, and 
 do what I tell you. I'll be back here in less than a 
 week; I'll give you another just like it. Will you do 
 as I tell you? and make haste?" 
 
 " Why, bless you, yes; father and I'll do anything 
 for you. It's rare good luck you bring us." 
 
 " Listen, then; I've got to hurry away, and I want 
 you to do just as I say. There's two horses out here; 
 one of them I'm going to ride toward Bardwell; the 
 other I want one of you to mount and ride to Drayton 
 Station as though the devil had kicked you; find Mr. 
 Robbins, the station-master; tell him that Teddy Vaun 
 is out here with a broken leg; and then go to Dr. 
 Morton, and tell him to come here at once. Do you 
 understand? " 
 
 " O, aye, sir; we know both those gentlemen. " 
 
 "And will you go?" 
 
 " I'll go, sir," the son spoke up. 
 
 "Well, now, take that door off its hinges; get a 
 mattress and put on it, and bring them out here to the 
 roadside. You've to fetch Teddy Vaun here, and put 
 him in you feather bed, and make him as easy as you 
 can till the doctor comes. The women here will do all 
 they can; I know they will. Hurry! " 
 
 He stood by, fretting and fuming, while the men 
 deliberately unhinged the door, and the women got the 
 mattress to lay on it. He walked the floor, showering 
 entreaties and imprecations on the heads of the men; 
 and they, used to the slow ways of day laborers, let him 
 storm, and took their time. At last they were ready; 
 and Ernest hastened out before them to where Vaun 
 lay on his back. He was talking to the horses, and a 
 whinny occasionally showed that he was understood. 
 
 " O, is that you, Erny ?" Vaun said. " What do you 
 think? just now Jonathan came round here and put 
 his head down to me, same as to say he was sorry. 
 
48 THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 
 
 Poor fellow, he was frightened; he never meant it. But 
 say ain't it high time you was off?" 
 
 " Yes, Ted. These folks will take good care of you. 
 I'll come round in a few days to look after you. Good- 
 by, Teddy. " 
 
 " Good-by, Ern. You'll get there. O, I say 
 take David?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Ernest Mulford took the laborer's son aside. 
 
 " Take that horse to your shed, so you will have him 
 secure," he said. 
 
 The man started with him. Mulford removed all 
 the harness from the other horse, and extemporized a 
 bridle out of the lines. 
 
 He found himself growing weak. He had to lean 
 against the horse to keep himself up. 
 
 " Help me to his back?" he said. 
 
 The laborer did so. 
 
 " Now head him toward Bardwell." 
 
 It was done. 
 
 "Stand clear!" 
 
 He crouched down upon the bare back of the animal, 
 turning his knees closely in, and held a loose rein. He 
 had not the strength to sit upright. With a strap cut 
 from the harness he gave the horse a cut over the flank. 
 The spirited creature bounded, snorted and bolted 
 down the road like a shot. 
 
 The laborer's son had now returned, and stood with 
 his father, watching the shower of sparks struck from 
 the stony road by the iron hoofs of the vanishing 
 horse. 
 
 " A dreadful rattle-brained chap," the son remarked, 
 gaping after him. 
 
 " Very free-like of his cash," said the elder of the 
 two, fingering the substantial reality of a fifty-dollar 
 note. 
 
 Ted Vaun was growing delirious. Their voices 
 
THE LAST RALLY 49 
 
 roused him and summoned back his lingering con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 " Where is he? " was his question. 
 
 " Vamoosed with one of the horses." 
 
 " Which one? " 
 
 "The one with the half-cropped ear," replied the 
 laborer. 
 
 "Aye," whispered Vaun, "that's David; he'll take 
 him through." 
 
 And as they bore his poor, bruised body to the 
 house, they heard him softly murmur the last words 
 that he spoke in consciousness for days: 
 
 "David is a leetle just a leetle the best of the 
 two. He'll do it, if either of 'em could! " 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE LAST RALLY. 
 
 AWAY, now, as if on the wings of the wind! No 
 further need to use the strap : a word, a cry, and the 
 great black horse, with the sinews and wind of a Cen- 
 taur, increased his speed. With a gallop like a whirl- 
 wind he tore along the highway, neighing and snorting 
 in the fierce joy that the rapid motion gave him. And, 
 clinging to his back, weak, almost delirious, and still 
 holding on with the clutch of desperation, the rider 
 repeated his cry: 
 
 " Faster, David faster!" 
 
 Several wayfarers were passed on the road. They 
 looked with terror and superstition at this phantom 
 horse and rider, appearing and disappearing in a whirl. 
 Two or three carriages on the way abandoned the road 
 in time to escape being ridden down and demolished. 
 
 Nearer and nearer flashed the lights of Bardwell. 
 He was almost there. 
 
 A Sharp Nighfs Work 4 
 
5<D THE LAST RALLY 
 
 Yet, as he rode, in the clear air which on that 
 night conveyed sounds to a great distance, he heard a 
 sound that struck terror to his soul. 
 
 Far away to the north, faint but shrill he heard 
 the shriek of a whistle. 
 
 Too well he knew what it meant ! The night express 
 west had rounded the great curve, and was coming 
 into Bardwell. 
 
 " Faster, Dave faster ! " 
 
 The iron hoofs clattered on the stony road. Nearer, 
 very near to the village he came. 
 
 But steam moves faster yet; and he was a good 
 half mile away when he heard the rumble of the train. 
 Nor had he reached the village when he distinctly 
 heard the clinging of the engine-bell, mingled with the 
 first heavy puffs as the train drew out. 
 
 " God strengthen me! God keep her! " he prayed. 
 
 Bardwell at last. Its lights were right before him. 
 Here, at the end of the long, straggling, elm-shaded 
 street, and somewhat beyond it, he saw a well-known 
 mansion by the roadside, but well back from it. A 
 large two-story frame house of antique architecture, 
 surrounded by wide lawns and gardens. Along its 
 front was a white-pillared portico. He saw the house 
 ablaze with light; for the air was so mild that the 
 blinds had been flung open. Not only light, but laugh- 
 ter, music, and the pleasant hum of voices came forth. 
 Many figures appeared through the windows. In the 
 grounds, among the fountains and shrubbery, couples 
 were strolling, chatting, and flirting. All was lightness 
 and gayety. 
 
 So much he saw as he dashed up to the gate, threw 
 himself off, and rushed in. 
 
 The promenading couples then saw a sight that sadly 
 frightened them. 
 
 A man with wild eyes, pale face, and disordered 
 hair, rushed up the walk to the front door. His coat 
 
THE LAST RALLY 51 
 
 was torn half way up the back; his clothes were 
 dusty; he was bare-headed. Women shrieked and ran 
 from him; men silently fell back. 
 
 The strange apparition burst into the great double 
 parlor. The falling of a bomb-shell through the roof 
 could not have caused greater consternation. A 
 quadrille just formed was broken up and scattered. 
 Some of the company fled from the room; others sought 
 the corners, or got behind the furniture. 
 
 He leaned upon a chair. 
 
 " Where is my Uncle Gregory? and my aunt?" he 
 huskily whispered. 
 
 A florid old gentleman in a blue swallow-tailed coat, 
 with ruffles at breast and wrists, came cautiously for- 
 ward. 
 
 " Why, its Ernest!'* he exclaimed. 
 
 " Ernest!" echoed a hale old lady, advancing. " So 
 it is! O, deary me, what is going to happen? O, 
 Erny, Erny, how could you? To think that my own 
 sister's son would act so! " 
 
 The tender-hearted soul began to cry. But her hus- 
 band frowned. 
 
 " Nephew," he sternly said, " your conduct is out- 
 rageous. What do you mean by intruding here at such 
 a time, and after what we have all suffered on your 
 account? Why did you not return a month ago, beg 
 forgiveness of your excellent employer, and of your 
 relatives whom you have shamed, and so fit yourself to 
 attend here to-night? What d'ye mean, sir, by coming 
 in this condition? Are you drunk or crazy? or what 
 is the matter with you? Speak! " 
 
 This fine burst of reproach was thrown away on Mul- 
 ford. His eyes wandered round the room, and through 
 the open doors, crowded with terrified but curious 
 faces, looking for one whom he did not see. 
 
 " Uncle Gregory," he said, " Aunt Jerusha where's 
 June?" 
 
 " O Lordy! " the plump and rosy old lady cried. 
 
52 THE LAST RALLY 
 
 " I know something is going to happen! Ernest, you 
 dear boy, what makes you act so? " 
 
 " Where is June? " he shouted. 
 
 " She's gone with her husband," replied Mr. Gregory. 
 " What have you got to say about it? " 
 
 Ernest clutched the back of the chair. 
 
 " Gone! husband?" he vacantly repeated. 
 
 " Yes. She was married right here, at precisely half- 
 past eight, to Mr. Weston Mayhew, and they're on their 1 
 way to New York this minute, on their wedding tour." 
 
 " Ernest, please go up-stairstoyour old chamber and 
 lie down," his aunt pleaded. "Don't please don't 
 make a scene hereto-night before all these people." 
 
 He heard her words, as he had heard those of his- 
 uncle; but the only fact that he distinctly compre- 
 hended was that the blow had fallen; that he had come 
 too late ; that crafty and powerful villainy had triumphed, 
 and that June was lost to him forever. He staggered 
 in front of the great chair and sank down in it. 
 
 "Lost! ruined! the innocent prey of a black- 
 hearted scoundrel! " he moaned. " God help her 
 and me/' 
 
 A profound silence followed his words. The heart- 
 rending pathos of his tone impressed everybody. The 
 hush of direful expectation fell upon the assemblage; all 
 knew that something terrible was about to be disclosed. 
 
 " What do you mean, sir? " Mr. Gregory thundered. 
 " It's unmanly for you to come here in this way, after 
 Mr. Mayhew has married June and started on the 
 wedding journey, and try to blacken his character by 
 such miserable insinuations. What do you mean? " 
 
 " I mean that he is a bigamist!" Mulford cried. 
 
 The silence of consternation fell upon the assemblage. 
 
 " He is the most infamous of men/ 1 the young man 
 pursued. " I never did a wrongful act; he has blackened 
 my name to you all. He has stolen and suppressed let- 
 ters; he has forged letters; he has won June Gregory by 
 the bas-^t trickery and fraud ; he has had for months 
 
THE EVIL EYE 53 
 
 another wife living in a town sixty miles from here, 
 and but this very afternoon I learned the shocking truth. 
 Through such dangers and trials as can not be now 
 recounted I have striven to reach here in time, and 
 snatch poor June from the contamination of his hand. I 
 have failed; I am baffled for the time; but mark me! 
 that rich and powerful villain shall not triumph long. 
 God will yet keep June from his unclean clutch. I 
 will save her, though I die at her feet!" 
 He sank exhausted in the chair. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE EVIL EYE. 
 
 BETWEEN the sunset and the twilight of an evening in 
 the previous July, a man stood in the doorway of a store 
 on the principal street of the village of Bardwell. He 
 stood in a comfortable, half-lounging attitude, his fing- 
 ers playing with the ornament upon his heavy gold 
 watch-chain. He was of medium height, thick-set, but 
 still active and quick in his movements. He was fash- 
 ionably, almost foppishly, dressed ; and a single glance 
 would have shown that he was of a different order from 
 the general run of country village people. His full 
 brown face was smooth-shaven; a comfortable double 
 chin depended from it. His hair was thin at the top, 
 and brushed carefully so as to conceal the tendency to 
 baldness. His features were small, and seemed almost 
 lost in the grossness of the fat face. His eyes were 
 black and restless, roaming quickly from one object to 
 another; and when they happened to become riveted 
 upon a person, they were as keen in expression as those 
 of a hawk. His age was something between forty and 
 fifty. Over his head, his name in full shone upon a 
 large sign in gilded letters: 
 
54 THE EVIL EYE 
 
 West on May hew. 
 General Merchandise at Retail. 
 
 By the side of the large doorway was a smaller tin 
 sign: 
 
 Post Office. 
 
 We have briefly described the foremost citizen and 
 wealthiest man of this village. Few there were in 
 Bardwell who were able to say that they personally 
 liked the man; but the collective opinion of the people 
 about him could not have been other than highly favor- 
 able, for he did the largest and most thriving busi- 
 ness in the place. Anything that the people needed 
 could be bought at his counters, from a paper of pins 
 to a cook-stove. He was the village postmaster. He . 
 was a deacon of the leading church, superintendent of 
 its Sabbath-school, and sang in its choir. Men bowed 
 low to him, women smiled sweetly upon him; he was 
 all wrapped up in the praise and the general esteem of 
 this people. 
 
 Ten years before this time he had come here from 
 the far West, unknown, unintroduced, and had at once 
 taken a firm grasp on the business and social life of 
 the place. Nothing was known of him by the Bard- 
 well people more than what he had shown them; they 
 knew absolutely nothing of his past life. Indeed, there 
 was that in his secret life here that would have shocked 
 and horrified them, could they have known it; because 
 the man was in fact a whited sepulchre, fair outside, 
 bnt vile and evil within. The cloak of religion and 
 extensive and honorable dealing that he had assumed 
 covered a thoroughly bad heart, willing and ready to 
 prey on society, and ever watching for a safe and 
 tempting opportunity. 
 
 As he stood there in his store door on this evening, 
 an opportunity was presented to him. 
 
 At this hour June Gregory came out from the com- 
 
THE EVIL EYE 55 
 
 fortable home of her foster parents, and walked down 
 the street. She wasjust nineteen, rounded and grace- 
 ful, with sunny hair, bright eyes and glowing cheeks. 
 She walked on in maiden innocence and loveliness, 
 presenting, with her simple summer dress and ribbons 
 and light hat, a picture so fair that even those who had 
 always known her turned when they had met her and 
 received her smile, looked back, and said in their 
 minds, " How beautiful. " 
 
 In the mild and flowery June of a year nineteen 
 years gone, a little infant had been laid in a basket 
 upon the doorstep of the Gregorys. They were child- 
 less ; one after another their darlings had been torn 
 from them by cruel disease. Their hearts warmed to 
 this helpless waif, and she had been brought up as their 
 own. Of her parentage nothing was ever discovered. 
 Nor did these kind people care to know about it. She 
 came to them as a blessing, and daily for years she 
 had grown closer to their loving hearts. A card 
 pinned to the blanket that was tucked about the little 
 body, bore the words, in a delicate female hand, " Her 
 name is June." So she was called; and she seemed 
 to have borrowed, with the name of the month of her 
 nativity, something of its brightness, its beauty and its 
 bloom. 
 
 She walked on until she reached Mr. Mayhew's store, 
 and turned to enter it. The proprietor bowed; she 
 smiled and nodded in return, and passed in. 
 
 What was it that then, at that moment, arrested this 
 man's attention, drove for the time everything from his 
 mind but her image, and filled him with something like 
 a frenzy for her possession? 
 
 Who can tell the ways or the works of the heart of 
 man of the wolfish heart of the bad man? 
 
 An hundred times before had he met this girl, 
 beginning with the days when, as a school-girl of nine, 
 he saw her pass along the street, laughing and frolicking 
 with the other children. He had observed, as he 
 
56 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 observed a thousand other things which at the time made 
 no sensible impression upon him, that June Gregory 
 was growing to womanhood, and was developing into 
 a wonderfully lovely girl. He had given her just that 
 general admiration that female beauty obtains from all 
 men. An hour before he probably would have resented 
 it angrily had any one said to him, " You're quite fond 
 of pretty June, aint you, Mr. Mayhew? " 
 
 But as she passed him there and entered his store, 
 a sudden inordinate passion for her sprang into existence 
 in his breast. Perhaps it had been secretly gathering 
 there for months, and perhaps the little smile she gave 
 him, just as she would have smiled upon any male 
 acquaintance, inflamed his fancy and quickened his 
 desire. We do but record the fact, without seeking to 
 explain it, that at that instant a passion for this girl 
 seized upon him with the grip of a lion. 
 
 He turned and looked after her, as she went to the 
 counter behind which Ernest Mulford stood. And in 
 his bad heart he registered an oath. 
 
 " I'll have her by God, I'll have her! " 
 
 He knew that he had no right thus to look upon or 
 to think of her. He knew, as others did not know, the 
 sacred legal barrier that stood in the way of the pos- 
 session of this fair prize, even if he could win her heart. 
 He knew, but he cared not. Duty, honor, conscience 
 were thrown to the winds; the man was thenceforth 
 given over to the devil! 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 
 
 ERNEST MULFORD'S eyes brightened as she ap- 
 proached. They exchanged the usual greetings of 
 young people who are well acquainted; and then June 
 requested to be shown some small articles in the line 
 of female dress r 
 
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 57 
 
 He showed her the goods; she looked at them, they 
 chatted about them, and the best part of half an hour 
 was consumed in the purchase. Two or three people 
 came in and went to the post-office, which was kept at 
 the back end of the store. Ernest looked toward the 
 door, and seeing that Mr. Mayhew showed no signs of 
 coming back to wait on them, he excused himself to 
 June, and went and attended to them. Returning, he 
 put up her purchases in a very small package, received 
 the pay for them, and heard his customer's " good 
 evening." 
 
 " Wait!" he said in a low tone, leaning forward. 
 "Are you going home now?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It's about time to close. Mr. Mayhew is here, and 
 the evening is so fine that I don't care if I walk along 
 with you. May I?" 
 
 The girl gave a little coquettish toss to her head. 
 
 " O, I don't care," she replied. 
 
 Women have ever been a mystery, since time began, 
 and will not cease to be till the end of time. For 
 months, yes, for years past, that kind of actions which 
 speak louder than words, had assured this girl that this 
 man sincerely loved her. That he had never told her 
 so made no difference with the certainty that she felt on 
 the subject. And she was not indifferent to him. If, 
 on the one hand, she had never in her hours of self- 
 examination brought her heart to confess that he was 
 its master, on the other hand she did know that she 
 warmly regarded him; that she liked him far better 
 than any other man of her acquaintance. 
 
 Naturally, this state of mind would lead her to a 
 complete surrender of her heart to him. Perhaps she 
 would have given it up to him on the asking, on any 
 evening but this. 
 
 And why not on this evening? 
 
 Reader, do you know what it is to b& perverse? 
 Have you ever felt strangely drawn to c*6 what you 
 
58 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 did not wish to do; to say words that you regretted as 
 soon as they were spoken? 
 
 Such moods are common to mankind; they are far 
 more common to womankind. Why they seize us, 
 why it is that we permit ourselves to yield to them, are 
 of the mysteries that fill our earthly life. 
 
 In such a frame of mind as this was June Gregory 
 upon that night. Something told her that Ernest Mul- 
 ford was about to declare his affection for her, and she 
 capriciously set herself against him. 
 
 He took his hat and accompanied her to the door. 
 Mr. Mayhew looked at them as they passed. Nothing 
 of his feelings showed in his face. 
 
 " I would like to leave a few minutes before time, sir, 
 to-night," Ernest said. " If you'll lock the door, I'll 
 return in an hour, and set everything to rights for 
 morning. " 
 
 The merchant nodded. As they slowly passed up 
 the street, side by side, he looked after them. A sus- 
 picion of the truth entered his mind. With it came 
 ungovernable jealousy, and the determination that if 
 this man, his faithful clerk, who had served him with 
 rare zeal and industry for some years that if he 
 should presume to come between him and this girl, he 
 would ruin him and drive him from the village! 
 
 The couple walked on together for some minutes, 
 making only casual remarks, allusions to the little news 
 of the town, such topics as the projected Sabbath- 
 school picnic, the coming party, and so forth. All this 
 was quite foreign to the subject that lay very close to 
 Ernest's heart, and more than once, as they walked, he 
 tried to introduce that subject. Divining his intention 
 wth woman's quickness, June always checked with 
 rene ,^ed small-talk his efforts to speak his heart. 
 
 But I. * had made this opportunity, for he was deter- 
 mined to i.ave his say this night. When, therefore, 
 they had reached the gate at Mr. Gregory's lawn, and 
 
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 59 
 
 she quickly bade him good-night, without asking him 
 to come in, his hand detained hers. 
 
 There they stood, face to face, with the gate between 
 them: typical, although they did not know it, of the 
 strong, hard barriers that fate or chance who can tell 
 which was building up between them. Nor did 
 they know that over that same gate the pair who were 
 now prosaic old man and wife in this mansion had done 
 their wooing, when, years before, the young and dash- 
 ing Emmanuel Gregory had come to tell his story to 
 the only daughter of the house. 
 
 " One would really think, June," said Ernest, boldly 
 taking the plunge, " that you cared less for me than 
 for anybody else. If it is not so, I don't know what 
 you mean by all this coolness. " 
 
 "Really!" the girl said, with a little forced laugh, 
 " who told you that I cared a button for you? Aren't 
 you presuming a good deal to-night, Mr. Imperti- 
 nence?" 
 
 " It is high time I knew what you do think of me. 
 June, let me ask you the question squarely: Do you 
 love me?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 She said it with a pout. He turned his face sharply 
 away, to hide what was in it. 
 
 " That is " she added. There was a full stop. 
 He turned again, his dashed-down hopes revived by 
 those two words. 
 
 " Well, June?" 
 
 " What do you want me to say?" she pettishly 
 rejoined. " I don't see what right you have to talk 
 so." 
 
 " You have answered my question, June; but I don't 
 want to take such an answer. Do you really mean 
 it?" 
 
 " She cast down her eyes, while the rich color man- 
 tled her cheek. 
 
 " Why, Ernest, to be frank with you, I hadn't 
 
6O THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 thought of such a thing. We've grown up together 
 from our school days, and I never looked on you as 
 anything more than a real nice friend. Then you're 
 so much older than I am." 
 
 " Less than seven years." 
 
 She was silent. She was really thinking of some- 
 thing to say that would encourage him, while it should 
 not be a complete yielding on her part. 
 
 "June, this is a very anxious hour for me." He 
 spoke with a deep seriousness, and she glanced shyly, 
 but with secret admiration at his eloquent eyes. "Per- 
 haps I understand you. Because I have been so much 
 here at this house, where my good aunt and uncle have 
 always treated me as affectionately as if I were their 
 own son, have you thought that I cared to be nothing 
 more to you than a kind of brother? It is not so. I 
 have always loved you; and since you have become a 
 woman grown, I have looked with fear lest some one 
 should come and take you from me. Not now, June 
 not this month or this year but, some day, will 
 you be my wife?" 
 
 She had broken the stem of a rose from a bush close 
 at hand, and now pulled off the leaves as she listened. 
 She laughed again. 
 
 " That ' some day ' was well put in, Mr. Mulford. I'm 
 afraid it would be a pretty long day, though I'm 
 young enough to wait. But you are nothing but a poor 
 clerk " 
 
 She stopped abruptly, abashed by the flush of pain, 
 mortification and anger that her unthinking taunt sent 
 to his cheek. 
 
 " Say no more, June," he said, with unfeigned bit- 
 terness. " I have made a mistake, a sore one for me; 
 but it is better for me to learn it now. I shall never 
 speak to you again on this subject. May God bless 
 you!" 
 
 He threw his arms about her, kissed her, and hurried 
 away. 
 
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 6 1 
 
 Almost before she could comprehend what had hap- 
 pened she was alone. She leaned over the gate, and 
 looked down the street. He was hidden by the gath- 
 ing shadows of the night. 
 
 Then her heart spoke out, in spite of herself. 
 
 "Ernest! Ernest! Comeback!" 
 
 He did not hear her. What misery might have been 
 prevented, what stirring scenes, recorded and yet to be 
 recorded, would never have occurred had that gentle and 
 sorrowful voice penetrated a little further into the night. 
 
 She lingered a moment, and then hastened into the 
 house. Mrs. Gregory met her in the hall. 
 
 " Why, June! " she said. " Whatever is the matter 
 with the child? If you haven't been crying!" 
 
 She would not trust herself to answer, but ran up- 
 stairs and locked herself in her room. 
 
 When midnight came, and that house and all the 
 houses in Bardwell were still in slumber, the remorseful 
 girl was still sitting by her little table, her head bowed 
 upon her hands. 
 
 W r oman's love had been fighting a hard battle with 
 woman's pride, and the former had won. 
 
 She took some stationery from the drawer and wrote 
 a letter. We must look over her shoulder as she writes. 
 
 July 1 3th. 
 
 DEAR ERNEST I am dreadfully afraid and ashamed 
 to write those two words; but if you had stayed with 
 me only a minute more, you would have made me say 
 them to you. What made you rush away so? You 
 are angry with me; you must not be angry with poor, 
 foolish me. Did I say something to hurt your feelings? 
 What was it? I forget what we were talking about. 
 You may come over to-night (it is past midnight now, 
 and I have been sitting up ever since you were here), 
 but you must not kiss me again. That is, unless I tell 
 you that you may. JUNE. 
 
 She pressed her lips to the letter, closed, directed 
 
62 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 
 
 and stamped it. With a sigh of satisfaction she laid it 
 on the table. 
 
 She had but just risen to prepare for bed, when a 
 sudden thought made her heart flutter. 
 
 " How nice it would be for him to get it the first 
 thing in the morning!" 
 
 She acted instantly on the thought. Putting on her 
 hat and a light shawl, she silently descended the stairs, 
 let herself out at the front door, and ran down to the 
 gate. 
 
 She looked along the street. It was absolutely still 
 and deserted. 
 
 There was a bright moon in the sky. The distance 
 was a third of a mile to the post-office; but she did not 
 hesitate. 
 
 With swift feet she sped along the way, and reaching 
 the place, dropped the letter into the slit in the door. 
 Then, with wildly beating heart, but with a deep sense 
 of satisfaction, she sped home. Nobody had seen her, 
 nobody knew of her mission. 
 
 Ah! one person there was who knew of it. 
 
 She did not look behind her when she hastened away 
 from the post-office door. Had she done so, she would 
 have seen the door softly unclose, and the distorted 
 face of Weston Mayhew thrust out in the moonlight. 
 The letter she had just posted was held in his hand! 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT. 
 
 AT EIGHT o'clock Mr. Mayhew locked the store. But 
 instead of locking it as usual from the outside, he 
 locked it from the inside. Going back to his desk, he 
 turned up the gas, and, sitting down in his large chair, 
 he became immersed in thought. His home was at a 
 neighboring hotel; but he cared not to go there now. 
 He wanted to think. 
 
THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 63 
 
 To think about June Gregory. The sight of her 
 beautiful face and form that evening, connected with 
 his evil resolution, had completely absorbed him. He 
 had already began to plan for the accomplishment of 
 his design. Many obstacles he saw in the way, but he 
 determined to overcome them. He resolved to crush 
 everything that might come between. 
 
 Almost an hour he had sat there in deep meditation, 
 when he heard a key rattling in the lock. He knew 
 that it could be none other than his clerk. The desire 
 to spy upon his actions swiftly entered his brain. It 
 came to him because he was thinking of June, and he 
 had seen his clerk accompanying her home upon terms 
 of apparent intimacy. 
 
 He remembered that the gas in the office part of 
 the store could not be seen from the street, so that the 
 person who was about to enter had not yet seen it, and 
 he turned it out. Then, for greater precaution, he 
 crouched low behind the desk. He heard the door 
 open and close. 
 
 He heard the uncertain movements made by hands 
 and feet in the dark; the scratching of a match; the 
 rush of released gas, and then there was a light in the 
 middle of the store. 
 
 By peering out by the side of the desk, he was able 
 easily to see Mulford, and watch his movements. 
 
 He saw him go behind the counters, put up on the 
 shelves some rolls of goods that had been left down, 
 and then move about, putting the store to rights. 
 
 As he passed here and there near the gaslight, the 
 concealed watcher saw his face, and observed with sur- 
 prise that it was sad and overcast. 
 
 What could that mean? Little more than an hour 
 before, he had walked away with June in excellent 
 spirits. What had happened to so depress him? 
 
 Nor was this all. Once, as he came nearer, the 
 man in hiding plainly heard a deep sigh. 
 
 Never suspecting that he had been watched, Ernest 
 
64 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 
 
 left the store, locking the door after him. Mr. Mayhew 
 relit the gas and resumed his cogitations. 
 
 Much absorbed he must have been, for he was 
 aroused by the clock striking one. He turned down 
 the gas again, put on his hat, and started for the 
 street. 
 
 He was just about to insert his key into the lock, 
 when he heard the rattle of a letter in the tin box on 
 the door. 
 
 No man can account for his sudden impulses. 
 Weston Mayhew could not have told what caused him 
 to take out the letter and light a match to read the 
 address. 
 
 He read the name of his clerk on the envelope, 
 written in a woman's hand. He quickly and softly un- 
 closed the door and looked out. The street was light 
 and he easily recognized the figure that was rapidly 
 flitting away. 
 
 He reclosed and relocked the door, returned to his 
 office, lit the gas again, and placing the letter on the 
 desk, sat down and looked steadfastly at it. 
 
 We have said that this man was bad at heart. He 
 had within him great possibilities of vice and wicked- 
 ness, hidden under a garb of hypocrisy. Yet, thus 
 far, he had avoided crime. Not that he was not bad 
 enough; the very worst of men never lay themselves 
 liable to the heavy hand of the law. It was, in Weston 
 Mayhen's case, only because he had never yet been 
 sufficiently tempted. 
 
 The temptation lay there before him. 
 
 But one other beside himself knew of the mailing of 
 that letter. That other was the writer. He could open, 
 read and destroy it; he could learn from it the footing 
 upon which his clerk stood with the woman whom 
 he had resolved to possess, and nobody would be the 
 wiser. 
 
 He did not try to resist the temptation ; he did not 
 care to resist it. There, in the silence and secrecy of 
 
THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 65 
 
 the night, he violated honor, duty, and his oath of 
 office, and for the first time became a criminal. He 
 tore open the envelope and read the letter. 
 
 He read the tender, touching words, fresh from the 
 heart of the writer, yet spiced with maiden coquetry. 
 
 A fearful curse broke from his lips. He tore both 
 sheet and envelope into minute pieces, and threw them 
 into his waste-basket. 
 
 He got up and strode back and forth through the 
 store. The black frown that covered his face gradually 
 gave room to an expression of deep thought. Sud- 
 denly he clapped his hands and laughed aloud. If evil 
 spirits can make themselves heard they might laugh 
 that way. 
 
 " I'll do it ! " he said. " By heaven, I believe it will 
 work ! " 
 
 He took the office letter-book from the desk and 
 turned, one after another, to several copies of his clerk's 
 letters. 
 
 " She may and she may not know his hand," he mut- 
 tered. " It is best to be safe." 
 
 Mr. Mayhew was an expert penman. He was well 
 acquainted with the general character of Ernest's chirog- 
 raphy, and could at once make a fair imitation of it ; 
 but he labored carefully and systematically over this, 
 his first forgery. He finally satisfied himself with the 
 following production: 
 
 JULY 14. 
 
 MlSS GREGORY: I have received your letter, and I 
 am much surprised by it. If you think that you can 
 put me on and off in this way, according to your whims 
 and caprices, then you do not know me. I have very 
 good cause of offense, and I am tired of the treatment 
 you give me. You will please consider everything at 
 an end between us. ERNEST MULFORD. 
 
 Mr. Mayhew held this precious document up to the 
 
 A Sharp Night's Work $ 
 
66 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 
 
 light and laughed and chuckled over it, reading it over 
 and over again. Then he thought again. ^ 
 
 " He could hardly tell it from his own writing, he 
 soliloquized. 
 
 He folded it, enveloped and carefully directed it, 
 and placed it in his drawer, not forgetting to turn the 
 key on it. Then he went to his lodgings. 
 
 It was Ernest Mulford's habit to open the store 
 promptly at seven o'clock, get everything ready for 
 the day, and await the appearance of the proprietor, 
 who usually came in about half-past eight, when the 
 clerk went to his breakfast. 
 
 The night that had just passed into a new day had 
 been a sleepless and sorrowful one for poor Ernest. 
 He was up before six, bathing his aching head and 
 heavy eyes. Restless in mind and body, he left his 
 boarding-place and went over to the store. For the 
 moment he forgot his grief in the astonishment of 
 finding the store open, and Mr. Mayhew inside. The 
 proprietor met him near the door. The " good- 
 morning, sir!" with which the clerk greeted him was 
 met by a cold and severe face. 
 
 " You need not take off your hat, Mr. Mulford. 
 Your engagement here is at an end. In this envelope 
 you will find the amount of your wages for the 
 month up to the last of the present month which I 
 think is a very large concession to you, after what has 
 occurred. I wish you a good-day." 
 
 He turned on his heel, and walked away. Almost 
 stunned with this new distress, Ernest slowly followed 
 him. 
 
 " Mr. Mayhew!" 
 
 The merchant turned sharply. " Well?" he snapped 
 out. 
 
 " May I ask how I have displeased you?" 
 
 "You are a good one!" was the sarcastic answer; 
 and Mr. Mayhew elevated his dark eyebrows. " As if 
 you didn't know! " 
 
THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 67 
 
 " I don't know, sir." 
 
 " Take care, young man! You may anger me into 
 making this a public affair. " 
 
 " For God's sake, sir! for my sake! tell me what 
 you mean. You know I have served you for years." 
 
 " I do know it, to my sorrow. " 
 
 " Do you mean to blast my good name here, where 
 I am best known?" 
 
 " If you don't make too much fuss, and drive me to 
 an exposure, I shall not stand in the way of your leav- 
 ing town as soon as you please. I promise nothing 
 further." 
 
 The unhappy young man put both hands to his head. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that I am dishonest? " 
 
 " I haven't said it yet; but since you ask the ques- 
 tion, you shall have a plain answer. Yes! I do." 
 
 Ernest turned and left the store without another word. 
 It was not yet seven o'clock. He walked along the 
 street, meeting nobody at that early hour that he knew. 
 He looked up, and saw that he was passing Mr. Greg- 
 ory's place. 
 
 The old grief came back to his heart. The darling 
 hope that he had cherished for years had been rudely 
 destroyed. He could not remain here now, seeing her 
 every day, and ere long seeing some other win and 
 wear her. 
 
 The crafty devil in the breast of Weston Mayhew had 
 exactly timed the cruel stroke that had just been dealt 
 this man. None knew him better than his employer; 
 he was a judge of human nature. He saw that Ernest 
 was suffering deeply from slighted love and wounded 
 pride, and he had planned still further to crush his 
 spirit. At another time the faithful clerk, conscious of 
 his own rectitude, would have indignantly hurled back 
 Mr. Mayhew's insinuations and boldly dared him to the 
 proof. In the state of mind in which this morning 
 found him, his employer's words were terrible to him. 
 He knew not what was behind them; he feared that 
 
68 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 
 
 some plausible case had been made against him. He 
 could not conjecture what motive Mr. Mayhew could 
 have for trying to ruin him. In fact, he was indifferent 
 as to the motive. 
 
 In a few hours the home of his boyhood, his 
 youth and his young manhood had become insufferable 
 to him. He determined to abandon it forthwith. In 
 the bitterness of his spirit he resolved that he would not 
 even spend a few hours in bidding farewell to his 
 friends and acquaintances; not even to his good aunt 
 and uncle. He would not even return to take the cars 
 at Bardwell. So he hastily, rashly, resolved, as he 
 stood in the cool of the morning, looking at Mr. Greg- 
 ory's house. 
 
 " Farewell, June!" he murmured. " Other men will 
 love you; they cannot help that; but not as I have. 
 We shall never meet again." 
 
 He dashed the tears from his eyes, and walked on. 
 He thought of some little debts that he owed at Bard- 
 well, and of his trunk at his lodgings. 
 
 " I will go off to some obscure place," he thought, 
 " fix these things by correspondence, and make up my 
 mind what quarter of the world I want to strike for. 
 All lands ought to be alike to me now." 
 
 Toward evening of that day Mr. Mayhew heard indi- 
 rectly from his discharged clerk. He saw a man who 
 told him that he saw him board the accommodation 
 train at Drayton that morning. 
 
 Mr. Mayhew turned away and chuckled. 
 
 People wondered at the absence of Ernest, and 
 inquired of the merchant where he had gone. And 
 the merchant mysteriously shook his head, and some- 
 times said, with a sigh: 
 
 " I don't wish to injure him. I'd rather say nothing 
 about it. Ah, I feel sad for that fallen young man!" 
 
 On the morning of the next day after Mulford's dis- 
 appearance, Mr. Mayhew took the forged letter from 
 his drawer, stamped it with the Bardwell post-mark, 
 
THE DETECTIVE APPEARS 69 
 
 and placed it in Mr. Gregory's box. June herself came 
 to the postoffice about noon, and received it from his 
 hands. When she had gone, Mr. Mayhew, being 
 alone, broke out into boisterous mirth at the success of 
 his scheme. The devil in him was roaring loudly! 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE DETECTIVE APPEARS. 
 
 THE month of July went past at Bardwell. Early in 
 August the evening train from the West brought, 
 among others, a stranger to the place. He rode over 
 to the hotel in the omnibus, registered the name 
 " Elias Lear," and being wearied with a long, warm 
 and dusty day's travel, he retired early. 
 
 At breakfast the next morning he was seated oppo- 
 site Weston Mayhew. The two men took keen notice 
 of each other, without seeming to do so. As the meal 
 progressed, had the thoughts of each been put into 
 speech, they would have been something like this: 
 
 MR. LEAR: "Here's something interesting. I never 
 saw this man before, but I've met hundreds of his kind. 
 He is sharp and unscrupulous, easily imposes upon 
 people, and makes them think he's a sight better than 
 he is. He is out of place here in this small town. I 
 should naturally look for him in some big operation 
 at the West, where he would be carefully looking out 
 for Number One. " 
 
 All of which shows that the detective was an excel- 
 lent physiognomist. 
 
 MR. MAYHEW: " Who's this stranger, I wonder? 
 Don't look like a produce-buyer or a land-speculator. 
 I'd give half a dollar to know his business. He's a 
 curious-looking man; he don't carry any marks that I 
 should know him by." 
 
 After breakfast the detective took a chair in the 
 
70 THE DETECTIVE APPEARS 
 
 hotel-office and smoked a cigar at leisure. Mr. May- 
 hew came out picking his teeth, threw a glance at the 
 stranger and went to his store. 
 
 " Who is that gentleman?" Mr. Lear asked of the 
 landlord. 
 
 " That is Weston Mayhew, our leading merchant 
 and the postmaster. " 
 
 He examined the name of his guest on the register, 
 and remarked: 
 
 " You're a stranger here, I take it?" 
 
 " Years ago," was the reply, " I was in this part of 
 the country, but I never was in this village before. " 
 
 " Buyer? " the landlord queried, with the off-hand 
 curiosity of a country host. " Land or produce?" 
 
 " Neither." 
 
 " Hope I don't offend? " 
 
 11 Oh, no," said Lear. " The fact is, I am out of a 
 job just now; I've retired from business, and become 
 what you might call a ' gentleman of elegant leisure.' 
 That's the best account I can give of myself." 
 
 " Oh! " said the landlord. He knew not what to say, 
 for this was something out of his experience. 
 
 " But I may tell you why I stopped at Bardwell. " 
 
 The landlord listened eagerly. 
 
 " On one reason," added Mr. Lear, observing the 
 other's curiosity. 
 
 " My whole life has been passed at the West," he 
 went on, speaking slowly and thoughtfully; " that is, 
 the active part of it; all that makes life in this great, 
 stirring, hustling land of ours. I have been in large 
 affairs, and for thirty years have been on a continual 
 strain of mental and physical activity. I felt the need 
 of rest, and I concluded to take a long vacation; it 
 may become a permanent one. I am getting on in 
 years, landlord; the man who is near sixty has an uncer- 
 tain hold on life. It occurred to me that the best use 
 I could make of my spare time would be to come East, 
 go up to Northern Vermont, to the old place where I 
 
THE DETECTIVE APPEARS ?I 
 
 was born, and look up old friends and acquaintances. 
 I am afraid I shall find few enough of them. Thirty 
 years make a sad waste in any community. Still, I've 
 got some of the old home-feeling left, and I'm going 
 back there for a while. " 
 
 " Where were you born and raised, sir? " 
 
 " In Dinsmore. " 
 
 " Dinsmore? Seems to me some of our people here 
 came from up that way." 
 
 " Yes; I happened to think of that as the train was 
 getting in here, and I concluded to stop over and see 
 if I could find any old friends. Can you mention any 
 one that came from Dinsmore? " 
 
 " Let me see," said the landlord, thoughtfully. 
 " There were the two Deans, but they are both dead. 
 Wagner moved somewhere down South. I don't think 
 of any one else but the Mulfords. " 
 
 " I have heard that Lewis Mulford was dead." 
 
 " Yes, and his widow died most ten years ago." 
 
 Schooled as he was never to betray emotion, Elias 
 Lear only concealed the effect that this announcement 
 made upon him by hastily going to the door. Had he 
 told the exact truth to the landlord, he would have 
 told him that he had journeyed a thousand miles in the 
 hope of finding the person whose death had just been 
 announced to him, and that he had stopped at Bard- 
 well to see her, and nobody else. And if the landlord 
 could have seen the face that Mr. Lear turned to the 
 street, he would have observed that a mist was gather- 
 ing in those cold blue eyes. 
 
 "I have delayed too long," the detective sadly 
 thought. " Well, that dream is over. I might as well 
 turn westward again to-morrow and resume my old 
 life." 
 
 When he came back and sat down again, there 
 was no trace of his feelings in his face. 
 
 " You were speaking of Mrs. Jane Mulford," he 
 
72 THE DETECTIVE APPEARS 
 
 said. " I had not heard of her death. Tell me some- 
 thing of her and her husband." 
 
 "Well, sir, there's little to tell. A finer lady nor 
 a better woman never lived, but I suppose her heart 
 was broken by that gambling, horse-racing, hard- 
 drinking scamp of a husband. The fellow had good 
 looks, and that's the only good thing that he did have. 
 He broke his neck on one of his sprees; 'twould have 
 been a good thing for her if he'd done it before he 
 ever saw her. Mrs. Mulford was poor enough; and 
 Ernest was just getting so as to help her, when she 
 died." 
 
 "Who is Ernest?" 
 
 " Her boy; only child; looks just like her; same 
 handsome eyes and face." 
 
 " Is he in town now?" 
 
 " He was till a few weeks ago; and then, one morn- 
 ing, he turned up missing, and not a word has been 
 heard of him. Beats the Jews, sir! queerest thing I 
 ever heard of. There's only one thing makes me think 
 there isn't foul play somewhere about it. " 
 
 The detective, without betraying it, was profoundly 
 interested in the landlord's words. 
 
 " What is that?" he asked. 
 
 " Why, his employer has been giving out that Ernest 
 has been stealing from the safe for a long time, and 
 cleared out to save being arrested." 
 
 " Who was his employer?" 
 
 " Mr. Mayhew, the gentleman you saw at breakfast. " 
 
 " Indeed! Is the story generally believed?" 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry to say that it is. It wouldn't be, 
 about such an excellent young man as Ernest has 
 always been just like his mother, sir! if anybody 
 but Mr. Mayhew had told it. But he's the first man in 
 the place; his word goes for anything." 
 
 " You say that nothing has been heard of this young 
 man since he disappeared?" 
 
THE DETECTIVE APPEARS 73 
 
 " Not a word. His trunk is at his boarding-place; 
 not a letter has come to anybody from him. " 
 
 " Strange enough. Is there any other gossip about 
 this affair?" 
 
 " A great deal, sir. The women folks say that 
 Ernest was making up to June Gregory, the foster- 
 daughter of his uncle and aunt. Mrs. Gregory and 
 Mrs. Mulford were sisters. And they say that since 
 he went away Mr. Mayhew himself has been paying a 
 good deal of attention to pretty June." 
 
 " I think I will walk about the place awhile," Mr. 
 Lear said. 
 
 As he went along the street he mused upon what the 
 landlord had told him. 
 
 " If there isn't villainy somewhere in this," he solilo- 
 quized, " then the detective instinct in me is at fault. 
 How naturally all these elements of a good case arrange 
 themselves in the mind! Here is a young man in love 
 with a pretty girl; his employer, almost old enough to 
 be his father, falls in love with the same girl, and con- 
 cocts a rascally plot to get the young man out of the 
 way." 
 
 The words " detective instinct " were most appropri- 
 ately applied by this man to himself. With the bare 
 outline given him by the landlord, he had swiftly and 
 unerringly reached the exact truth of the matter. 
 
 " And if I am right in my conjectures," he thought, 
 " Jane Mulford's boy is being made the victim of a 
 scoundrel. Because, if I read this Weston Mayhew's 
 face rightly, he is capable of a great deal of crooked- 
 ness." 
 
 He switched the weeds by the wayside with his 
 stick, and kept on thinking. 
 
 " Well, I believe there is ' a divinity that shapes our 
 ends.' Here I am, the whole object of my founrey 
 suddenly brought to nothing; poor Jane is long dead; 
 any hope that I might have had of happiness with her, 
 after the bitter disappointment of years past, has fled; 
 
74 THE DETECTIVE APPEARS 
 
 and a few moments since I was saying to myself that I 
 would go back to the West at once, and resume the 
 excitements and risks of my detective life. Then it is 
 told to me that Jane's only child is under a cloud; that 
 he has mysteriously disappeared; that insinuations of 
 criminal conduct are flying about this community, 
 where he has grown up from childhood with honor and 
 respect; and the chatter of that inn-keeper leads me 
 to suspect that Mr. Weston Mayhew's bad hand is in 
 this business. Well, Elias Lear what will you do 
 about it? " 
 
 Thus he mused, as he walked along. 
 
 " I am nothing but a detective/' he thought, with a 
 smile. " Nature must have made me one, for I find it 
 impossible to be anything else. Even on a vacation I 
 am laying out work." 
 
 All this, unuttered, passed through his mind. Then 
 came a thought that determined him. 
 
 " The landlord said that he looked like his mother. 
 Poor, dear Jane! " 
 
 No one could have thought, in seeing this man, with 
 his hard, dry aspect, and curt speech, that there had 
 been romance in his life, and that there was now a soft 
 spot in his heart. He took from the pocket within his 
 vest a small miniature, opened the case, and gazed as 
 he walked at the lovely face there portrayed. 
 
 " If she were alive," he mused, as he returned this 
 memento of an unforgotten love to its place next his 
 heart, " how eagerly, at her request, would I spring to 
 the vindication of her son, and the clearing away of 
 the web of villainy that I think has been woven around 
 him. Does she not see him and me now? Is she not 
 at this moment appealing to me to save her boy and 
 punish his false accuser? " 
 
 He paused in his walk. The name of Weston May- 
 hew in large gilt letters over a door across the way at- 
 tracted his attention. He slowly crossed the street. 
 
THE SILENT WITNESS 75 
 
 Without any definite plan of operations in his mind 
 he entered the store. 
 
 The resources of such men are simply wonderful. 
 He wanted to see Mr. Mayhew and talk with him, 
 hoping to get a clew that would aid him in unmasking 
 the wrong that he was sure the merchant had com- 
 mitted. Yet he entered the store without any particu- 
 lar procedure outlined in his mind, trusting to the in- 
 spiration of the moment when he should be face to 
 face with his man. 
 
 The door was open. He entered and noiselessly 
 walked to the back part of the store. At first he 
 thought that nobody else was there; but presently he 
 saw Mr. Mayhew in his private office. His back was 
 toward the detective; he was so profoundly interested 
 in reading a letter that he did not hear the approach of 
 the latter. He read the letter, and with his back still 
 turned, tore letter and envelope to pieces and threw 
 them into the waste basket. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 THE SILENT WITNESS. 
 
 THE detective, thus far unseen and unheard, stood 
 directly behind Mr. Mayhew. He placed his hand 
 on the shoulder of the merchant. 
 
 The latter started and whirled about. He trembled 
 all over and there was a scared look in his face. 
 
 " Why, why," he stammered, " wh wh what d'ye 
 want? "' 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayhew/' said the detect- 
 ive, with a smooth, bland voice well calculated to allay 
 suspicion. " I wish to talk with you a few moments 
 on a matter of business. Are you at leisure? " 
 
 " Yes," said the alarmed merchant, recovering him- 
 self. " You came in so sudden that you startled me. 
 Pray be seated." 
 
THE SILENT WITNESS 77 
 
 Hardly had Mr. Lear taken a chair when a lady 
 entered the store and went to the postoffice window. 
 
 " Excuse me for a moment," said Mr. Mayhew. " I 
 was compelled to discharge my clerk awhile ago, and I 
 have not succeeded in getting another to suit me. I 
 will be back as soon as I wait on that lady." 
 
 The lady was June Gregory. She looked in her 
 father's box, and saw that there was a 1 letter there. 
 Her heart beat faster; she hoped that it was for her, 
 and from the person who was constantly in her 
 thoughts. 
 
 The postoffice inclosure joined Mr. Mayhew's private 
 office. The places were entirely distinct; you could 
 not see from one into the other; and Mr. Lear, sitting 
 in the private office, was out of sight of the postmaster 
 behind the postoffice delivery-window. But the two 
 places were so near together, that ordinary conversa- 
 tion carried on in one could be distinctly heard in the 
 other. 
 
 The education of a professional detective teaches 
 him to employ all his senses at once. Elias Lear had 
 this faculty in a remarkable degree. He heard every 
 word that passed between June and Mr. Mayhew; and 
 his eyes made a remarkable discovery, his hands secured 
 very valuable evidence. 
 
 " There is nothing for you, Miss Gregory," said 
 Mayhew. " This letter is for your father." 
 
 He handed out the letter. And then, in a lower 
 voice, but perfectly audible to Lear, he said. 
 
 " Will you be at home to-morrow night? " 
 
 "Yes;" 
 
 " I shall do myself the pleasure of calling. " 
 
 She made no reply. He came out from the post- 
 office, and accompanied her to the store-door. 
 
 " You looked and acted like a guilty man, Mr. 
 Weston Mayhew," the detective thought, "when I 
 surprised you, destroying that letter and envelope. If 
 
78 THE SILENT WITNESS 
 
 you do not furnish evidence against yourself, you will 
 be different from most criminals in my experience." 
 
 His eyes sought the waste-basket. The fragments 
 of the torn-up letter and envelope lay at the top of the 
 waste-paper in it. From where he sat he saw that one 
 small piece bore the letters, written in a large, round 
 hand, " ulford. " 
 
 The discovery was an inspiration to the detective. 
 He turned one swift glance out into the store, to see 
 that he was not observed. He was not; Mr. Mayhew 
 had turned his back that way, as he walked to the 
 door with June Gregory. Mr. Lear quickly gathered 
 up the torn pieces of the letter and envelope, and 
 thrust them into his pocket; when the merchant returned 
 he was apparently absorbed in the perusal of a news- 
 paper. 
 
 Mr. Mayhew came back to his office in good humor. 
 He had just arranged with June to call on her the next 
 evening; he had told her of his intention and she had 
 not forbidden him to come. He had done all the talk- 
 ing: she was silent and sad; but he had told her that 
 he wanted to see her at home the following evening, 
 and by her silence she had given consent. He knew 
 that her foster-parents looked favorably on his suit; he 
 smiled now, to think of the progress he was making. 
 
 " At this rate," he said to himself, " I shall marry 
 her in a month. And then farewell forever to Bard- 
 well." 
 
 He returned to his office. " Well, sir?" he said to 
 the detective. 
 
 " I beg your pardon for troubling you on what you 
 may think a trivial affair, " said Mr. Lear, smoothly. 
 " It is to me a matter of much consequence. I was 
 passing your store, and I chanced to look up and see 
 the name of Mayhew. When a young man I was in 
 the Mexican war; I had a dear comrade of that name, 
 who fell at Buena Vista. We were in Clay's Kentucky 
 Riflemen. He often told me of a younger brother 
 
THE SILENT WITNESS 79 
 
 whom he left at home. Never do I see the name of 
 Mayhew without inquiring for a relationship with my 
 dear old friend and comrade. Was he of kin to you?" 
 
 " No, sir; surely not. I had no brother and no rela- 
 tive in the Mexican war, that I know of. " 
 
 " Ah! Pardon me, sir, for intruding." 
 
 " Don't mention it. Call again if you remain in 
 rown." 
 
 "Thank you; I may remain here some weeks and 
 may drop in on you when you are at leisure." 
 
 " Good-morning, sir. " 
 
 " Good-morning." 
 
 Mr. Weston Mayhew courteously bowed the gentle- 
 man out. Then he walked complacently the length 
 of his store half a dozen times. The faint chill, the 
 half suspicion that the guilty are apt to feel upon the 
 visit of a stranger, and which the merchant had distinctly 
 felt upon the appearance of Elias Lear, entirely van- 
 ished. He seemed to be a very harmless personage. 
 
 " I really hope that the soul of that unfortunate 
 Mayhew may rest in peace," chuckled the merchant to 
 himself, with a heavy attempt at a witticism. 
 
 Mr. Lear walked back to the hotel, calling at a book- 
 store on the way for a bottle of mucilage and some 
 sheets of stiff Bristol board. He went up to his room 
 with these, and locked the door. He took off his coat, 
 emptied the pocket of the fragments of paper and sat 
 down to the table. 
 
 The task of restoring a destroyed letter was a fam- 
 iliar one to him. He knew that it only required time 
 and patience. 
 
 In this case much time and much patience were re- 
 quired. There were at least fifty irregular pieces, some 
 as small as a ten-cent piece, and some torn with the 
 writing, so that the task of joining them was very diffi- 
 cult. As he progressed he discovered that at least three 
 pieces were missing. The places of these he supplied 
 with words, which he wrote in according to his idea of 
 
8o THE SILENT WITNESS 
 
 what the original was, gathered from the restored parts. 
 When the whole was joined together, as children join 
 a puzzle-map, he read it over with mingled feelings of 
 satisfaction and indignation. 
 
 The envelope was postmarked at Granby, three days 
 before, and addressed to " Miss June Gregory, Bard- 
 well. " 
 
 The letter read as follows: 
 
 GRANBY, August 7, 1877. 
 
 DEAR JUNE I almost despair of hearing from you. 
 Twice before have I written to you from here, and have 
 received no reply. 
 
 Let me repeat what I said to you in those letters. 
 Let me say it again. Let me pray that you will not 
 be so cruel as to keep silence longer. 
 
 Dear June, I confess my fault. I see now that I was 
 too headlong and rash with you. I see now that you 
 were right. You did not choose to be wooed in so 
 abrupt a way, and you resented it. I do not blame 
 you. 
 
 But tell me to come back! Give me just a little hope 
 if only a little that you will some day love me, 
 
 I left Bardwell suddenly, after a kind of quarrel with 
 Mr. Mayhew. I know not what he has said about me 
 since. But I have done nothing wrong; I assure you 
 that I have not. Do not you, June, believe an ill word 
 of me. 
 
 Most faithfully yours, 
 
 ERNEST MULFORD. 
 
 The detective locked up the restored letter in his 
 satchel. 
 
 " You are just like the common run of criminals, Mr. 
 Mayhew, " he said to himself. "You will furnish me 
 all the evidence against you that I need. All you need 
 is close and skillful watching. And that waste-basket 
 of yours is a treasure-house of information. I must 
 manage to get hold of it. " 
 
THE DETECTIVE AT WORK 8 1 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE DETECTIVE AT WORK. 
 
 THE skillful manipulations by which the detective 
 obtained possession of the merchant's waste-paper bas- 
 ket late one night and returned it early in the morning, 
 need not be particularly set forth. The coveted prize 
 was obtained by bribing the man who was entrusted 
 with a key over night, in order to sweep out the store 
 and set it to rights. If the means that Mr. Lear found 
 necessary to employ in order to obtain full and suffi- 
 cient evidence of the merchant's crime were not such 
 as all people would commend, it is, nevertheless, true 
 that they were such as he was accustomed to employ, 
 and by aid of which he had been remarkably success- 
 ful. And he felt perfectly justified in his course, it being 
 with him a favorite saying, " When you fight the Devil, 
 you must use his own weapons." 
 
 But it must not be supposed that this task was easily 
 or quickly accomplished. The detective had to move 
 slowly and cautiously, and he did not dare take any 
 risk by which Mr. Mayhew's suspicions might be 
 aroused. In roundabout ways he discovered who it 
 was that took care of the store; at what hours of the 
 night he was engaged in his task; next, that this man 
 secretly disliked Mr. Mayhew for what he called his 
 " blamed stinginess to me." The man was poor; and 
 while he would not permit the store to be robbed 
 through his connivance, he saw no harm in letting " the 
 gentleman at the tavern " take the useless waste-paper 
 for a few hours, especially since he paid him fifty dol- 
 lars for his agency in the matter. Nor did it trouble 
 Jim Blynn's conscience that he was required to make a 
 solemn promise never to divulge this transaction. 
 
 The basket was stealthily delivered to Mr. Lear at 
 the back door of the store, concealed in a large sack; 
 
 A Sharp Nighfs Work 6 
 
82 THE DETECTIVE AT WORK 
 
 by him it was conveyed to his room at the hotel, where, 
 with locked door, the detective was employed for four 
 hours in scrutinizing every piece of paper in the whole 
 bushel. Each morsel that bore writing like that upon 
 Ernest Mulford's restored letter, already in his posses- 
 sion, was carefully laid aside, and also numerous pieces 
 which bore a delicate female hand. This task per- 
 formed, and the multitude of precious fragments locked 
 in a drawer, the basket and its remaining worthless 
 contents were cautiously returned to Blynn. 
 
 But something further was necessary, Mr. Lear 
 thought, to prevent any suspicion from lingering in the 
 merchant's mind. Supposing that it should happen to 
 occur to Mayhew that the waste-basket was an unsafe 
 place for the numerous letters that he had stolen and 
 destroyed, even in their fragmentary condition sup- 
 posing that he should make a search and fail to find a 
 single piece, would he not be alarmed, and perhaps 
 evade justice by flight? Thinking of this possibility, 
 Jim Blynn was directed by the detective to empty out 
 the contents of the basket and burn them. 
 
 The empty basket quickly attracted Mayhew's atten- 
 tion that morning. He called Blynn, and inquired 
 what he knew about it. 
 
 " I threw out the old paper and burnt it, sir," was 
 the answer. " The basket was gettin' full." 
 
 " Who told you to do that? " 
 
 11 Nobody, sir." 
 
 " After this, you wait for orders before destroying 
 anything about here. Are you sure you burned all 
 the waste paper there? " 
 
 " Every bit of it, sir," lied Jim, promptly. 
 
 " Show me where you burned it. " 
 
 The merchant followed his man out in rear of the 
 store, and saw a black spot on the ground, with a little 
 heap of gray ashes and embers. 
 
 He was perfectly satisfied ! 
 
THE DETECTIVE AT WORK 83 
 
 " I ought to have burned those scraps myself, " he 
 muttered. " No matter; it is all right now." 
 
 So much time had the detective found it necessary 
 to occupy with the business of securing the torn-up 
 letters and envelopes, that it was now the third of Sep- 
 tember. As everybody in a place like Bardwell 
 inquires about everybody else's affairs, the continued 
 stay of Mr. Lear at the hotel naturally occasioned some 
 comment. He found it convenient and safe to continue 
 to bear the character which he had appeared in to the 
 landlord: a gentleman of leisure from the West, pass- 
 ing a vacation at ease, and remaining at Bardwell 
 because he found it a pleasant place. H'e made some 
 acquaintances, and by strolling and idling about per- 
 fectly sustained that character. He overcame his 
 repugnance to Weston Mayhew sufficiently to have an 
 occasional talk with him about indifferent things, and 
 surprised the merchant by exhibiting much ignorance 
 about business in general. 
 
 " The fellow is a greenhorn," said Mayhew to him- 
 self. " He don't look like it, but his talk plainly shows 
 it." 
 
 Almost another week was occupied by the detective 
 in the secrecy of his room in sorting out the torn frag- 
 ments, and putting them properly together. It was 
 emphatically a work of skill and patience; but he 
 finally had the satisfaction of reading in their restored 
 condition all the letters that Ernest had written to 
 June and others from Granby, as well as the one letter 
 mailed by her to him. Here was overwhelming proof 
 upon which Weston Mayhew could be convicted in a 
 District Court of robbing the mails, and sent to the 
 penitentiary. The sole piece of this kind of his rascal- 
 ity that was not known at this time, and which did not 
 transpire till after some stirring events yet to be 
 recounted had happened, was the forgery that he had 
 mailed to June in the name of Ernest Mulford, unsus- 
 pected by her. 
 
84 SHADOWED BY NIGHT 
 
 With the evidence now in his possession, Mr. Lear 
 sat down and seriously thought of what his next step 
 should be. 
 
 Should he make a complaint, and have Mayhew 
 promptly arrested? 
 
 Not yet. Ernest Mulford was a necessary witness ; 
 he must first go to Granby and secure him. 
 
 Should he not go at once? 
 
 He thought he should not be ready for some days 
 yet. Ernest's last letter from the waste-basket was 
 only a little more than a week old ; he did not think 
 there was immediate danger of his leaving there. 
 
 The detective in his casual talks with the landlord 
 and others had secured the gossip of the village as to 
 the merchant's wooing. It was reported that he visited 
 at Mr. Gregory's as often as two evenings in the week. 
 There could be no doubt that he was courting June. 
 
 But there was something in Mr. Mayhew's conduct 
 that Lear had not yet fathomed, and something that 
 puzzled him. He observed that on at least three dif- 
 ferent nights the merchant was absent from the hotel, 
 returning before breakfast. What did this mean? He 
 must find out. 
 
 He did find out; and a pretty discovery it was! 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SHADOWED BY NIGHT. 
 
 ELEVEN O'CLOCK at night of September I4th. The 
 detective was on the watch, as he had been for the last 
 three nights. Upon each of those nights he knew 
 that Weston Mayhew had retired to his room in the 
 hotel about ten o'clock. 
 
 But on this night the merchant went back to the 
 store after supper. At eleven o'clock he was still 
 there. The detective, lingering among the shadows 
 
SHADOWED BY NIGHT 85 
 
 of the great trees opposite, remained out of sight him- 
 self, but kept a close watch upon the store-door. 
 
 " If he stays in there all night," he reflected, " this 
 kind of thing will never do. I shall never find out 
 what deviltry he is up to." 
 
 The store-door at this instant was cautiously opened, 
 and Mr. Mayhew appeared. He locked the door, 
 looked carefully up and down the street, saw no one, 
 and then swiftly walked down a cross-street near by. 
 
 He went some distance on this street, and turned 
 down another. He met but two or three persons, and 
 was always careful to cross to the opposite side before 
 the one approaching was near enough to recognize 
 him. Skulking along in this way, in about twenty 
 minutes he had reached a cosy-looking cottage at the 
 southern outskirts of the village. 
 
 He paused in front of it, and looked all about, 
 Within a stone's throw of where he stood Elias Lear 
 was concealed behind the trunk of a great elm and 
 very safely concealed. 
 
 The detective saw Mr. Mayhew take up a few peb- 
 bles from the walk, and throw them against the 
 window. 
 
 The house had been quite dark, but upon this signal 
 a light appeared at a window. 
 
 The front door was opened in such a way as not to 
 disclose who was within. Mr. Mayhew quickly entered; 
 the door was closed again and locked. 
 
 The light reappeared, but now at the windows on 
 the side of the house. The light was soft, as if from a 
 lamp turned down. 
 
 Along this side ran a verandah, with steps at the end. 
 Two windows came down to within eighteen inches of 
 the floor of the verandah. Both were shuttered; one 
 was slightly raised, the night being warm. The cur- 
 tain was half raised. 
 
 At one glance the detective took in all these details. 
 He saw by the way the light came through the slats of 
 
86 SHADOWED BY NIGHT 
 
 the shutters that the curtain must be somewhat raised. 
 He had quickly removed his shoes, and creeping 
 stealthily along the verandah, lay at full length under 
 the window. He heard a murmur of voices within, 
 which told him that the window was a little raised. 
 
 Perfectly concealed in the shadow where he lay, he 
 could not have been discovered from the street, or even 
 from within the window, except by aid of a lamp. 
 
 Something more than voices he heard. The sound 
 of kissing, twice repeated, came plainly to his ear. 
 
 His position was painful, but he dared not take the 
 risk yet of sitting upright. Instead, he elevated his 
 shoulders so that his ear was on the level of the lower 
 part of the blind. 
 
 Then, not only voices, but words were plainly heard. 
 He listened, and drank in every syllable. 
 
 " O Weston, I'm so glad to see you again! " The 
 voice was that of a woman, soft and musical, but rather 
 loud. 
 
 " Well, Phebe," Mr. Mayhew replied, " Til believe it, 
 even if you don't let all the neighbors know it. " 
 
 " Forgive me, Weston; I'll speak lower. I always 
 feel so happy when you come, that I forget to be pru- 
 dent. Let me kiss you again. " 
 
 A significant sound indicated that she had done as 
 she wished. 
 
 " Well, how is everything to-night? Are we safe?" 
 
 " O y es > * g * everything ready when you let me 
 know that you were coming." 
 
 " Where's that domestic?" 
 
 " I let her go home till to-morrow. She won't be 
 back till seven. " 
 
 " And there's nobody about to look in on us, or 
 overhear what we say?" 
 
 " No, Weston; not a soul. Make yourself easy about 
 that." 
 
 " Has anything happened since I was here to make 
 you think anybody suspects us?" 
 
THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 87 
 
 " Not a thing. I believe our secret is perfectly 
 safe." 
 
 " Very good. Because if I had any reason to think 
 that I had been seen or known to come here, I can tell 
 you of a certain lady who would leave Bardwell im- 
 mediately." 
 
 A suppressed cry came from the woman. 
 
 " O Weston, dear Weston, you would not send me 
 away?" 
 
 " Indeed I would, Phebe; indeed I will, whenever I 
 discover that there is the least whisper about you and 
 me." 
 
 " You are so cruel! I don't believe you love me." 
 
 " Now, Phebe, don't be foolish! I love you enough 
 to satisfy any reasonable woman, and I will continue 
 to just so long as it is safe. But I tell you now, as I 
 have told you before, that our love must be in secret. 
 Let any living person know of it, and I'll send you off 
 without the slightest compunction." 
 
 A sound of sobbing reached the ear of the detective. 
 The conversation was suspended while it . continued; 
 but he heard the sound of Mr. Mayhew's feet as he 
 walked to and fro in the room. 
 
 An overpowering desire to see the two, as well as to 
 hear them, seized upon him. They were now absorbed 
 in themselves, and in the subject of their talk, so that 
 the attempt could be safely made. Mr. Lear raised his 
 eyes to the shutter, and looked through the slats. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE WOMAN IN THE CASE. 
 
 HE saw Weston Mayhew pacing up and down the 
 room, biting his nails, and frowning. 
 
 The apartment was elegantly furnished and carpeted. 
 Ornaments and bric-a-brac in profusion were there. An 
 upright piano stood in the corner. Beautiful oil paint- 
 
88 THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 
 
 ings decorated the walls. Everything that money and 
 taste could do to make a charming bower of this room, 
 had been done. A glimpse was had through an open 
 door of a luxuriously furnished bed-chamber. A gas 
 chandelier, hanging from the ceiling, was brilliant with 
 pendants; but the light was turned down. 
 
 A large, but perfectly proportioned woman, of about 
 thirty years, sat in one of the deep easy chairs. She 
 was drying her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and the 
 concealed watcher at once recognized her as a lady who 
 had been pointed out on the street to him as Mrs. 
 Phebe Bashford, a wealthy widow. She wore a rich 
 dress of blue silk, low in the neck and with short 
 sleeves, which harmonized with her dark beauty. She 
 had great masses of hair that was almost black, arranged 
 in coils upon her head, large dark eyes, regular and 
 handsome features. To men easily impressed by 
 female beauty, her smile was enchanting. Diamonds 
 glittered in her ears and upon her ringers. 
 
 Weston Mayhew passed in his walk near her. She 
 rose and threw her arms about his neck. He did not 
 repulse her; he stood there rather indifferently, while 
 the magnificent creature, overrunning with love and 
 emotion, clasped him in her arms, and laid her head on 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " Do forgive me, Weston," she pleaded. " I 
 know I vex you by my importunities, but I can't help 
 it. I want you all the time; I want you all to myself." 
 
 He sat down in the chair that she had just vacated. 
 She threw herself on an ottoman at his feet, resting her 
 white arms on his knees, and looking pleadingly up 
 into his face. 
 
 " Then behave yourself," he said. " Be reasonable. 
 Take what you can get of me, and be thankful for it. 
 You ought to be glad that I don't repudiate you alto- 
 gether." 
 
 Her bosom heaved convulsively; her eyelids shook 
 with quick-springing tears. 
 
THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 89 
 
 " Now, see here, Phebe," said Mr. Mayhew, pettishly, 
 " you are putting in rather more of the doleful to-night 
 than I can stand. What is it that you complain of?" 
 
 " I don't complain, Weston; I won't." 
 
 " But you do whenever I come here. You know 
 that I come to enjoy myself with you, and I hate 
 these tears and wailings. Haven't you got everything 
 here you want? books, fine furniture, music, a servant 
 to wait on you?" 
 
 "Yes, Weston; but - " 
 
 " Don't I give you money enough? Here is some 
 
 now." 
 
 He drew a wad of bank-notes from his vest pocket 
 and threw it into her corsage. 
 
 " You are too generous with me, Weston. I don't 
 need - " 
 
 " And you have diamonds, haven't you? and fine 
 dresses?" 
 
 "Yes; but - " 
 
 " Don't the ladies call on you? Are you not petted, 
 and flattered, and invited out to parties and teas be- 
 cause you are supposed to be Mrs. Phebe Bashford, the 
 rich California widow? " 
 
 She assented by her silence. 
 
 " Some of the men are making sheep's-eyes at you, 
 ain't they? It wouldn't be a bad idea, Phebe, if you 
 find one you like, and rich enough to relieve me of any 
 further responsibility, to marry him. " 
 
 Her dark eyes flashed. 
 
 " Weston Mayhew! " she cried, indignantly. 
 
 " Oh, suit yourself, Phebe; I don't care. I find it 
 pleasant enough to pass some hours with you in secret 
 every week, when you won't go into your heroics. 
 What do you want? tell me frankly." 
 
 " I will. I don't like this stolen love. There is a 
 sting to it; it leaves a sorrow behind." 
 
 " Now you're getting poetical and romantic, Phebe. 
 
90 THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 
 
 I tell you, the only kind of love that can exist between 
 you and me is just this kind. So make the best of it. " 
 
 She shuddered, but went on, with an effort: 
 
 " I meet you on the street, and I have to bow po- 
 litely to you, as I would to any one else. I meet you 
 at parties, and you have formal compliments for me, 
 just the same as for any other woman. Nobody 
 dreams that I have a better right to you than any other 
 woman can have. The other night at Mrs. Hamlin's 
 party you took that pert minx, June Gregory, out to 
 supper, and waited on her home after the party was 
 over. How do you suppose it made me feel to see 
 such things? " 
 
 " I don't know, Phebe. I almost said, ' I don't 
 care.' And I don't much. I repeat what I said 
 before, you had better make the best of it, be reason- 
 able, and enjoy what you can get out of me." 
 
 Mr. Mayhew stuck out his legs, and yawned. 
 
 " I want more than you give me." 
 
 " Indeed ! Well, tell me what you want, that you 
 haven't got." 
 
 Her reply came as distinctly to the ear of the 
 detective at the shutter as had the previous con- 
 versation. 
 
 " I want you to take me home to you, and ack- 
 nowledge me to the world for what I am your 
 lawful wife!" 
 
 He heard, and he thrust her violently from him. 
 She clasped her hands and looked beseechingly into 
 his face. 
 
 " Oh, that's your game, is it, Mrs. Bashford? " he 
 said. " My wife, are you? How would you go to 
 work to prove it?" 
 
 " We were lawfully married," she sobbed. 
 
 " Grant it. In California, more than ten years 
 ago, by a magistrate. You've told me a dozen times 
 that you never got a certificate. " 
 
 She was silent. 
 
THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 9 1 
 
 " Is that true? " 
 
 " I have told you so." 
 
 " I say, is it true? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, with her face turned from 
 him. 
 
 " Pretty fix you'd be in, then! " he scornfully said. 
 " Claim to be married to Weston Mayhew, indeed! 
 the biggest man in Bardwell. No certificate to prove 
 it. If the witnesses are living, which is doubtful, they 
 are three thousand miles away; upon my indignant 
 denial, you'd be warned out of town, as an adven- 
 turess."" 
 
 " O, nothing could exceed your cruelty! Why did 
 I not die, instead of following you here? " 
 
 " I sometimes think that it would have been in better 
 taste," the man brutally replied. " But say we were 
 married. You know that you consented to keep it 
 secret in California; and you know why. You did the 
 wooing, madam; you were love-crazy after me. I was 
 quite indifferent to the whole business. I consented 
 to a marriage, to save your scruples; but only on condi- 
 tion that the thing should be kept perfectly dark. Well, 
 we lived there at Yerba Buena about as we have lived 
 here. When I got ready to come East, I made an 
 ample provision there for you and your boy, and bade 
 you good-by, hoping and expecting never to see you 
 again. But, two years ago, you came to Bardwell." 
 
 " I could not help it," the unhappy woman pleaded, 
 amid her fast-falling tears. " My darling boy died, my 
 precious West! O, how like you he looked and acted! 
 and I could not stay there alone. I was hungering for 
 love; I wanted you. I came here; you know I have 
 obeyed you; you know how closely the secret has 
 been guarded, and you know how grateful I have been 
 for all that you have done for me. But I want Oh, 
 how I crave to have you publicly acknowledge me as 
 your wife." 
 
Q2 THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 
 
 " Well, then, madam, we might as well have a plain 
 understanding as not. I never will. " 
 
 " Never?" 
 
 " No, never!" 
 
 She did not faint, nor shriek, nor plead. She looked 
 at him in an apathy of despair. 
 
 " You will kill me," she said. " But I love you well 
 enough yet to die for you." 
 
 " You needn't die yet awhile," was his answer. 
 " Phebe, I wasn't joking a minute ago, when I said 
 that the correct thing would be for you to get married. 
 You see " 
 
 She gave a fierce little cry, such as a wounded lion- 
 ess might utter. 
 
 " Oh, well, it's all one to me. I only mention it, 
 because the time is coming when such an arrangement 
 would probably be more comfortable to you. The fact 
 is, I am very likely to be married myself before long. " 
 
 Her eyes, her whole face, were eloquent with rage 
 and passion. 
 
 " What!" she cried. " To June Gregory?" 
 
 " Yes; you might as well know." 
 
 "You won't dare do it!" 
 
 "Indeed I will, my dear. You are certainly in no 
 condition to prevent it." 
 
 "I'll kill her!" 
 
 He laughed in her face. 
 
 " I'll kill myself! " she cried, with a flood of tears. 
 
 Weston Mayhew put an arm about the waist of the 
 enraged, sobbing woman, and raised her up. He 
 took her handkerchief and wiped her eyes; he smoothed 
 her tumbled hair; he even called her " Queen Phebe," 
 the pet name he had given her of old, and once he 
 kissed her lips. She was won back to gentle words by 
 his tenderness; she smiled through her tears, and put 
 a well-rounded arm about his neck. 
 
 Let us pity her; let us not condemn her. There 
 
UNDER THE SPELL 93 
 
 is no more sorrowful spectacle in the world than that 
 of the woman who loves too well. 
 
 Learning every word of this strange interview, the 
 detective knew that something of the highest impor- 
 tance was yet to come. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 UNDER THE SPELL. 
 
 A CLEAR chime from the ormolu clock on the 
 marble shelf had some time before marked the hour of 
 midnight. 
 
 " Are you tired, dear Weston?" the woman asked. 
 
 " Yes; and, to tell the whole truth, devilish hungry, 
 too." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear you say that," she said, clapping 
 her hands gleefully. " I thought I should please you, 
 Weston. I had Emilia cook a chicken and make some 
 biscuit for you. Wait a very few minutes while I go 
 and set the table, and make a cup of tea. " 
 
 She left the room. The detective saw the merchant 
 take two or three hasty turns about the room. An 
 aggravating hint had arisen out of the conversation 
 just had, and Mr. Mayhew was tormented by it to 
 that extent that he began to soliloquize about it. 
 
 " I wonder if the jade really has a marriage certifi- 
 cate?" 
 
 The concealed listener had noted the hesitation with 
 which the woman denied having such a paper. And 
 he had observed the suspicion that at the instant 
 showed itself in Mayhew's face. 
 
 " It is just like a woman to get such a thing secretly, 
 keep it quietly and lie about it when asked. I'd give 
 one thousand dollars this moment to be certain about 
 it." 
 
 Another turn about the room and the merchant mut- 
 tered an expression of satisfaction. 
 
94 UNDER THE SPELL 
 
 " That's it that's it! By the Lord Harry, I'll make 
 her tell." 
 
 The woman appeared in the doorway at this moment, 
 smiling and holding out her jeweled white hand. 
 
 " Come, Weston," she said. " All ready." 
 
 " Wait a moment, Phebe," Mr. Mayhew exclaimed. 
 " There's something important I forgot to tell you. Sit 
 down here in this chair that's it. Do you remember 
 the view from the windows of your sitting-room in the 
 California home the view of the distant mountain 
 peaks, with their tops covered with snow, and the 
 beautiful effect of sunrise and sunset upon them, 
 
 and " 
 
 He was sitting directly before her, looking stead- 
 ily into her eyes, talking straight on, without break or 
 pause. She seemed uneasy just after he had begun, 
 and struggled as if to rise from the chair. She could 
 not. All her faculties were under the control of the 
 man before her, who was exerting over her his mes- 
 meric powers, to which she was susceptible in a re- 
 markable degree. A few passes before her face with 
 his hands completed the mysterious spell a spell the 
 nature of which science cannot yet define. She sighed, 
 slightly yawned, her eyes closed, and she was in a per- 
 fect mesmeric trance. Weston Mayhew smiled; he 
 knew he could direct her thoughts and speech into any 
 channel that he chose. 
 
 " You said you were married," he pronounced in a 
 low but distinct voice. He took her hands, so that 
 the influence might be more positive. 
 
 " Yes, I was," the sleeper uttered. 
 
 " But you had no certificate?" 
 
 " I did. I went to the magistrate one day and got 
 it; and he got the witnesses to sign it. Weston did 
 not know it, but I got it." 
 
 " You have not got it now? f \ 
 
 " I have got it now." 
 
 " Where is it? " 
 
UNDER THE SPELL 95 
 
 She struggled in her sleep; she spoke through her 
 shut teeth. 
 
 " I never told where it is kept. That is my secret." 
 
 " Where is it? " was repeated in the same cold, calm 
 voice. 
 
 She hesitated again. Her face worked. She did 
 not answer. 
 
 " Where is the marriage certificate? " 
 
 The answer came reluctantly, but quite distinct: 
 
 " In Shakespeare's Plays, at the beginning of Timon 
 of Athens." 
 
 Mr. Mayhew walked over to a bookcase with glass 
 doors, selected the volume, opened it to the place indi- 
 cated, and there found the paper. He carefully exam- 
 ined it; then, to the surprise of the watcher, instead of 
 putting it in his pocket, he shut it up again in the book. 
 
 But his meaning quickly occurred to the detective. 
 Should he then abstract it, Mrs. Bashford (as we will still 
 call her) might discover its loss, and be led to do some- 
 thing desperate. He could secure it any time, now 
 that he knew where it was, and he would wait until 
 the last visit he proposed to make to this house, imme- 
 diately before his marriage with June Gregory, and 
 then secure and destroy the obnoxious paper. 
 
 So Mr. Mayhew reasoned, and so the detective inter- 
 preted his forbearance on the spot. 
 
 The merchant came back to the subject in the chair, 
 still held in the chains of her trance, and, with a few 
 passes with his hands about her face, set her free. She 
 opened her eyes, stared around her, and seemed 
 bewildered. 
 
 "Why, what has happened?" she cried. "What 
 am I sitting down here for? " 
 
 " I said that I was tired as well as hungry, when you 
 asked me," replied Mayhew, coolly. u But I did not 
 suppose you were going to sit down right here after 
 calling me to supper, and go to sleep." 
 
g6 UNDER THE SPELL 
 
 Her laughter rang a clear, merry peal through the 
 room. 
 
 " Did I really do that ? Why, what got into me ? 
 I didn't know I was sleepy ; don't believe I was. It's 
 very stupid of me. But come out to tea, and don't say 
 anything more about it." 
 
 The hypocrite placed his arm about her, simulating 
 an affection that might deceive her. How willing she 
 was to be deceived! She placed her clasped hands on 
 his shoulder and reached up for a kiss, murmuring the 
 words : 
 
 " Be good to me, Weston; Oh, do be good to me ! " 
 
 The detective's fingers were passed through between 
 the slats of the blinds ; the blind was unhasped, the 
 window raised, and he stepped lightly into the vacant 
 room. In not more than one minute he had secured 
 the certificate from the volume, and was out again on 
 the verandah, re-closing the window and the blinds. 
 He walked to the steps and put on his shoes. He was 
 stiff and aching from the constraint of the position he 
 had kept so long ; but he was filled with the sense of 
 his triumph. 
 
 " I hope Madam will not look for that paper before I 
 confront Mr. Weston Mayhew with it," he reflected. 
 " If she should, it can't be helped; she shall have justice, 
 anyway." 
 
 Not until he had gained his room at the hotel, locked 
 the door, and lit the gas, did he examine his prize. It 
 read thus : 
 
 State of California, > 
 
 County of Mendocino, > S! Be it remembered, that 
 
 on this Qth day of November, 
 
 A. D. 1865, at Yerba Buena, I, the undersigned, a 
 magistrate of said county, have joined in the estate of 
 matrimony, according to the laws of said State, Weston 
 Mayhew, merchant, aged 36, and Phebe Bashford, 
 spinster, aged 20. CARLOS NOGALES. 
 
 Witnesses: PETER BLUNT, ALONZO CANALIS. 
 
PERVERSE FATES 97 
 
 " You are fast getting to the end of your tether, Mr. 
 Mayhew," he said, as he put away the certificate. 
 
 The detective went to bed, but the exciting events of 
 the night kept him awake. When he did at last fall 
 asleep, his slumber was light. In the hour next before 
 daylight he was drowsing, rather than sleeping. He 
 heard footfalls outside. They passed his door and 
 went on along the hall. He rose, unclosed his door 
 without noise, and listened. The second door from his 
 on the other side was opened and closed. It was Wes- 
 ton Mayhew's room. Like a thief in the night he had 
 skulked back from Mrs. Bashford's just before the 
 dawn. 
 
 " I have sometimes pitied the men that I have de- 
 livered to justice," mused the detective. "But there 
 will be no pity for you, you cold-blooded scoundrel!" 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PERVERSE FATES. 
 
 THE three days next following were days of deep 
 thought and anxiety to Elias Lear. 
 
 He was or he thought he was master of the 
 situation. But his course was not exactly clear to 
 him. 
 
 The whole experience and history of his detective 
 life had been one repeated lesson against precipitation. 
 He had learned not to frighten away the bird before it 
 was fairly in the net. 
 
 He was strongly tempted to go straight to Emmanuel 
 Gregory, although a stranger to him, and, exhibiting 
 the marriage certificate, convict Weston Mayhew of 
 intended bigamy, and expose him to the scorn and 
 detestation of the whole village. 
 
 We know now that had he done so June would have 
 been instantly rescued from the clutch of this human 
 A Sharp Nighfs Work 7 
 
98 PERVERSE FATES 
 
 hyena, and the stirring events of the night of Septem- 
 ber 1 8th, yet to be detailed at length, would have been 
 averted. 
 
 But the one fatal item of information that the detect- 
 ive did not obtain, and which it was hardly possible 
 for him to obtain in advance, was, that the wedding 
 was to take place on that evening. 
 
 In fact, the invitations were never issued till the 
 evening of the i/th. Mr. Mayhew had grown suspi- 
 cious and anxious about Mrs. Bashford. The incident 
 of the certificate had alarmed him. Another incident 
 still more alarmed him. He had set in his own mind 
 the night of the i6th as the time that he would make a 
 last visit to that house, and by stealth and stratagem 
 obtain the certificate. He went, as usual, in the dead 
 of night; he threw gravel against the window, but his 
 signal was not answered. The house continued dark. 
 He ventured to try the door, but it was locked. He 
 went away in a most unpleasant frame of mind. 
 
 What did it mean? Was Mrs. Bashford sulky, and 
 so unmindful of his signal? Or had she gone away 
 somewhere, on some mission of mischief to himself? 
 
 Whichever it was, he resolved that his wedding 
 should take place quickly, and with as little notice as 
 possible. By what lies he satisfied June and her par- 
 ents that there was need of great haste, as well as 
 secrecy, need not be related. The preparations went 
 on, quietly and prosperously; the Gregorys proud and 
 delighted that June should wed the foremost man of 
 the village, the more easily overlooked the strangeness 
 of his anxiety for dispatch and silence as to an event 
 which is commonly ushered in with joy and publicity. 
 
 Mr. Mayhew had also a lurking uneasiness in regard 
 to his crimes against the mails. He began to dread 
 the sudden reappearance of Ernest Mulford in the vil- 
 lage. He began to say to himself that he was run- 
 ning serious risks, and that he had better put an end 
 to them. 
 
PERVERSE FATES 99 
 
 He was venturing everything in his headstrong pas- 
 sion for June. And, as Mr. Lear afterward shrewdly 
 guessed, he had made his arrangements not to return 
 to Bardwell. He had quietly turned his property into 
 money, or easily handled securities; even his store he 
 had sold by correspondence to parties in New York, 
 who knew him and the stock, and who bought upon 
 the inventory furnished, to be delivered on the iQth. 
 He had forwarded his resignation as postmaster. And 
 poor June! She little thought, her blind and deluded 
 parents never imagined, that she was being sold to a 
 modern Bluebeard, who was proposing for her and for 
 himself an exile of thousands of miles, from which 
 there would be no return! 
 
 Thus it will easily be seen how the detective, with 
 the whole community, was misled in regard to the 
 time of the wedding. When Mr. Lear was saying to 
 himself that there was plenty of time yet for him to 
 publish the marriage certificate to all Bardwell, the 
 wedding that was to make Weston Mayhew a bigamist, 
 and June Gregory a forlorn, deceived bride, was-on the 
 eve of being celebrated. 
 
 But on the morning of the i8th Mr. Lear deter- 
 mined that the time was ripe for his own thunderbolt 
 to be hurled at the guilty man, and for Ernest Mul- 
 ford's vindication. 
 
 He resolved to go to Granby, without letting his 
 mission or his whereabouts be known. He would find 
 Ernest; he would have affidavits drawn up, and 
 warrants obtained; they would return with a marshal, 
 and Mr. Mayhew would be arrested on so many 
 separate charges that it would not be possible for him 
 to obtain bail. He would be jailed, convicted in due 
 time, and consigned to the penitentiary. Ernest's 
 vindication would follow, as a matter of course; explana- 
 tions between him and June could not fail to make 
 them lovers; and Mrs. Bashford's true story should be 
 made public although he rather expected that the 
 
IOO THE TELEGRAM 
 
 infatuated woman would break her heart over her 
 graceless husband in a felon's cell. 
 
 All this the detective planned as he took the cars at 
 Bardwell for Granby on the morning of the i8th. 
 " Man proposes God disposes. " We have seen the 
 untoward result. The astounding discovery that the 
 wedding at Mr. Gregory's was to take place that very 
 night; the breathless race against time; the madden- 
 ing failure, when casualty had been piled upon casualty, 
 and fate, time and accident all seemed aiding the 
 wicked and overwhelming the innocent these things 
 have been sufficiently related. At half-past nine 
 o'clock of that night the contest was apparently over; 
 the fight was lost! The detective lay sick at the little 
 inn at Granby; Ernest Mulford, weary, beaten, fainting, 
 was making his revelation to his relatives and their 
 guests, horror stricken at the mansion, and the triumph- 
 ant bigamist and his cruelly deceived bride were 
 speeding westward from Bardwell on their wedding 
 j<5urney, from which Weston Mayhew expected that 
 there would be no return! 
 
 But the night was not yet gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE TELEGRAM. 
 
 DISTRESS, agitation, curiosity pervaded the Gregory 
 mansion. With the startling arrival of Ernest Mulford, 
 and with the tidings that he bore, all the joyous 
 festivities were instantly suspended. A very painful 
 awkwardness began to prevail among the guests. 
 Either a great woe or a great fright and scandal were 
 impending over this family, and at this most inoppor- 
 tune of all hours. The guests sadly began to realize 
 that they were in the way. By twos and threes they 
 got ready and took their departure, most of them 
 refraining from bidding the host and hostess good-night. 
 
THE TELEGRAM ,..,..,, T,QI 
 
 Poor Mrs. Gregory sat rocking' to' arid' fr'o' and wringing 
 her hands, moaning, " O June ! O my dear lost June ! " 
 Mr. Gregory stood in perfect bewilderment, hardly able 
 to comprehend the full force of the blow. A few 
 intimate friends had remained; some of the ladies were 
 endeavoring to soothe Mrs. Gregory, and three or four 
 of the men-folk were standing about, anxious to do 
 something, but at a loss what to do. 
 
 Ernest Mulford's overstrained system seemed to have 
 given way. The fiery energy that had thus far borne 
 him up had halted beneath the shock of failure; and 
 when the will faltered, nerves and muscles gave way. 
 He sat listlessly, his eyes fixed on the floor, paying no 
 heed to any one present. 
 
 At this juncture Dr. Eldridge stepped forward. The 
 doctor was a sleek, rotund person, fond of society and 
 good cheer, but well skilled in his profession. 
 
 " This is most extraordinary, Mr. Mulford," he said. 
 " Have you proof of what you say? " 
 
 " Full proof," said Ernest, in a voice hardly above a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Is it not possible that you wrongly accuse Mr. 
 Mayhew of having a living wife before the marriage of 
 to-night?" 
 
 " The certificate of his marriage to Mrs. Phebe 
 Bashford is in my pocket. She will corroborate it." 
 
 " O the villain! " Mrs. Gregory moaned. " Right 
 here among us, and he kept it secret, so he could 
 destroy our precious June forever. Now I see why he 
 insisted on being so hasty and so quiet about the 
 wedding. " 
 
 " It is extremely awkward and distressing," the doc- 
 tor said. " And I'm afraid we can do nothing at pres- 
 ent. Mr. Mayhew and his bride are now well on their 
 way to New York. I don't see how he can be appre- 
 hended. We will have to wait till they return. It 
 will be a dreadful thing for any one to break the news 
 
10?. THE TELEGRAM 
 
 to June; but she'wi'il have to know it then, when her 
 when Mr. Mayhew is arrested." 
 
 Ernest opened his heavy eyes and looked up. 
 
 " If we wait till that scoundrel appears again in 
 Bardwell before we arrest him," he said, " we shall 
 wait a long time. None of us will ever see him here 
 again. Aunt Jerusha, you will never see June again 
 if he is not overtaken. He will go to the ends of the 
 earth with her." 
 
 There was a fresh burst of sobbing from Mrs. 
 Gregory. 
 
 " O, Emmanuel, Ernest, can't you overtake them?" 
 
 " The villain has made every preparation for this 
 flight," the young man went on. " He has sold his busi- 
 ness here to New York people, who will be here to- 
 morrow to take charge of it. He has converted all his 
 large property into cash and securities, which I doubt 
 not he has on his person and in his trunk." 
 
 " Can't we telegraph to arrest him?" Mr. Gregory 
 asked. " I am willing to do anything to reach the 
 monster and to secure our poor child*. It is a judgment 
 upon me, for my eagerness to get wealth and position 
 for June, and for believing such shocking lies of you, 
 Ernest." And the speaker groaned in his distress. 
 
 " Don't reproach yourself, uncle; almost everybody 
 has been deceived and blinded with you. Yes, we 
 can and will do something yet! I am bruised in body 
 and tortured in mind; had I arrived here in time to 
 get the clutches of the law on the man whom you 
 justly call a monster, to save June and satisfy her that I 
 have been foully wronged, and that she and I have been 
 separated through the machinations of scheming vil- 
 lainy had I come in time for all this, I say, I should 
 now be abed, with the doctor here attending to me. 
 As it is, I must go on; I will not falter in this pursuit 
 till I succeed or till I perish! Weak and sick as I 
 am, I have a plan already formed in my mind; if there 
 
THE TELEGRAM 1 03 
 
 had been the losing of any time in it by talking with 
 you here, I should not have delayed here a minute." 
 
 He tottered to the sofa, threw himself down, and 
 continued to talk. 
 
 " I must try to rest a little, while I tell you what is 
 to be done. Doctor, get a time-table; see if this train 
 that has just left with Weston Mayhew and June stops 
 at Randolph." 
 
 " I have a table in my pocket-book," was the answer 
 Yes, here it is; Randolph, 10:10." 
 
 "And at Beaverton?" 
 
 " Beaverton, 11 130," read the doctor. 
 
 " That will do, Doctor; write a telegram with all 
 speed to the station-police at Randolph, to arrest May- 
 hew. Make it full enough, and strong enough, and 
 sign uncle's name to it. " 
 
 Some of Ernest's spirit had infused itself into those 
 about him. 
 
 " Yes, and I'll take it right over to the office," eag- 
 erly said Mr. Gregory. " There's a horse and buggy 
 all ready in the barn, that I had hitched up to do 
 errands to-night. Doctor Eldridge lends it." 
 
 The doctor produced a blank from his capacious 
 pocket-book, and wrote the dispatch. Ernest was 
 dozing, but the loud tones of the doctor, as he read 
 what he had written, aroused him. 
 
 " Take it over, uncle, and see that the operator puts 
 it right through. What's the time?" 
 
 14 Twenty minutes to ten." 
 
 " There's half an hour, then. But make haste, and 
 wait for an answer. Come back at once when you 
 get it." 
 
 Mr. Gregory hurried away. 
 
 " I hope it'll do the business," said the doctor. " But 
 whether it does or no, you've got to go to bed at once, 
 Mr. Mulford. You are feverish; where's your pulse?" 
 
 " No bed for me to-night, Dr. Eldridge." 
 
 " But you've got to rest, you must have sleep." 
 
104 AFTER THE MARRIAGE 
 
 " I'm going to get the dust brushed off from me, 
 and have some cold water on my head. Aunty, get 
 me some kind of a coat to put on in place of this, that 
 is almost ripped off of me. And please make me 
 some coffee, hot and strong; I shall want it when I 
 wake up. " 
 
 "You won't wake up till daylight," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " I can tell you one thing: I won't go to sleep 
 unless you promise, on your honor, that you will wake 
 me up the moment my uncle comes back." 
 
 "Well, I promise," said the doctor, seeing that 
 opposition was useless. 
 
 After his ablution and the use of the brush, with 
 some changes in his torn garments, Ernest lay down 
 again and was instantly lost in sleep. He was awak- 
 ened by the doctor, in forty minutes, and he heard his 
 uncle groan : 
 
 " It's no use. We can't stop them! " 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AFTER THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 THE ceremony had been performed at the Gregory 
 mansion; the vows interchanged that bound the man 
 of forty-eight to the maiden of nineteen, for life; the 
 congratulations had been spoken, the collation disposed 
 of, amid light, laughter and flowers; and as the time 
 grew pressing the farewells were said, the elaborate 
 toilets of the bride and groom were exchanged for 
 traveling costumes, and Mr. Weston and June entered 
 the carriage that was to carry them to the station. 
 There was a chorus of God-speeds, a shower of rice, 
 and a volley of old shoes sent after the couple; and 
 then the two were alone together. 
 
 The first moment when the newly-married couple 
 are alone! it is a serious one. 
 
AFTER THE MARRIAGE 105 
 
 When the minister had pronounced the two man 
 and wife, and congratulated them, the groom saluted 
 the unresisting lips of his bride. 
 
 Now, in the solitude of the carriage, on that short 
 ride to the station, he took her hand, he put his arm 
 about her waist, and sought to draw her to him. He 
 breathed in her ear the impassioned words, " My dar- 
 ling wife." 
 
 She turned her face from him; she would not permit 
 him to kiss her lips again. He had to be content with 
 pressing his to her cheek. 
 
 He heard the sound of her sobbing; he felt the con- 
 vulsive throbbing of her form. And he leaned back 
 in the cushions of the carriage, and was supremely 
 content. " It is," he thought, " but the natural aud 
 usual exhibition of maiden modesty. She is also 
 grieved at leaving her home and friends for the first 
 time. Patience, Weston Mayhew! You have fairly 
 won the prize; treat her tenderly now, and she will 
 soon and gladly come to your arms." 
 
 So he thought; and until the carriage drove up to 
 the Bardwell station his arm remained around her, and 
 more than once he whispered, " My darling wife!" 
 
 She did not turn her head, nor yield to his caresses 
 or endearing words. What spell possessed her? 
 What were her thoughts in that hour? 
 
 She had wedded the richest and the foremost man 
 in Bardwell. She had become the envy of the unmar- 
 ried part of its women; she had satisfied the ambition 
 of her simple foster parents; she had thought to satisfy 
 herself. 
 
 Had she done it? 
 
 Alas! now, in the first hour of her wifehood, when 
 the glare and glitter, the music and the excitement of 
 the evening were things of the past, and she was 
 brought sternly face to face with the man whom she 
 had but just vowed to love, honor and cherish till 
 death did them part she bitterly confessed to herself 
 
106 AFTER THE MARRIAGE 
 
 that she did not love him, never had loved him, and 
 never could. 
 
 The story of her wooing and winning was simple 
 enough, and might well be imagined from what has 
 been told. She had been, as she thought, rudely 
 repulsed in her effort to be reconciled to Ernest 
 Mulford. The seeming repulse had bitterly humiliated 
 her, as it would have humiliated any woman. Her 
 pride was wounded; and when, just at that time, Mr. 
 Mulford made his first advances, she was in the mood 
 to encourage them, and thus to show Ernest Mulford 
 and all others that her affections need not go begging. 
 For Weston Mayhew personally she had never enter- 
 tained the very first spark of genuine affection. Indeed, 
 how could it be, that this young, lovely, winsome 
 creature, could love this gross and sensual being, with 
 all his years, and even with his riches? She was over- 
 come by wounded pride, by the appeals of her parents, 
 by the perseverance of the suitor, with the golden 
 prizes that he held out to her. With Ernest Mulford 
 forgotten, or remembered only to be revenged upon, 
 she was in that condition described by the poet: 
 
 " Women, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
 And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. " 
 
 They descended from the carriage, in the glare of the 
 station lamps. She took his offered arm and accom- 
 panied him to the waiting-room. Her face was white 
 and fixed. It would have been awful to see for any 
 person who well knew her the rigid, hopeless face of 
 that beautiful girl, as the conviction rushed upon her 
 mind that she had sacrificed herself for life ! 
 
 Yet she faced the future that she had chosen for her- 
 self; faced it bravely, if desperately. 
 
 Mr. Mayhew had already secured tickets for New 
 York, and checks for the four large trunks were 
 obtained. The train came in on time; and Ernest 
 Mulford, bitterly reflecting later in the evening, was not 
 
IO8 AFTER THE MARRIAGE 
 
 comforted by the thought that, had he remained upon 
 this train, he would have intercepted the pair at Bard- 
 well, and saved all the exhaustion and peril of the night. 
 
 They took their seats in one of the cars, and the train 
 sped on its way. 
 
 The cars were filled. Mr. Mayhew, lost in the con- 
 templation of his triumph and dimly forming plans for 
 the future, lay back in the seat, and, possessing himself 
 of June's hand, imagined himself happy. He tried to 
 engage her in conversation, She answered in mono- 
 syllables and looked out of the window. 
 
 As the first hour of the journey neared its end, the 
 whistle screamed for Randolph. The train slowed up; 
 the bell clanged; and the cars came to a stop at the 
 station. 
 
 There was the bustle of passengers entering and 
 leaving the train; there were the cries of hackmen and 
 hotel-runners, and the rush of escaping steam from 
 the engine. June watched the flitting panorama out- 
 side, and listened to the cries, as some diversion from 
 her own repressed misery. Her face was still turned 
 from her husband. She became conscious that a tall 
 man with a stick in his hand and a badge on his 
 breast had stopped by their seat, and was conversing 
 in low tones with Mr. Mayhew. 
 
 She could not hear their conversation. If she had 
 heard it, the following would have been its purport: 
 
 " Mr. Mayhew you know me, don't you? " 
 
 " Ah yes! Mr. Jackman, the officer. What do 
 you wish? " 
 
 "Who is this with you? " 
 
 "My wife, sir." 
 
 " I thought so. I've got a very unpleasant duty to 
 perform, Mr. Mayhew. I have a telegram to arrest 
 you. The train only stops five minutes; come at once, 
 with the lady." 
 
AN ESCAPE IC>9 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 AN ESCAPE. 
 
 " LET me see your telegram," said Mayhcw. The 
 officer handed it to him; he read it, as follows: 
 
 BARD WELL, Sept. 1 8, 9:50 p. M. 
 Station Police, Randolph: 
 
 Arrest Weston Mayhew; just left here on train; girl 
 with him; charge, bigamy. Will come on next train, 
 with warrant and officer. 
 
 EMMANUEL GREGORY. 
 
 The man had, at least, wonderful self-control. Now, 
 when the dreaded thunderbolt at the last moment had 
 descended upon him, he never quailed nor flinched. 
 He neither paled nor flushed, nor did the hand shake 
 that held the paper. 
 
 But he thought quickly, and his plan was instantly 
 taken. 
 
 " It's a very unpleasant business for me, Mr. May- 
 hew," said the officer, in apology. "I hope there's 
 some mistake about it. But you can explain it in the 
 morning, when the warrant comes. Please hasten, sir; 
 we haven't more than two minutes." 
 
 Weston Mayhew glanced at his wife. She was 
 looking, without the least expression of interest, at 
 the officer; she evidently had heard nothing of his 
 talk. 
 
 " Excuse me a moment, June," said Mayhew; " I 
 have a little business with this gentleman." 
 
 He rose and followed Mr. Jackman toward the car 
 door. 
 
 " I don't want the lady disturbed," he explained. 
 " Now, sir, I'll talk fast. You know me well, don't 
 you, and have known me for years? " 
 
IIO AN ESCAPE 
 
 " Yes, to be sure, Mr. Mayhew; and I trust you 
 will " 
 
 " Am I the kind of person that you are in the 
 habit of detaining on an irresponsible telegram?" 
 
 " Why, no, Mr. Mayhew. We have to be very 
 careful of taking such risks; but it was known here 
 that you were to marry Mr. Gregory's daughter, and 
 the telegram comes from him; so you see " 
 
 "It does not come from him!" He spoke with 
 assured sternness and positiveness. " It is a base fabri- 
 cation, the forgery of a worthless clerk whom I dis- 
 charged a few weeks ago. He had the presumption to 
 seek the hand of that lady, who is now my wife. He 
 has done this out of revenge, to embarrass and annoy 
 us both on our wedding journey. He would not dare 
 to return to Bardwell if I were there, and I shall not 
 find him there when I return. Mr. Gregory to send 
 such a thing, indeed! Why, less than two hours ago 
 I took his daughter yonder from his house, with the 
 congratulations of himself and his wife." 
 
 The officer hesitated. 
 
 " Is it Ernest Mulford that you mean, sir? " 
 
 " Yes. That rascal robbed me, and now tries to 
 annoy and humiliate me and mine." 
 
 " We heard something of his conduct, sir." 
 
 " You'll detain us at your peril, Mr. Jackman. You 
 know that you are acting without authority, and assum- 
 ing all the risk; and while ordinarily I would cheerfully 
 comply with any reasonable request from an officer of 
 the law, yet in such a case as this, where malice and 
 hatred are trying to make you their tool to injure me, 
 and at such a time, I declare to you that I will not go 
 with you without a warrant. Short of that, you will 
 have to use physical force; and I give you notice that 
 if you do, I shall hold you responsible, both civilly and 
 criminally, for assault and false imprisonment." 
 
 The voice of the conductor was heard: " All aboard! " 
 
 The officer looked as though he were not quite satis- 
 
AN ESCAPE III 
 
 fied; but Mr. Mayhew's bold front and defiant words 
 had produced their effect. 
 
 "I don't want to burn my fingers," he said. "I 
 guess I'd better not meddle with this thing." 
 
 " You'll be wise if you don't," said the merchant, 
 significantly. " Good evening, sir." 
 
 The engine-bell rang sharply. The train began to 
 move. Mr. Jackman hastened to the platform and 
 jumped off. 
 
 Mayhew drew a long breath. He took off his hat 
 and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a silk 
 handkerchief. 
 
 "A close call! " he thought. " I wonder who's at 
 the bottom of it. Phebe, I suppose; I was afraid she'd 
 show her claws at the last moment. Well, this settles 
 one thing. I meant to stop over in New York to- 
 morrow, day and night, but I shan't dare to now. An 
 ocean steamer is my only safety now. Rather a rude 
 honeymoon for the girl, but it can't be helped. " 
 
 The train was under full headway again, when he 
 resumed his seat by his bride. She turned her face to 
 him. There was a change there; something in her 
 looks that startled him. 
 
 " June, what's the matter? " 
 
 " Who was that man?" 
 
 Her voice was calm; but it was such a tone as May- 
 hew had never heard before. 
 
 " His name is Jackman." 
 
 " Is he a police officer?" 
 
 The powerful suppression of all emotion that he had 
 shown before the officer failed him under her clear eye 
 and direct questioning. He stammered and prevari- 
 cated. 
 
 " Why, yes he was once, I think; but I " 
 
 " What was his business with you?" 
 
 " Come now, June, don't allow yourself to be dis- 
 turbed by a trifle. I didn't mean to leave you so long; 
 but this is the last call of business that I shall have 
 
112 IN SWIFT PURSUIT 
 
 before we get home again. So, dearest wife, let us 
 dismiss all care and give ourselves to happiness." 
 " Why did he not arrest you, as he wished to?" 
 He clutched the back of the seat with both hands, 
 and stared at her. Tightly grasped in her own hand, 
 she held the tell-tale telegram up before his eyes. He 
 had dropped it on the floor when he walked away with 
 the officer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 IN SWIFT PURSUIT. 
 
 ERNEST MULFORD sprang up, and saw his uncle hold- 
 ing out a telegram, while his face was the picture of 
 despair. He snatched and read it. 
 
 RANDOLPH, SEPT. 18, 1877 10:15 P- M - 
 Emmanuel Gregory, Bardwell: 
 
 Can't take risk; no warrant. Mayhew explains. 
 They have gone with train. Was dispatch yours? 
 
 ABEL JACKMAN. 
 
 " I waited at the station after sending my message, " 
 Mr. Gregory despondently explained, " and this is 
 what we got; you see how it is. That powerful scoun- 
 drel knows everybody, and he has bluffed off the 
 police, some way. Notice how this dispatch asks if 
 mine was genuine! I see how it is at once; he has 
 made the police believe it a hoax." 
 
 " Well didn't you telegraph the police at Beaver- 
 ton?" Ernest impatiently asked. 
 
 " No; why should I ? It would only be a farce. Such 
 a man would defy arrest at Beaverton as easily as he 
 has at Randolph." 
 
 " It is just as I said," put in Dr. Eldridge; " you've 
 got to wait for his return. It is sad, indeed, to think 
 of poor June, and the heart-breaking news that will 
 
IN SWIFT PURSUIT 113 
 
 await her here on her completing her bridal tour; but 
 there's no help for it. It is the best we can do. " 
 
 No person of Ernest Mulford's acquaintance, up to 
 that time, had ever heard an oath from his lips. Those 
 who were about him heard one then, so vehement that 
 they were startled. 
 
 " By God," it is not all we can do ! I will overtake 
 that man this very night, and take June from him; I'll 
 doit, or I'll die!" 
 
 "Here's the coffee, Erny," said tearful Mrs. Gregory. 
 " But you won't want it." 
 
 " I do want it, Aunty; it's just what I need. I will 
 take three minutes to drink it;" and he began to brace 
 himself with the hot, fragrant Mocha. 
 
 " Doctor," he asked, " that's your horse and buggy 
 that uncle has been using, isn't it? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Uncle, take it. and go like lightning to Mr. Gar- 
 land, the superintendent of this division of the road. 
 He'll be at his house at this hour, I suppose. Bring 
 him here; tell him all about this villainy on the way, 
 and then I will explain to him what I want. Go, and 
 return quickly. I tell you there is hope yet." 
 
 " O, bless you, Erny! " said Mrs. Gregory. 
 
 Her husband put on his hat and was leaving the 
 room, when a white, scared face was thrust in, and a 
 woman's voice exclaimed in a painful shriek: 
 
 " O, Doctor! O, Doctor Eldridge! Come quick! 
 She'll die before you can get there! " 
 
 " Well, what the devil is the matter now? " the doc- 
 tor asked, with professional brusqueness. 
 
 The frightened woman, who looked and was dressed 
 like a servant, was in a half-fainting condition, and 
 hardly able to make herself understood. The doctor 
 went to her, and, by vigorous questions and a shake or 
 two of her shoulders, succeeded in learning what was 
 the trouble. 
 
 A Sharp Night's Work S 
 
114 IN SWIFT PURSUIT 
 
 " It is a serious matter," he said, in returning to 
 Ernest and his uncle. , " Indeed, it may be a matter of 
 life and death. I shall have to use my horse and 
 buggy myself." 
 
 " You can't have them," Ernest said, decidedly. " A 
 matter of life and death, do you say, Doctor? Here is 
 something more than a small question of mere life and 
 death. It concerns a woman's honor; it concerns the 
 apprehension of a great scoundrel; it concerns the hap- 
 piness or misery of herself, of me, of both of you, 
 uncle and aunt, for our lifetimes. Do not talk to me 
 of a matter of life and death. Uncle, take the horse 
 and buggy, and bring Mr. Garland here quickly." 
 
 Long afterward the time came when the doctor could 
 calmly review the stirring, breathless incidents of that 
 night. He said that Ernest Mulford seemed to him, in 
 that hour, like a dictator giving his orders. He spoke 
 with the authority of absolute command. 
 
 "And I obeyed him, just as others did," he said, 
 " and gave up my horse and buggy, though I had 
 reason to think, from what I had just heard, that my 
 call was from a woman dying, if not actually dead. " 
 
 So much dispatch did Mr. Gregory make that in less 
 than ten minutes Superintendent Garland was in the 
 parlor. 
 
 He was a man of business; he was all business 
 accustomed daily to deal with the great and instant 
 problems of railroad traffic and travel, and to dispose 
 of them at a word. 
 
 " Mr. Gregory has told me all that has happened," 
 he said, in a voice like the crack of a pistol. " I under- 
 stand the situation perfectly. What do you want?" 
 
 " A special engine to catch the criminal," said Ernest. 
 
 " It will cost two hundred and fifty dollars," said the 
 superintendent. 
 
 " I'll pay it," Mr. Gregory shouted. But Ernest had 
 already taken out his wallet and counted out the amount. 
 
IN SWIFT PURSUIT 115 
 
 The superintendent hastily recounted the bills and 
 put them away. Then he looked at his watch. 
 
 " You have a chance," he said. " It is a slim one 
 and yet it is worth taking. There is an up-grade from 
 Randolph to Beaverton] that train is unusually heavy 
 to-night; it won't make schedule time into twenty 
 minutes or more. It is now twenty minutes before 
 eleven. I can get you started in ten minutes, with an 
 engineer who will do it if it can be done. You'll have 
 sixty minutes to make about eighty miles; for if you 
 make Beaverton by twelve, you'll overhaul him. But 
 there is no time for affidavits, nor for getting warrants, 
 nor deputy sheriffs. You must start now, and alone. 
 Will you?" 
 
 " Yes," said Ernest. " Come! " 
 
 Mr. Gregory and his wife followed him to the door, 
 both crying and bidding him God-speed. He took 
 his seat in the buggy with the superintendent, and 
 they drove under the whip to the station. 
 
 Arrived there, the orders of the superintendent flew 
 right and left, and the yards and buildings were astir 
 with life. A telegram went down the road to every 
 station as far as Beaverton, giving warning of the com- 
 ing of the special, and ordering the track to be cleared. 
 An engine and tender steamed up to the station. 
 
 " All ready, Burt? " the superintendent sang out to 
 the engineer, a thin, brown-faced young fellow, in shirt 
 sleeves and overalls, who leaned from the cab window, 
 with his hand on the lever. 
 
 "All ready, sir." 
 
 " Make the very best time to Beaverton that you 
 can. The best time, mark! The track is clear; see 
 what you can do with this engine that you brag so 
 much about. Good by, Mr. Mulford; if you don't 
 overtake him at Beaverton, stop there and get the road 
 cleared further. I'll telegraph to help you. Good 
 luck to you! " 
 
 Ernest sprang into the cab and took the seat offered 
 
Il6 TOO LATE 
 
 him. The engine started. Within five minutes it was 
 flying along at much less than a mile a minute. The 
 spirit of Ernest Mulford rose. Hope swelled within 
 him. The old refrain rose in his ears " In time, in 
 time! kind God, in time! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 EVEN the fierce joy and exultation of Ernest Mul- 
 ford's unconquerable spirit were hardly sufficient to 
 hold him up against the apparent danger of this wild 
 night-ride. Those dangers were more apparent than 
 real; and yet, he who is borne upon a locomotive with 
 only a tender following, over the rails at night, at a 
 speed of much less than a minute to each mile only 
 such a one, we say, can understand his situation at this 
 time. 
 
 He sat on the narrow seat by the window at the rear 
 of the cab, his hand grasping the bell-cord. So fierce 
 was the speed, so rapid the consumption of coal as it 
 was continually shoveled into the glowing furnace, that 
 the fireman was kept constantly busy, and Ernest had 
 volunteered to take charge of the bell. His eye was 
 fixed on Burt, the engineer, as he stood with one hand 
 on the lever, peering out in front; stooping occasionally 
 to examine the gauge, or turn a stop-cock. Now and 
 then he sent out a deep whisper, " Ring! " With the 
 voice of the bell answering to his pull, Ernest would 
 hear the loud blast of the whistle, and in a twinkling 
 the road-crossing would be passed. There was no 
 stop, no slackening of speed; with a rush and a roar 
 the engine swept on, making such a noise that at last 
 the men in the cab had to shout to each other to be 
 heard. 
 
 So tremendous became the speed, that the engine 
 seemed to leap up from the track, and did really sway 
 
TOO LATE 117 
 
 from side to side, so that Ernest had to hold on by the 
 railing of the seat. 
 
 A multitude of lights flashed out far ahead. " Ran- 
 dolph! " the engineer shouted, as he let off the steam 
 in a prolonged shriek. The engine dashed into town; 
 it passed the station in a blaze of light, where, learning 
 of the special on the way, a crowd of railroad employes 
 and idlers lined the platform. As it tore past like a 
 mad thing, the face of Burt at the lever was recognized, 
 and he heard the shout that greeted him as the station 
 was left far behind. 
 
 The miles sped past. The engineer was alert, vigi- 
 lant, but silent. The fireman was busy at the coal, 
 Ernest, keeping his eye on Burt, and unmindful of the 
 oft-recurring bell-signal, had little time or thought for 
 speech; but once, some distance out of Randolph, he 
 leaned forward and yelled: 
 
 " Burt! shall we make it? " 
 
 The engineer never turned his head; but above the 
 awful clamor and noise the answer distinctly came: 
 
 " Yes! At this rate we shall reach Beaverton at 
 eleven-fifty. I'll try and signal the train as we get 
 near." 
 
 The whole ride to Ernest was like a nightmare; in 
 the calm and peaceful nights that, later on, he knew, 
 his sleep was often disturbed by flying phantoms with 
 fiery eyes and flaming breath, born of the experience 
 of this one night. 
 
 On, on they went. If ever on that memorable night 
 Ernest ceased to think of the peril of June, it was while 
 he was thus borne along so swiftly that even thought 
 itself seemed left behind. Once the fireman, black and 
 sooty from his labors, paused long enough to shout in 
 his ear: 
 
 " You'll want to tell your children about this some 
 day. No man before ever rode so fast on this road." 
 
 The lean, brown hand of the engineer reached back 
 and pinched his knee. 
 
Il8 TOO LATE 
 
 "Look ahead!" he heard the cheery shout, rising 
 above the noise. " There are the lights of Beaverton, 
 three miles off; I'll signal." 
 
 A succession of sharp blasts from the whistle followed. 
 Ernest was eagerly looking out ahead to see the rear 
 lights of the train they were following, when a yell from 
 the engineer startled him. 
 
 " Save yourselves! she's going! " 
 
 The steam was released with a deafening roar; the 
 motion was promptly reversed. The fireman, instantly 
 comprehending the danger, leaped from the cab. His 
 heels struck in the soft turf of the embankment over 
 which engine and tender toppled together; two som- 
 ersaults followed, and he landed on his back at the 
 bottom of the bank, much shaken up, but not other- 
 wise injured. 
 
 At the cry, and the toppling of the engine to the 
 right, Ernest thrust himself through the window at his 
 elbow. He went over with the huge mass, but above 
 it, hanging on to the window aperture by his hands. 
 He was jarred and shaken, but released his hold in time 
 to escape the steam. 
 
 Struggling away from the wreck as it lay overturned, 
 the ponderous wheels spinning in the air, Ernest was 
 met by the fireman as he ran round the dismantled 
 smoke-stack and came to the upper side. 
 
 " Where's Burt?" he screamed. 
 
 They searched for him. They saw his boots sticking 
 out from the ruins of the cab. The axe was where it 
 could be reached, protruding from the timbers and 
 iron, and the fireman quickly chopped him free. 
 
 Poor Burt! He could not rise. He had inhaled 
 the scalding steam, and was near to death. They 
 dragged him out and laid him on the grass; he smiled 
 to recognize them. With his mouth and throat all raw 
 his poor remnant of breath and speech were freely 
 given to the corporation that employed him. 
 
 " The flange of one of the drivers broke and flew 
 
BAFFLED 1 19 
 
 off," he whispered. " I saw it, and knew we must go. 
 Tell my poor wife " 
 
 His brave spirit fled with the thought unuttered. He 
 died as his class are ever ready to die, at the perilous 
 post of duty. 
 
 It was no time for words nor explanations. Leaving 
 the fireman kneeling by his dead friend, Ernest ran up 
 the embankment, and along the track. The lights of 
 Beaverton twinkled less than a mile before him. He 
 ran with all the energy of despair. Putting into play 
 all the poor reserve of wind, nerve and muscle that 
 were left him, he hurried on. Nearer, nearer he came; 
 he saw the lanterns at the rear of the train. He redoubled 
 his efforts. He heard the ringing of the bell, the deep 
 puff of the engine; he raised his voice in a shout that 
 was not heard, and would not have been heeded had it 
 been heard. One hundred yards from him the train 
 pulled out, and with increasing speed left Beaverton 
 behind. 
 
 " Merciful God, let me die!" 
 
 It was the frantic pursuer's despairing appeal, as he 
 sank down. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 BAFFLED ! 
 
 WESTON MAYHEW looked in blank consternation at 
 the telegram that June held up before his eyes. He 
 clutched at it, but she was too quick for him. Hold- 
 ing her hands as far away from him as possible, she 
 opened her hand-bag, thrust in the paper, and snapped 
 the catch together. And then she faced him. It was 
 a rigid, white face like a beautiful stern image of 
 mingled despair and resolution. 
 
 His face was stern, now, and he spoke through his 
 teeth, in a hoarse whisper: 
 
 " Give me that paper. " 
 
I2O BAFFLED 
 
 "I shall not." 
 
 She grasped the bag tightly in both hands; she 
 turned her back partly to him, to keep it from him. 
 
 " June, you are acting very wayward and silly. That 
 dispatch belongs to me; I want it." 
 
 " It belongs to the policeman who ought to have 
 arrested you. If you get it, you will have to take it 
 from me by force. And if you do that I will scream, 
 and appeal to the passengers. " 
 
 He saw with dismay that she was roused, almost 
 desperate; in such a frame of mind as he had not 
 thought possible for this young, timid girl. He changed 
 his tactics. 
 
 " I merely want to destroy it, June. It is carrying 
 the joke too far to have that absurd thing in our 
 possession." 
 
 "It is no joke." 
 
 " Why, you foolish girl, you don't believe a word of 
 that lying message?" 
 
 " I believe every word of it. My father's name is 
 on it. " 
 
 " Your father never saw it, nor authorized it. The 
 whole thing is a clumsy imposition; an attempt, I 
 believe, of that scamp Mulford to annoy us both. " 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " I assure you that the statement of that message 
 about me is a falsehood. You are my wife, the only 
 wife I have ever had. Look at me, and say that you 
 believe me!" 
 
 She did look at him. He read his doom in her 
 steadfast eyes. 
 
 " Sir, I do not believe you! You are lying to me 
 now, as you have been lying for months. This 
 explains some things about your conduct that I could 
 not understand. You would have this wretched day 
 hastened; you would keep it quiet till almost the last 
 moment. You are a villain, sir! and I I O 
 God! " 
 
BAFFLED 121 
 
 She could not sustain the stress of desperate excite- 
 ment that was upon her. She broke down, and 
 sobbed in her handkerchief. 
 
 Weston Mayhew sat back in the seat, crushed his 
 hat over his eyes, and collected himself for the strug- 
 gle that was before him. Absorbing as had been his 
 pursuit of this woman, it was not so overmastering as 
 his determination to hold her, to carry her off, now 
 that she seemed slipping from his grasp. 
 
 The low sound of her sobs reached the ears of some 
 of the passengers, and inquiring eyes were turned that 
 way. She threw a veil over her face. 
 
 Mayhew leaned over to her. 
 
 " Speak low," he said. " You do not want to attract 
 attention, just now. " 
 
 " I shall before long," she replied, her voice shaking 
 with grief and agitation. 
 
 " Shall you, indeed! We'll see about that." 
 
 The devil within the man had begun to roar again. 
 
 " We'll have this thing understood at once, June. I 
 have made my explanation to you of that annoyance 
 back at Randolph. I am your husband; I am entitled 
 to be believed. You say you don't believe me. Very 
 well; I regret that; but it affects only your own peace 
 of mind. It will do you no good; you will go right 
 on with me to New York and further. To-morrow 
 you won't remember anything about it." 
 
 " To-morrow!" she moaned. " To-morrow! O, man, 
 have pity on me! Let me go; I will go back to Bard- 
 well alone. It is worse than death to stay with you; 
 it is misery, shame and disgrace." 
 
 "As I just said," Mr. Mayhew coolly remarked," we 
 will go right on to New York. We reach there about 
 the middle of the afternoon. I was expecting, my dear 
 June, that we would remain a few days in the metrop- 
 olis; I want to enjoy your charming society at one of 
 its palatial hotels, as well as to show you some of the 
 
122 BAFFLED 
 
 sights; but I'm afraid we shall have to take passage 
 at once for Havre. " 
 
 " For Havre?" she whispered. 
 
 11 Yes, while this story abut me is a malicious fabri- 
 cation, for which I will make somebody suffer when we 
 return to Bardwell, I don't choose to be annoyed by 
 it while on my bridal trip. I meant from the first to 
 make that trip a long one; and now, since this scoun- 
 drel, Ernest Mulford, or some other, has deliberately 
 set about trying to annoy and embarrass us in the midst 
 of our happiness, and might subject us to all kinds of 
 inconvenience in New York with these lying telegrams, 
 I have decided to put the ocean between us and these 
 absurd rumors. They will die a natural death long 
 before we return. " 
 
 She tore the veil from her face, and confronted him 
 with eyes flashing with indignation. 
 
 " Sir, this is infamous! I am here with you now 
 only by the basest fraud and treachery; I will leave 
 this car and you at the next station. " 
 
 "You will not." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 " Ah! You are my wife; the law makes you subject 
 to me. I hate to use force; if you compel me, I must. 
 You will keep this seat." 
 
 " I will alarm the passengers. I will appeal to the 
 conductor! Don't touch me, sir; I will scream." 
 
 Mr. Mayhew gave an irritating little chuckle. 
 
 " My dear little June, much as I admire your beauty, 
 I hate to see you in such a passion. Scream, will you ? 
 call on the conductor? ask the passengers to take you 
 away from your husband? I don't wish you to do so, 
 because my explanation would be unpleasant, and the 
 incident an awkward one; but you are perfectly at 
 liberty to try it, for all the good it is likely to do you. 
 I am well acquainted with the conductor, and I know 
 several of the passengers in this car. How many of 
 them do you know? I should say, 'I fear that my 
 
BAFFLED 123 
 
 poor little wife is overcome and hysterical with excite- 
 ment; I hope it may not affect her brain.' And I 
 would sit by you with my arm about your waist 
 thus " and despite her struggles he rudely embraced 
 her, " and then we would see who would interfere." 
 
 There was silence after this rejoinder. Mr. Mayhew, 
 sitting with his arm about June, thought that he had 
 conquered her. He little knew the spirit that burns 
 within the weak frame of a woman. 
 
 The train sped on; the whistle sounded for Beaver- 
 ton, and the cars rolled into the station, fifteen minutes 
 late. 
 
 Many passengers were to alight here; some were to 
 get on. On the station platform there was quite a 
 crowd, and much stir and bustle. The anxiety of 
 those who were about to take the train to do so before 
 those leaving it had got off, caused the usual confusion. 
 The car platforms and aisles were full of people strug- 
 gling to get on and off, and two or three lively news- 
 boys selling papers increased the noise and move- 
 ment. 
 
 One of these boys, crying his papers, passed by Mr. 
 Mayhew. 
 
 " I'll take one," he said, having it in his mind that 
 he would look for the departure of the ocean steamers. 
 
 To reach some loose change in his pocket, he found 
 it convenient to rise. To examine it, it became neces- 
 sary to step out into the aisle, where he could hold the 
 silver up to the hanging lamp. 
 
 He felt some one brush against his back. This in- 
 cident did not attract his attention at the instant, as 
 people were still coming and going in the car. 
 
 He took his paper, received his change from the 
 boy, and turned to take his seat. 
 
 The seat was vacant. June was gone! 
 
 He looked toward the nearest door. Very near it 
 lie saw the familiar blue feathers in her hat. At least 
 ten people were between. 
 
124 BAFFLED 
 
 " Stop that woman! " he cried. " The woman with 
 the round hat and blue feathers! Stop her! " 
 
 His cry startled the people, and, for the moment, 
 added to the confusion. They looked round to see 
 who was making the outcry, and their feet were stayed 
 an instant. Continuing to cry, " Stop her stop her! " 
 Weston Mayhew crowded and forced his way with all 
 the speed possible past the people who blocked the 
 aisle, and reached the car platform. June had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 He jumped down and ran frantically through the 
 crowd. He ran this way and that, getting himself 
 cursed and almost collared for his rudeness. He looked 
 for June in the crowd, in the waiting-rooms^ in every 
 hack and omnibus. She was not there. 
 
 He hurriedly described her dress to the policeman 
 on duty. 
 
 " Didn't see no such person," was the brief reply. 
 
 He rushed along the train to where the baggage was 
 fast being bumped out and in. The conductor stood 
 by with his lantern. 
 
 " Give me ten minutes to find my wife, Mr. Sayles," 
 the breathless searcher exclaimed. " I'm afraid she's 
 out of her head. She got off the train and I can't find 
 her." 
 
 " We shall be here about ten minutes more," said the 
 conductor. 
 
 Quite ten minutes later Mr. Sayles walked from the 
 ticket agent's office over to the train. The hacks and 
 omnibuses and arriving passengers, who walked to 
 their homes, had departed; the seats of the waiting 
 train were almost filled; the crowd on the platform was 
 thinned. 
 
 Mr. Mayhew came up again, strongly agitated and 
 excited. 
 
 " I can't find her, conductor. " 
 
 " Strange! Have you searched the train?" 
 
LIGHT BREAKS 125 
 
 " Yes; every car; baggage-cars, to. She's certainly 
 not aboard." 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry; but you can't miss finding her 
 here, somewhere." 
 
 " Can't you stop five minutes more?" 
 
 " Impossible; we are more than half an hour behind; 
 we have time to make. Want your baggage?" 
 
 " No," said Mayhew. He had thought of that ques- 
 tion, and settled it, as he excitedly pursued his search. 
 " It'll be safe in New York; I shall come right on with 
 her when I find her." 
 
 "All aboard!" the conductor shouted! The train 
 pulled away and disappeared, Mr. Mayhew standing 
 moodily by, and Ernest Mulford, a stone's throw back, 
 sank exhausted, and cried out in his distress. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 LIGHT BREAKS. 
 
 IT was about two o'clock of the morning of Septem- 
 ber 1 9th. At the Ashley House, the first hotel in 
 Beaverton, and a comfortable inn of the country kind, 
 something unusual seemed to have happened. The 
 office was lighted and the proprietor was sitting up. 
 He had sent his help to bed and was sleepily trying to 
 fulfill an unusual demand upon his house, which he 
 foresaw would become a matter of profit. 
 
 Mr. Emmett Ashley was a young man of about 
 twenty-seven, rotund, round-faced, cheerful in talk and 
 demeanor, and with good business capacity; in brief, 
 was excellently equipped to be just what he was the 
 successful landlord of a good country inn. There was 
 that about the house itself, its ways, its table, and 
 especially its host, that brought traveling people to it, 
 and gave it a name. On rare occasions, such as this, 
 Mr. Ashley could deprive himself of sleep in the inter- 
 est of his business, but he did not like to do so, and 
 
126 LIGHT BREAKS 
 
 the occasion must be a large one to persuade him to 
 forego even a part of that daily luxury. 
 
 The house was silent; the town was still. Mr. Ash- 
 ley yawned, stretched, walked about the room, whistled, 
 slapped his hands, and resorted to some other expedi- 
 ents known to sleepy people who wish to stay awake. 
 He found it rather hard work. 
 
 " Plague take such unreasonable people who put off 
 having trouble till the middle of the night, and keep 
 decent people awake to attend to 'em. I'm going to 
 lie down any way; they'll find me here when they 
 come." 
 
 He threw himself down on a settee, and was speedily 
 unconscious of the troubles of hotel-keeping. The 
 sound of the opening and closing of the office door 
 awakened him. He opened his eyes and saw a man 
 advancing to the counter. 
 
 " When does the next train leave here for New York?" 
 the visitor asked. 
 
 "Nine-thirty." 
 
 The man looked at the clock. 
 
 " More than seven hours yet/' he sighed, and sank 
 wearily into a chair. 
 
 Mr. Ashley thought he recognized the voice. He 
 stood up and looked at the man in the chair. His atti- 
 tude and appearance were those of deep dejection. 
 His chin was on his breast, his eyes fixed on the floor, 
 and his hat was drawn down on his face. 
 
 Mr. Ashby gave a soft little exclamation of astonish- 
 ment, and walking round the counter, bestowed a re- 
 sounding whack upon the shoulders of the other. The 
 sitter started to his feet. 
 
 " Well, Ernest how are you?" the landlord asked, 
 and held out his hand. 
 
 " Why, it's Emmett!" exclaimed the other, unex- 
 pectedly finding himself interested in what was going 
 on about him. " Do you keep this house?" 
 
LIGHT BREAKS \2J 
 
 " Yes, my son, I do that, and have for more than a 
 year. Hadn't you heard of it?" 
 
 " I knew there was somebody of the name here, but 
 never thought it could be my old schoolmate." 
 
 They shook hands and sat down. Then Mulford's 
 great grief came back to him, and he became silent 
 and moody. 
 
 " See here, now," said the landlord, in his cheery 
 way, being now wide awake, " what are you in the 
 dumps about? Did you get in at half-past eleven 
 and if so, where have you been since, and what do 
 you want, anyway? It gives me the blues to look at 
 you." 
 
 " I'm tired enough to go to bed," replied Ernest, 
 " and I would, if there was any prospect that I could 
 sleep; but I know I can't. I've been roaming around 
 the streets for most two hours, and came in here be- 
 cause I saw a light. I'll sit here, with your leave, 'till 
 morning. " 
 
 " What are you driving at?" 
 
 " I've been chasing up the biggest scoundrel in the 
 State all day, and just missed him here with a special 
 engine. I'm bound to keep after him, and I shall go 
 on in the morning; but I've little hope now. He'll 
 have more than nine hours start. " 
 
 " Why did you come in on that engine that ran 
 over the bank and killed the engineer, just below 
 here?" 
 
 "Yes and barely missed the train here. I wish 
 now I had been in the engineer's place." 
 
 " Don't be a fool, Ernest! One of the railroad men 
 came in here, half an hour ago, and told me of that 
 accident; but I don't think the news has got around 
 here yet." 
 
 Ernest Mulford said nothing. 
 
 "Who's your man?" 
 
 "Weston Mayhew." 
 
 "WHAT!" 
 
128 LIGHT BREAKS 
 
 The emphasis that Mr. Ashley put upon the word 
 made Mulford start in his chair. 
 
 " Say that again! " 
 
 The name was repeated. 
 
 " What's he been doing? " 
 
 Ernest looked wearily at his inquisitive friend. 
 
 11 You can't help me, Emmett, in my distress; so it 
 will be of no use to tell you." 
 
 " How do you know I can't be of use to you? Just 
 you start in and tell me all about it, and, just as like as 
 not, something will come of it." 
 
 Without the slightest expectation that anything 
 could "come of it" but to pass away^the time, to 
 relieve his own sorely-burdened heart by speech, and 
 very possibly out of a yearning for the sympathy that 
 he knew hearty Emmett Ashley would give him, Ernest 
 Mulford told him everything, beginning with his own 
 leaving of Bardwell, of which Ashley had not heard. 
 The latter listened intently to the strange and exciting 
 story, and at its close uttered a peculiar whistle. 
 
 " The damned scoundrel ! " he exclaimed. " Have 
 you got those documents with you, Ernest? " 
 
 " Yes. " 
 
 " Do you mind showing them to me? " 
 
 The package was handed to him. He looked it over 
 and returned it. 
 
 " I suppose," he remarked, " that you are pretty 
 familiar with that man's writing? " 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 " Just step this way. " 
 
 He led him to the counter and pointed to the open 
 register. Under the new date, " September iQth,'' 
 he saw in well-known characters the name, " Weston 
 Mayhew. " 
 
 "Emmett!- is he here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And she " 
 
 He stopped; he could ask no more. 
 
LIGHT BREAKS 
 
 " No. But see here, Ernest get that wolfish look 
 off your face. I won't have any shooting or stabbing 
 in this house. Promise me there shall be no violence, 
 or I'll not help you an atom. 
 
 " I'll do anything you say, Emmett; but tell me where 
 June is." 
 
 " I'll tell you all I know. About a quarter past 
 twelve Weston Mayhew, whom I knew by sight, came 
 in after the other arrivals on the train had come and 
 gone to bed. He was a good deal excited; said that 
 his wife had been taken ill and delirious on the train, 
 and had given him the slip after it stopped here. He 
 had searched the train through and all about the station, 
 and could find nothing and hear nothing of her. He 
 gave me fifty dollars; wanted me to get together a 
 dozen men to help find her, and to keep open till she 
 was found, so that she might have all necessary atten- 
 tion. He said he should go on with her must was 
 the word he used by the morning train, and he 
 wanted my help; perhaps he should want a doctor. 
 Before he had got through talking he threw down 
 another fifty. I agreed, of course; everything appeared 
 straight. He started out with a lot of men that I got 
 for him, to hunt the town through. Didn't you come 
 across any of them?" 
 
 " As I roamed through the streets I continually met 
 men who seemed to be searching; but I heard nothing 
 of what it meant, and I did not see Mayhew. Per- 
 haps it's just as well that I did not. " 
 
 11 Why?" 
 
 " I might have killed him." 
 
 "Tut, tut, sonny " 
 
 " He ought to be shot on sight," Ernest passionately 
 interrupted, " and I'm none too good to do it! Just 
 think of all I have told you; it makes my blood boil. 
 I thank God that she has escaped him; the news you 
 have told me makes me a happy man, compared with 
 A Sharp Night's Work 9 
 
LIGHT BREAKS 
 
 what I was when I came in here; but think of June; 
 I don't believe that the monster lied when he told you 
 that she was sick and out of her head; the poor girl 
 has learned enough of him since he took her from her 
 father's house, only six hours ago, to make any woman 
 crazy. Think of the dear girl wandering in the dark- 
 ness of the night, fleeing from that villain, and trying 
 in vain to find shelter and protection among strangers! 
 I'll go at once to find her. I will protect her and take 
 her back to her home." 
 
 He started up, and made for the door. The land- 
 lord held him by the collar. 
 
 " Attend to me, Ernest," he said. " All that can 
 possibly be done to find her is being done. You can 
 do nothing, except to bring on a collision between 
 Mayhew and yourself, which must not occur just yet. 
 If she is found, she will be brought here ; it will be 
 time for you to appear. If she is not found, I shall 
 know what intelligence of her has been gained. Of 
 course, now that I have heard your story and seen 
 your proofs, I am hand and glove with you in bringing 
 the man to justice, and setting June right. Only, I 
 don't want you to appear yet. The time has not 
 come. Go in there and lie down on the bed. I will 
 let you know when he returns, and what the news is ; 
 and then we will consult about what to do. But you 
 must stay in the background for the present. " 
 
 Much against his will, Ernest was forced into a little 
 room adjoining the office behind the counter, and the 
 door was closed after him. He threw himself on the 
 bed, and was almost instantly asleep. Nature would 
 assert her rights. 
 
 He was awakened by the hand of his friend, who 
 had to shake him roughly before his deep slumber was 
 broken. Ashley was standing by the bed, with the 
 door closed. 
 
 " Is she found?" Ernest eagerly asked. 
 
 " She will be, very soon. It is now six o'clock; a 
 
IN DARKNESS AND DISTRESS 131 
 
 market-gardener who just came in met a woman some 
 miles out in the country that answers her description. 
 They are hitching up now to go after her. Don't get 
 up yet ; let me talk, and tell you my plan. I've hit 
 on the proper thing to do." 
 
 " But I won't stay here. I tell you ." 
 
 " Keep still, boy, and hear my plan. " 
 
 The stout friend told his plan. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 IN DARKNESS AND DISTRESS. 
 
 JUNE'S complete disappearance is naturally and easily 
 explained. Had not Mr. Mayhew been so agitated 
 and excited in the first moments of his search, that 
 explanation must have occurred to him. 
 
 Reaching the car-platform in the press of people 
 struggling to come and go, the fugitive glanced from 
 the blaze of light on the station-side to the street 
 opposite, on the other side of the train, and observed 
 with that glance that it was but dimly lighted with a 
 gas-lamp here and there, and that hardly anybody was 
 moving upon it. Nobody was getting on or off on 
 that side, and a sudden impulse came to her that safety 
 lay that way. She acted upon it instantly. She had 
 reached the ground and disappeared before Mayhew 
 was able to get to the car-door. 
 
 The determination not to go with her oppressor and 
 tyrant beyond this station had been formed an hour 
 before. Her resolution to escape from the fate that he 
 had coolly portrayed to her was something ardent, 
 irresistible; she would have obeyed it had it urged her 
 through fire and water. She was about to " make a 
 scene" when the train stopped; to shriek and cry out 
 for help; to denounce Mayhew as a criminal, and to 
 those who would gather around upon the disturbance, 
 to show the telegram in confirmation of her words. 
 
132 IN DARKNESS AND DISTRESS 
 
 That plan might and might not have succeeded; it is 
 impossible to say. She had to deal with an experienced 
 man of the world, of smooth and easy address, and full 
 of resources. People generally, traveling people 
 especially, always intent upon their own affairs, and 
 anxious to prosecute their journey without interruption 
 or annoyance, are loth to interfere in others' troubles. 
 Then Mr. Mayhew was well acquainted with the con- 
 ductor, and probably could have made him believe 
 that the lady was out of her head. The chances are 
 that the desperate plan that June suddenly formed as 
 she saw her companion rise and go into the aisle was 
 the best that she could, under the circumstances, have 
 adopted. And whether the comings and goings of 
 that memorable night were ruled by mere chance, or 
 by a higher power, it is certain that this course was the 
 only one that could put it in the power of her heroic 
 pursuer on the crippled engine to reach her. All 
 unknown to her, she was doing just what he would 
 have had her do. 
 
 She passed rapidly up the street to the first corner, 
 meeting no one. She turned the corner, ran along that 
 street, turned another corner to a street where there 
 was no light but the faint and uncertain rays from the 
 windows, and pressed on till breath and strength failed 
 her. Then she sank down on a doorstep and rested. 
 
 One swift thought of her condition came to her. 
 Barely four hours before the petted darling of a happy 
 home, the honored bride of a great and wealthy man; 
 now outcast, wretched, filled with terror, flying from 
 the pursuit of a monster, a criminal, whose very touch 
 would degrade her! Just one thought like this she 
 allowed herself, and then she crushed it down and tried 
 to take courage from the other thought: " I am escap- 
 ing him. I will find refuge and shelter somewhere, and 
 send news to my father, and he will come and take me 
 home." 
 
 She had a thought, too, for another, in that distress^ 
 
IN DARKNESS AND DISTRESS 133 
 
 ful, yet excited hour. She thought how different all 
 this might have been had she listened to Ernest Mul- 
 ford's suit. But that thought belonged to the bygones; 
 she sighed and dismissed it. 
 
 Far down the street she heard the unsteady steps of 
 some late roysterer on his homeward way. Full of the 
 terror inspired by the thought of Mayhew's pursuit, 
 she sprang up and continued her flight. On, on she 
 sped, past the straggling outskirts of the town, and 
 into, the country; along the highway, past farmhouses 
 and cornfields, and once through a thick, dark wood, 
 where the gloom increased her terrors, redoubling her 
 pace as her imagination constantly conjured up the 
 sound of feet or wheels in pursuit. Faint, footsore, 
 utterly exhausted, she fell helplessly on the steps of a 
 large house close to the road. It was a country inn, 
 the landlord of which was waiting on a merry party in 
 the bar. He heard the noise caused by the poor wan- 
 derer stumbling against the steps, and he opened the 
 door. In the light that shone upon her woful face, she 
 looked up to him for pity and found none. 
 
 " Out of this, now, you baggage!" the brutal man 
 harshly exclaimed, with his foot raised. " We want no 
 tramps or slatterns around here. Off with you!" 
 
 She rose with difficulty. Some of the revelers inside 
 crowded up and looked over the landlord's shoulders. 
 One, a fashionably-dressed youth, with flushed face and 
 disordered dress, elbowed his way past. 
 
 "Why, she's pretty!" he hiccoughed; " or she was 
 once, any way. Landlord, g'way, and le' me have her. 
 Come right in, my little dear. Come with me " 
 
 With a cry of horror, and with strength supplied by 
 the insult, she fled on into the darkness, followed by 
 jeering shouts from the doorway. 
 
 Thus she struggled on her painful flight, and the 
 tedious hours wore on toward the dawn. Her strength 
 was all spent, her tender feet were bruised and blistered by 
 the hard road, her dress was torn, and her hair, escaping 
 
134 IN DARKNESS AND DISTRESS 
 
 from its confinement, fell unkempt over her shoulders. 
 More than once she cast herself down by the wayside, 
 resolved to go no further; anon, the thought of Weston 
 Mayhew, and perhaps some noise down the road, 
 would nerve her again, and she would toil on a little 
 further. Before the tardy daylight came, several early 
 market carts on the way to Beaverton had met and 
 passed her, and she noticed others when it was light 
 enough to see them. And she dragged herself on. 
 
 The sun was just rising when she stopped and leaned 
 upon the low palings of a pretty little cottage. A 
 women was milking a cow inside the fence, while a 
 little girl played near her. 
 
 " O mamma," she cried, " See the poor lady! " 
 
 The woman looked over her shoulder. 
 
 " Come here instantly, May," she called, " and let the 
 miserable creature be." 
 
 She went on with her milking. June knew .that a 
 rude rebuff waited for her; but blows could not have 
 driven her away then. She had not strength to 
 move. 
 
 The woman finished her milking, and rose from the 
 stool. She frowned upon seeing June still at the 
 fence. 
 
 " What do you want?" she asked, in a hard voice. 
 
 " I am sick and tired," was the answer. The speaker 
 looked wistfully at the pail. 
 
 The woman took a tin cup from the pump, and 
 dipping it full of the unstrained milk, handed it to 
 June. She drank it eagerly, and in a faint voice said, 
 "More." 
 
 " Why, you poor creature! " the other cried, as she 
 again filled the cup. " You're almost famished. Are 
 you hungry? " 
 
 June again emptied the cup, and returned it, with a 
 look of the deepest gratitude. 
 
 " A little," she answered, " but more weary. I can 
 hardly stand; I I believe I am going to faint." 
 
REFUGE AND DISCOVERY 135 
 
 She would have fallen where she stood, had not the 
 compassionate woman sprung outside and supported 
 her in her arms. She directed the little girl to bring 
 her some water from the pump in the cup, and she 
 revived June by throwing a little of it into her face. 
 
 The sorrowful blue eyes opened gratefully upon her. 
 " Thank you," whispered June. " You are very kind." 
 
 " You poor creature, I can't help pitying you, even 
 if you are bad," the woman said. 
 
 June thrust her indignantly away. 
 
 " I have done nothing wrong," she said. " I am 
 pursued and persecuted by a wicked man, and I will 
 kill myself sooner than go with him." 
 
 " Dear me! " cried the woman. " Forgive me; I 
 believe you. You look like a lady. How far have 
 you walked? " 
 
 " From Beaverton." 
 
 " Beaverton! Lord save you! it's almost ten miles. 
 Come right in." 
 
 She almost carried her into the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 REFUGE AND DISCOVERY. 
 
 JUNE seemed in a moment to be transported from 
 the depths of misery and suffering of mind and body 
 to the height of security and comfort. The heart of 
 the good housewife was touched for her, and she 
 seemed unable to do enough to show her sympathy. 
 
 " Don't say a word," she said, as she bustled about. 
 " I feel grieved and provoked at myself that I didn't 
 see at once that you was good, and only in trouble on 
 account of some dreadful man. Oh, these men! I tell 
 my Wally that there ain't more than one out of ten of 
 'em that can be trusted; but Wally is a jewel; yes, 
 indeed, he is. Don't you talk now, I say, for you're 
 weak and sick, and mustn't exert yourself till I fix you 
 
136 REFUGE AND DISCOVERY 
 
 up, and get a little strength into you. After awhile 
 you shall tell me all about it, and we will see what's to 
 be done; but I'm going to have my way with you for a 
 while." 
 
 The kind soul laid June upon her own bed, brought 
 her a basin, soap and towels, insisted on bathing her 
 swollen and lacerated feet with her own hands, and 
 combed out her long brown hair, admiring its thickness 
 and its rich hue. In a few minutes she had prepared 
 tea and toast for her. 
 
 " Now, lie right down there, and go to sleep," was 
 the next gentle command, after June had partaken of 
 the refreshment. She gladly yielded, and soon forgot 
 her troubles in a deep, tranquil slumber. 
 
 It lasted more than two hours. The clock was 
 striking twelve when she awoke and came out into the 
 neat little sitting-room. 
 
 " You're looking ever so much better," said the 
 woman. " Here's an easy pair of slippers for your 
 poor feet. Sit down in that easy-chair, and if you feel 
 well enough, you may tell me about yourself. I'm 
 Mrs. Bartram; my husband owns fifty acres of land 
 here; you can almost see from the back-door where 
 he's at work in the fields, with three men. I must get 
 dinner for 'em; but I've plenty of time. They got an 
 extra good start this morning; I was up before day- 
 light, getting their breakfast. Are you strong enough 
 to talk?" 
 
 In a few words June told her story. The simple 
 country life of Mrs. Bartram had made her acquainted 
 with no such experience as this, and she was deeply 
 moved by it. At times her cheeks flamed with indig- 
 nation, and then tears of sympathy rolled down 
 them. 
 
 "You poor, dear, abused child!" she cried, when 
 June had done. "And you're only nineteen! and 
 were just married last night! and that brute that 
 monster " 
 
REFUGE AND DISCOVERY 137 
 
 She stopped, because she could not find words with 
 which to express her wrath, and she clinched her fin- 
 gers, and went through with a pantomime that looked 
 much like the pulling of hair. 
 
 " But don't worry, my dear lady; you are safe now," 
 she added. 
 
 " You don't know that dreadful man," said June, 
 with a shudder. He'll never give up till he finds me, 
 and then he'll take me away by force." 
 
 " By force, will he?" spunky little Mrs. Bartram 
 echoed. "I'd like to see him in /Chouse! I'd 
 take the broomstick to him, if there was no man about; 
 and just wait till noon, and Wally'll be home with the 
 men, and one of them shall stay with us all the rest of 
 the day." 
 
 " I would like to send a telegram to my father, "said 
 June. 
 
 " So you shall. Wally shall send one of the men 
 over to Beaverton with it after dinner; he'll get it right 
 off, of course? " 
 
 " Yes," interrupted June, hopefully, " and then he 
 can start from Bardwell a little after nine to-night, and 
 get to Beaverton before twelve. Oh, do send it for 
 me!" 
 
 " Patience, little one," said Mrs. Bartram. " Every- 
 thing is going on all right. The man will take it over 
 after dinner. If I should go out into, the fields now 
 for him, I'd have to leave you alone, and that you 
 wouldn't like. " 
 
 "No no!" 
 
 " Of course not. Get the telegram written. There's 
 paper and pen and ink. Tell your father that you're 
 safe, and that he can find you at Wallace Bartram's, 
 nine miles out on the Hillsdale road." 
 
 June wrote the message, while her kind hostess 
 busied herself about the room. When she had finished 
 it she laid it on the table, saying: 
 
 There's a little money in my bag; you may " 
 
138 RETRIBUTION AND REUNION 
 
 " Don't talk about money, please," interrupted Mrs. 
 Bartram. " Wally will see that it goes. Now, if you 
 are comfortable, just sit here and amuse yourself, while 
 I do my kitchen work and get the dinner going for 
 those men. My, how hungry they do get! Here's 
 books and papers; if you want anything, rap on the 
 table; I shall be sure to hear you. Wally says I've got 
 the quickest ear and the sharpest tongue of any woman 
 in the country. " 
 
 She ran into the kitchen, laughing. 
 
 June turned the leaves of some of the books, and 
 looked at the pictures, but she could not get interested 
 in them. The cheerful words of Mr. Bartram had 
 strengthened her and calmed her fears, and her thoughts 
 were turning to the coming of her father, her meeting 
 with him, and her journey back to her old home. 
 Knowing nothing of the facts of Mayhew's crimes, with 
 no information except what was given by the dispatch 
 in her bag, yet a feeling had crept into her breast that 
 Ernest Mulford was in some way connected with the 
 discovery, and that she should see him when she 
 returned to Bardwell 
 
 She was so deeply immersed in her thoughts "that she 
 did not hear or see a double-carriage drive up to the 
 cottage from which three men alighted. One of them 
 came rapidly up to the open door. His shadow on the 
 floor startled her; she looked up and saw Weston May- 
 hew. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 RETRIBUTION AND REUNION. 
 
 "COME!" he said. 
 
 She strove to rise, but her limbs failed her. She 
 put her hands before her face to shut out his hateful 
 presence. 
 
 " Come, you foolish creature! " he continued, with 
 
RETRIBUTION AND REUNION 139 
 
 hardly the appearance of tenderness. " Come along 
 with me. You have made me much trouble, and I 
 have had a long search for you; but it turned out just 
 as it was certain to. Let me tell you now, once for 
 all, such conduct will do you no kind of good. You 
 may succeed in severely trying my patience, as you 
 have now, putting us back on our journey almost a 
 day; you may possibly, if you continue such conduct, 
 lessen my devotion to you; but you will still remain 
 my wife, subject in all things to my control. Come, 
 I say!" 
 
 She knew it would be useless to argue with him; 
 she did not try it. But there was one appeal she 
 could make. 
 
 " I am sick and weak, and my feet are blistered 
 with my long walk. I cannot go. " 
 
 He gave a sardonic grin. 
 
 " Very cool of you, June, I think, to remind me 
 of your bad condition, which you brought upon your- 
 self by trying to run away from me. But that will not 
 avail. I have brought some stout fellows along to 
 help me, in case you should resist; they will be useful 
 now to carry you to the carriage. Wait; on second 
 thought, I'll carry you out myself. I don't choose to 
 have this very shapely form in the arms of any man 
 but myself. I shall take you to the hotel at Beaverton; 
 we will remain there till the next train, and then we 
 will go on. I will engage a berth in the sleeping-car 
 for your comfort. Come! " 
 
 He had been standing by the door; he stepped 
 forward now, with outstretched arms, to take her up. 
 She screamed, and rapped the table sharply with her 
 knuckles. 
 
 Mrs. Bartram appeared. At one glance she com- 
 prehended the situation. She boldly placed herself 
 between June and Mayhew. 
 
 " What do you want here? " she demanded. 
 
 " I want my wife. Get out of the way. " 
 
140 RETRIBUTION AND REUNION 
 
 " She is not your wife. I know all about you. 
 You can't take her out of this house. I defy you to 
 lay a finger on her. " 
 
 Angered by this unexpected opposition, Mayhew 
 took Mrs. Bartram by the shoulders, and thrust her 
 rudely to one side. Her blood was up, and rushing to 
 the kitchen, she reappeared in an instant with the tongs. 
 She would certainly have attacked the man before her 
 with them, but she caught sight through the door of 
 two more men coming up from the carriage. Catching 
 up her child in her arms, she ran though the kitchen 
 out into the fields, screaming, " Wally! Wally! " at the 
 top of her voice. 
 
 June clutched the arms of the chair with her feeble 
 hands. 
 
 " I will not go willingly," she said. " You will have 
 to tear me away. " 
 
 " It will be unpleasant to use force; but if I must " 
 
 " You will use no force toward this lady. " 
 
 One of the men had entered the house, and placed 
 himself between the man and his intended victim. He 
 spoke quietly, but with decision, and in a voice that 
 seemed strangely familiar. 
 
 The heart of June Gregory leaped at the sound, but 
 there was nothing familiar in the man's appearance. 
 As he stepped forward to interfere, she saw that he had 
 a bristling shock of fiery red hair, and a green shade 
 over his eyes. 
 
 " Get back, you meddlesome cur! " Mayhew savagely 
 commanded, with a peremptory wave of his hand. 
 " Who called on you? Who told you to come into the 
 house? I'll let you know when you are wanted." 
 
 The red wig and the green shade came off, and were 
 thrown at Mayhew's feet. The man stood with folded 
 arms, looking calmly at his baffled enemy. 
 
 Ernest Mulford was revealed! 
 
 With bloodshot eyes and face, with open mouth,- 
 
RETRIBUTION AND REUNION 141 
 
 panting like a beast, and with clenched fists, Weston 
 Mayhew was about to rush upon him. 
 
 " Beware! " Mulford exclaimed. " If you come this 
 way, you'll get hurt. I don't want to strike you. I 
 can't control myself, and if I strike you, I may kill 
 you." 
 
 " I guess I will take a hand here," the other man said 
 in a loud voice, coming forward and placing a hand on 
 the enraged Mayhew's shoulder. " Weston Mayhew, 
 I arrest you. Don't resist; if you do, I shall put these 
 trinkets on you." 
 
 Realizing that the game was played out, that he had 
 lost in the desperate hazard that he had staked every- 
 thing upon, the baffled villain even in that threatening 
 moment showed a bold front and an insolent air. 
 
 " Leave the house, sir, till I call you! Damnation! 
 what do you fellows whom I have hired to help me 
 mean by intruding yourselves in this way? " 
 
 " Drop that," said the man who held his hand firmly 
 on the other's shoulder. " That cock won't fight. You 
 are the victim of one of Ern Ashley's clever tricks. 
 He has helped me take you; but I should have had 
 you before the day was out, any way. " 
 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 " My name is Matt Garton. I am under-sherifif of 
 the county. That young man over there is my deputy, 
 specially authorized for this occasion." 
 
 " What do you claim the right to arrest me for? " 
 
 " Bigamy. I could hand you over to the United 
 States marshal for all kinds of deviltry with the mails, 
 but I don't think he'll have a chance at you for quite a 
 while yet." 
 
 " I'll trouble you to produce your warrant." 
 
 *' I'll trouble you to come out and get into that car- 
 riage, and go back to Beaverton with me, and you'll 
 be shown my warrant without any delay. In short, 
 Mr. Mayhew, I'll submit to no nonsense with you. I 
 know what the evidence is on which the warrant is to 
 
142 RETRIBUTION AND REUNION 
 
 be got; I've seen a great part of it myself, in writing, 
 and I'm not going to take any chances of your getting 
 away." 
 
 " But I won't submit without process. I'll fight for 
 my liberty first. " 
 
 The officer instantly drew a revolver, cocked it and 
 covered Mr. Mayhew's head. 
 
 " Mr. Mulford, "he said, in a cold, stern voice, " take 
 these handcuffs and put them on that man. I'll stand 
 no talk from him of resistance and fighting the officers 
 of the law." 
 
 With his heart almost bursting with rage, Mayhew 
 submitted to the unspeakable humiliation of having his 
 triumphant and deeply-injured rival handcuff him like 
 a felon. 
 
 " You'll all smart for this," he threatened, with such 
 thick utterance that his speech resembled the growl of 
 a wild beast. " You have no evidence." 
 
 " You might as well know," said Mulford, " that I 
 have in my pocket at this moment the certificate of 
 your marriage with Phebe Bashford, more than ten years 
 ago, and that that marriage will be amply proved. I 
 have also in my pocket, restored and legible, all the 
 letters that I wrote from Granby to Bard well, to this lady 
 and others, and one letter which she wrote to me and 
 which you abstracted from the post-office, opened, 
 read, and destroyed. They were all found in your 
 waste-basket, and pieced together; and at least one of 
 them you were seen to read and destroy. What are 
 you going to say to that?" 
 
 Like the knell of doom did this revelation sound in 
 the ears of the guilty man. Knowing the blind infatu- 
 ation of Phebe for him, he had been reasoning since 
 his interview with the police-officer at Randolph, that 
 she had probably dropped some hint of the truth, in 
 her vexation at his marriage with June, and that it had 
 come to the ears of Ernest Mulford; but he knew that 
 this woman would never make such a charge openly 
 
RETRIBUTION AND REUNION 143 
 
 against him, nor confirm it if made by others, and he 
 had been easy in his mind as to that accusation, except 
 for the temporary inconvenience that it gave him. 
 
 But now he was confronted with the written proof of 
 that marriage, which, with too great caution, he had 
 neglected to destroy when he had discovered it; and 
 with those fatal letters, which he had supposed were 
 burned up by Blynn! 
 
 . He stared at Mulford, One faint ray of hope darted 
 t to his brain. Was not this merely assertion, born of 
 ; suspicion, made to induce a confession? Was it not a 
 ! trap that was skillfully set for him? 
 
 " It is all false!" he said, defiantly. " There never 
 were any such things in existence. I defy you to pro- 
 duce them!" 
 
 Ernest Mulford took out the strong envelope. 
 
 One by one the damning proofs of his guilt were 
 held up within a yard of his face, while he stood with 
 helpless hands and raging brain, overwhelmed by the 
 torrent of his crushing defeat. 
 
 His startling situation and its consequences flashed 
 upon him with horrible distinctness. 
 
 He was defeated, discovered, at all points. 
 
 The things that men call honor, respect, admiration, 
 the names of which he had enjoyed to his fill, were 
 utterly gone. 
 
 June was lost to him; June, the peerless, priceless 
 creature, for whom he had risked all. Aye, unhappy 
 man you never had really and truly possessed her! 
 
 He could not even enjoy the stealthy love of Phebe 
 Bashford, his real wife. There would have been a cer- 
 tain charm in that, if he could still have possessed it. 
 But he could not. 
 
 It must go with the rest; his wealth could not save 
 him; he must lose that, too, for years and years 
 perhaps for the balance of his lifetime. 
 
 Because the prison-gates were yawning for him. 
 
144 SUNSHINE THROUGH CLOUDS 
 
 There could be no escape. Repeated crimes had in- 
 sured his doom. 
 
 The strain was too much. A blood-vessel burst in 
 his brain. The terrible grasp of apoplexy was laid 
 upon him, and smote him helpless to the floor. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 SUNSHINE THROUGH CLOUDS. 
 
 MR. GARTON knelt down by the prostrate man, 
 loosened his vest and collar, and called for water to 
 dash in his face. He did not move. The officer's 
 hand explored the breast for the heart. There was not 
 the faintest beat. 
 
 " He is dead," was the brief comment. 
 
 June bowed her face upon her hands, and saw that 
 odious face no more. 
 
 Brisk Mrs. Bartram stormed into the house from the 
 rear, with her stalwart husband, in his shirt-sleeves, 
 and three laborers following. In a few words, whis- 
 pered aside, Ernest Mulford explained the situation. 
 
 The body was carried into another room. 
 
 " Things have taken an unexpected turn," said Mr. 
 Garton. " My authority is at an end and yours, too, 
 Mr. Mulford. I will go back to Beaverton, and notify 
 the coroner and the undertaker." 
 
 " And please telegraph the news, briefly, to Em- 
 manuel Gregory, Bardwell, and ask him to come on 
 here." 
 
 "I will, sir. Good-day." 
 
 Death, under any roof, produces a hush. It did 
 here. One of the men was sent in to remain with 
 the corpse, and Wally Bartram and the others stood 
 around in the kitchen, and heard the housewife's nar- 
 rative of what she had seen and what June had told 
 her, while the preparations for dinner went on; for men 
 must dine, though death be in their midst. 
 
SUNSHINE THROUGH CLOUDS 145 
 
 June, in the sitting-room, looked up, and saw Ernest 
 standing near. 
 
 " You heard what I said to that man," he said. 
 " You will know, then, what villainy has kept us apart, 
 and slandered my good name; yes, and almost made 
 us both wretched for life. When you know how I 
 have labored and struggled to shield you from that 
 man and save you from a fate that would shadow your 
 life forever, you will understand better than I could 
 tell you two months ago, better than I can now tell 
 you, how much I love you. But perhaps you have 
 not changed your mind. If not, I can leave you with 
 my blessing, though with a heavy heart. " 
 
 He turned partly away. He heard her pronounce 
 his name. 
 
 "Ernest!" 
 
 She was holding forth both hands to him. Tears of 
 gratitude and affection were falling from her eyes, 
 through which a little smile broke like the sun through 
 the clouds. 
 
 Mrs. Bartram, thinking that June might be wanting 
 something by this time, looked into the sitting-room. 
 She softly reclosed the door, and came back into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " It is all right, " she said to the men. "I had a 
 lively suspicion that the clever fellow who took off the 
 wig, as we've heard, was the dear girl's own young 
 man; and now I know it. Such hugging and kissing I 
 haven't seen since since " 
 
 " I know what you mean," said Wally; and she 
 boxed his ears with a wet hand. 
 
 After midnight Mr. Gregory reached the cottage. 
 We draw a veil over the meeting between him and his 
 child and Mulford. 
 
 It was three days before June had sufficiently recovered 
 from the fatigues and exposures of that dreadful night 
 to be able to travel. The little cottage was put to its 
 
 A Shtrp Night's Work 19 
 
146 SUNSHINE THROUGH CLOUDS 
 
 utmost capacity during that time to hold the guests; 
 but Mrs. Bartram proved herself equal to the 
 emergency. 
 
 The coroner's jury examined into the cause of Weston 
 Mayhew's death, and found that it was due to natural 
 causes. The body was sent to Bardwell, and there 
 buried. 
 
 Upon his person, at the time of his death, there was 
 found the sum of ten thousand dollars in paper money, 
 and drafts on New York for forty thousand more. At 
 the instance of a creditor to whom he owed several 
 hundred dollars, a temporary administrator of his 
 estate was appointed. The trunks of the deceased 
 were returned from New York to this person, and an 
 examination of their contents showed a little more than 
 one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in registered 
 United States bonds, foreign exchange and certificates 
 of stock. 
 
 Thus again was the sagacity of the detective in his 
 predictions to Ernest Mulford confirmed. 
 
 As the train that brought home Mr. Gregory and his 
 daughter and Ernest rolled into the station, it seemed 
 as though half the population of Bardwell, men, 
 women and children, were there. And when these 
 three stepped from the car they were at once sur- 
 rounded by a crowd of eager, sympathizing faces. 
 Mr. Gregory soon got June into a carriage, and took 
 her home to its rest and seclusion, and to the embrace 
 of her mother. Ernest could not escape so easily. 
 For once a whole community seemed struck with 
 something like shame at having credited the vile 
 slanders against a worthy man, and turned out to wel- 
 come him back in honor. The astounding facts con- 
 nected with the death of BardwelPs foremost citizen, 
 the intelligence of his crimes, and the heroic struggle 
 of Ernest, so strangely crowned with success at last, 
 to save June from him, had created something like a 
 popular furor for the young man. The people now 
 
SUNSHINE THROUGH CLOUDS 147 
 
 besieged him with their congratulations and praises. 
 The men shook him by the hand until his arm ached, 
 called him a splendid fellow, and hoped for him all 
 kinds of good fortune. The ladies would have their 
 say, too; his had been that kind of self-sacrificing de- 
 votion that always appeals strongly to the female heart; 
 and in that hour he was so lionized that he wearied 
 of it. 
 
 The whole truth must be told. Many of the ladies 
 were so enthusiastic that they insisted on kissing him, 
 and had their will. 
 
 When the excitement had partially subsided, a 
 friendly voice said: 
 
 " Let me add my congratulations, now, Mr. Mul- 
 ford; you have done splendidly." 
 
 " Ah Mr. Lear!" exclaimed Ernest, heartily shak- 
 ing his hand. " When did you get here?" 
 
 " On the next day, the I9th, as I expected. The 
 attack passed off, as I anticipated. I learned by tele- 
 graph at Granby Station what had happened, and the 
 ardent pursuit you were making. It was precisely the 
 thing; nobody could have advised anything better. 
 
 " I saw that everything was going to turn out as it 
 should. About seven, when Mayhew was unsus- 
 piciously starting out with you and the sheriff in his 
 carriage, Mr. Ashley sent a dispatch, and at noon we 
 got another from the sheriff, telling the whole story." 
 
 The two men had escaped from the crowd and were 
 walking arm in arm toward the hotel. 
 
 And all that I have done, " said Ernest, with deep 
 emotion, " would have been of not the least avail had 
 not your skill and perseverance unraveled all that 
 man's villainy so promptly and secretly, and put me 
 on the track in time to run him down, and save June. 
 Excellent man! how can I ever begin to repay you? 
 And why have you taken such an interest in my wel- 
 fare and hers?" 
 
 They passed beneath a lamp and Ernest saw one of 
 
148 SUNSHINE THROUGH CLOUDS 
 
 his serious smiles softening the hard lines around the 
 detective's mouth. 
 
 " No matter about that now, Mr. Mulford. There's 
 time enough yet for that explanation. At present I 
 would like to ask a question of you, if you will not 
 think it impertinent." 
 
 " After what has happened, you could not possibly 
 be impertinent about my affairs." 
 
 " You encourage rne to ask the question, and it is a 
 delicate one. I do not ask it out of idle curiosity, 
 mind! The answer very deeply concerns your welfare 
 in more than one point of view. I would like to know 
 if the misunderstanding has been removed between 
 Miss Gregory and you. " 
 
 " Entirely," replied Ernest. 
 
 The detective was silent. 
 
 " Perhaps you'd like to know something more?" the 
 young man laughed. 
 
 " Indeed, I would very much like to know one thing 
 more." 
 
 " Then you shall. June and I are engaged. While 
 there could not with propriety, at this stage of our 
 affairs, be a definite engagement and a day fixed, yet 
 everything is clear between us, and if we both live a 
 few months longer, we shall be man and wife." 
 
 Mr. Lear seized both his hands and wrung them. 
 
 " My dear fellow, I am rejoiced to hear it. I con- 
 gratulate you again, because," and the serious smile 
 broadened over his face, " you are about to hear a most 
 astonishing piece of news, for which you could not pos- 
 sibly have been prepared. " 
 
A HORROR OF THE NIGHT 149 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A HORROR OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 WHEN, on the night of the i6th of September, 
 Weston Mayhew went to the house of Mrs. Bashford 
 and vainly tried to gain admittance, for the purpose of 
 stealthily possessing himself of the marriage certificate, 
 the house was in fact vacant. Its mistress had gone to 
 Randolph that morning, and did not return till the 
 morning following. Emilia, her domestic, had been 
 allowed to go home in the meantime, and came back 
 on the 1 7th. So frequent were these occasions that 
 the girl was requested to absent herself for a brief time, 
 growing mainly out of the secret visits of Mayhew to 
 the house, that she had come to think nothing of them. 
 The real truth she never dreamed of. She rather liked 
 her mistress, though regarding her as an eccentric kind 
 of person, and since she received excellent wages, and 
 the work was light, so much liberty was quite agreeable 
 to her. 
 
 The 1 7th passed as usual with Mrs. Bashford and 
 her domestic. Things went on as usual in that house 
 on the next day, till after the dinner hour. About 
 three o'clock the little bell summoned the servant to 
 the parlor. 
 
 Mrs. Bashford was sitting in the depths of a great 
 easy chair, with a large volume on her lap. 
 
 " I shall not want you till to-morrow, Emilia," she 
 said. " Go home now." 
 
 " You'll wish me to be here to get the breakfast, 
 ma'am, won't you?" 
 
 " To get the breakfast?" repeated the lady. 
 
 The girl said afterward that her mistress spoke as if 
 she did not comprehend the very simple question, and 
 seemed to look away beyond her, in a vacant kind of 
 way. Her eyes returned to the book; she did not 
 answer the question at all. Emilia left her, more than 
 
150 A HORROR OF THE NIGHT 
 
 ever convinced that, kind as she was, she was " a very 
 queer lady. " 
 
 The girl, after doing some shopping on the street, 
 having just been paid a week's wages in advance, and 
 spending some time with other domestics of her 
 acquaintance at the houses where they were employed, 
 reached home after dark. She was the only child of 
 her widowed mother, a lynx-eyed, spectacled dame, 
 who dwelt alone in a little house, save at such times as 
 her daughter was able to be with her. 
 
 She greeted her entrance at this time with much 
 surprise. 
 
 " What's the matter now, Em ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Oh, nothing but another holiday," the girl cheer- 
 fully answered. " Mrs. Bashford wants to be alone till 
 morning, and, the Lord knows, I'm willing she should 
 be." 
 
 " And it was only yesterday you went back, after a 
 day's holiday," the dame sharply commented. " Look 
 here, Emmy I don't know about this. I hain't been 
 half satisfied, all along, about it. You get good wages 
 and have easy times; but sometimes I think 'tain't just 
 respectable, all this bein' alone of your missus. " 
 
 " Well, never mind, mother," said the daughter, 
 lightly. " If Mrs. Bashford can stand it, I guess /can." 
 
 " Maybe /can't, then!" old Mrs. Grove protested. 
 " I'm a respectable woman, and I mean to bring you up 
 respectably, Emily or Emilia, if that suits you any 
 better. I don't like your having service at a house 
 where you ain't allowed to attend more'n half the time. 
 It don't look respectable. You just go back there, and 
 come in on that big lady kind of sudden, and see what 
 she's up to." 
 
 " Mother, I shan't do it! I'm ashamed to have you 
 mention such a thing. Mrs. Bashford has been kind 
 to me, and I won't sneak round in any such way, to 
 spy on her." 
 
 41 You won't? " 
 
A HORROR OF THE NIGHT 151 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then I will. I've seen enough of this, Em. I 
 don't like it; we've got to have an understanding 
 about it." 
 
 The daughter protested; but Mrs. Grove was in 
 earnest, and, putting on her bonnet and shawl, left the 
 house. 
 
 She returned in less than half an hour, in a state of 
 great excitement; and the report she made was mingled 
 with sobs. 
 
 Mrs. Grove had, at first sight, found the house very 
 dark. She had rung the door-bell, without answer. 
 Trying the door, she had found it locked. 
 
 She had passed round the house. All was dark, until 
 she came along the verandah at one side. There a 
 very faint ray of light shot out under the partially- 
 lowered curtain. The blinds were closed on all the 
 windows on that side; at one window she managed to 
 unfasten and' open them. 
 
 Then she saw what almost caused her to scream with 
 fear! 
 
 She saw that the light came from a bed-room, 
 beyond the parlor. The door between was open. 
 
 She saw the foot of the bed. She saw a white, deli- 
 cate hand thrown over the foot-board. She saw a 
 woman's head hanging over the side of the bed, toward 
 the foot, with hair all disheveled and sweeping the floor. 
 Hand, arm, head were motionless. 
 
 All this she saw with one horrified glance, and ran 
 screaming from the spot. 
 
 She burst in on her daughter, at home, terrified and 
 excited. She managed to tell her what she had seen. 
 
 " Well, I declare 1" Emilia pettishly exclaimed. 
 "What of it all? If Mrs. Bashford wants to eat 
 canned lobster and have bad dreams, as she often does, 
 why shouldn't she? That's all there is of it." 
 
 "No, no!" Mrs. Grove vehemently protested. 
 
152 A HORROR OF THE NIGHT 
 
 " There's horror in that house. I wouldn't step foot in 
 it for uncounted gold. O Heaven, such a sight!" 
 
 The girl was not only unconvinced, but angry. She 
 was determined, now, to vindicate her good mistress, 
 and to show that all was in her house as it should be. 
 
 Emilia put on her hat and wrap and started. Mrs. 
 Grove, begging her not to go, followed after. 
 
 Emilia reached the house, and by aid of her own 
 door-key entered. She did not remain five minutes. 
 She burst out, crying and screaming, and joined her 
 mother far up the street. 
 
 " Do you believe me, then?" Mrs. Grove asked. 
 
 " O, my God, yes! 'tis dreadful! Poor Mrs. 
 Bashford! what shall we do?" 
 
 " Go for Dr. Eldridge," her mother said. 
 
 The girl accepted the advice, and the two started 
 together. It was a long walk to the doctor's; they 
 arrived there, only to be told that he was attending a 
 wedding-party at Mr. Gregory's. 
 
 Emilia hastened thither. She arrived after the bridal 
 party had departed, after the unceremonious rush of 
 Ernest Mulford into the house. It was her white, 
 scared face that was thrust into the parlors, calling for 
 Dr. Eldridge. 
 
 The doctor accompanied the woman to the house. 
 He went in, they following him fearfully. 
 
 He was in the chamber a moment alone. There was 
 pause and silence. 
 
 " Come in here! " he said. " You must see, as well 
 as I. You will have to be witnesses." 
 
 They entered reluctantly. 
 
 The dark hair still swept the floor; the head still 
 hung over the side of the bed. 
 
 " Look at the eyes, " said the doctor. 
 
 They were fixed and staring, with the pupils strangely 
 dilated. 
 
 " Feel of her hands. " 
 
 They were stone cold. 
 
154 THE VOICE OF DEATH 
 
 "See here!" 
 
 He lifted up from the stand an empty vial. 
 
 " Smell of it; it will not harm you to smell." 
 
 They did so. It had the bitter odor of crushed 
 peach-kernels. 
 
 " Prussic acid, " said Dr. Eldridge, briefly. " That's 
 her story. " 
 
 It was not quite all her story. A sealed package 
 was found under the pillow, addressed to Weston May- 
 hew. On the next day, when the news of his death 
 came to Bardwell, the package was opened by the 
 coroner. It contained the unhappy woman's state- 
 ment and confession. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE VOICE OF DEATH MRS. BASHFORD'S CONFESSION. 
 
 THIS is the 1 8th day of September, 1877. It is 
 now four o'clock in the afternoon. I am alone here in 
 my house at Bardwell. I have sent my servant home, 
 that I may not be interrupted in my design. 
 
 It is no ordinary design. I am proposing to kill 
 myself. I am perfectly ready and willing yes, anx- 
 ious ! to die; but I don't want to be tormented in body 
 on the passage from one world to another. Of course, 
 I couldn't go to Dr. Eldridge, or any other doctor, and 
 ask him which is the easiest form of suicide. So I 
 have had to investigate for myself. I have been for 
 some days reading up on the subject, and I have 
 decided in favor of prussic acid. If you take half an 
 ounce of it, of ordinary strength, you are dead in two 
 minutes. 
 
 So that question is settled. That shall be my way. 
 
 Well I suppose that to-morrow the doctors and 
 the officers of the law and a lot of gaping men will 
 gather about my poor, cold clay, whisper to each other 
 that this woman was surely mad, to make such an end 
 of herself. 
 
THE VOICE OF DEATH 155 
 
 My dear sirs, don't make any such mistake! I am 
 perfectly sane; if I were not, I shouldn't have deliber- 
 ated so long on the easiest mode of ending it all. I 
 shouldn't have gone to Randolph, two days ago, to 
 get the poison, for fear that it would excite remark if I 
 got it here. Mad! Why, when a woman has nothing 
 to live for, why shouldn't she kill herself? That is 
 what I have often thought ; that is what I am going to 
 put in practice now. 
 
 I write this to explain myself. I mean it fo-r the 
 only person on earth that I love, and who no longer 
 loves me. If it falls into his hands, he will read it and 
 burn it. That will be well. But should it by chance 
 fall into other hands, then the people of Bardwell will 
 know how I have loved and suffered. These are my 
 last hours ; I care not how it be. 
 
 I have not dared to address it to him, as I shall 
 address the envelope. My love would overcome me. 
 I should seem to be talking to him, right here before 
 me, and I should break down. O Weston, Weston 
 Mayhew! you do not, you never can know how I love 
 you! 
 
 There is his name; the name of him who is all the 
 world to me, without whose love this world is empty 
 and hollow. 
 
 Good people of Bardwell, should this ever meet your 
 eyes you will wonder to learn that I am his wife. Yes, 
 his lawful wife, wedded to him in far-off California, 
 almost twelve years ago. And you will wonder that 
 it could be so; and good wives and matrons among you 
 will sneer, that I can claim now to be his wife for the 
 first time. 
 
 Well, sneer at me, if you will. Only let me say that 
 the kind of love that I have for this man is a kind that 
 you know nothing of. I told him once that I loved 
 him well enough to die for him. It was true; I am 
 going to die for him. 
 
156 THE VOICE OF DEATH 
 
 Let me tell this bitter, yet blissful story briefly. He 
 knows how true it is. 
 
 I was a romantic girl, just grown to womanhood. I 
 was full of passion and impulse, as well as romance. 
 Like most creatures of that kind I had my ideal. I saw 
 Weston Mayhew, and he realized to me every dream 
 of my life. 
 
 I don't know whether he had ever loved, or not. 
 He told me that he had never married; that he had no 
 parents living, no brothers nor sisters, nor children of 
 brothers or sisters; that he had no relatives on earth 
 but two distant cousins. 
 
 More than once since those happy days he has 
 reproached me that I courted him. If it was so I could 
 not help it. 
 
 No, I could not help it. He loved me in a kind of 
 way, I suppose, as all men love all women. Yes, I 
 will be candid; he warned me that I had better not 
 marry him. But I did, just because I loved him, and 
 he indifferently consented. 
 
 From that day to this I have consented to keep our 
 marriage secret, just because he wished it. When he 
 left California, giving me ample means to live on, he 
 made me promise that I would not follow him. That 
 promise I meant to keep. But our boy, my idol, died. 
 I hungered for this man's love; I braved his dis- 
 pleasure, and made the weary journey here. 
 
 Here for two years I have secretly enjoyed the love 
 that he chose to give me. Nobody has suspected the 
 truth. 
 
 But I might have known that this could not long go 
 on. It is he that has brought on the end. 
 
 Very lately he told me with his own lips that he 
 expected to marry that pert creature, young June 
 Gregory. He laughed at me when I protested, with 
 tears, against such wickedness, and told me that I 
 could enjoy his love just the same; that we could keep 
 everything secret, just as before. 
 
THE VOICE OF DEATH 157 
 
 Do not mistake me. I am none too good for that, 
 if I could make up my mind to share him with another. 
 But I can't. He shall be mine alone, or life will hold 
 nothing further for me. 
 
 Five o'clock I put aside my writing, put on my 
 wrapper and slippers, and have walked about the 
 house, viewing all the familiar things that it contains. 
 It is all so pleasant, it is hard to leave it all! Oh, why 
 cannot he find his happiness here with me? 
 
 I have learned that he will marry June at half-past 
 eight o'clock to-night. He has tried hard to keep it 
 secret, but after what he told me, I have been sus- 
 picious, and have laid a dozen traps for the truth. I 
 have secured it in one of them, no matter how. 
 
 O cruel, cruel man! He knows me all too well. He 
 knows that I never could betray him never could 
 give him over to the law! I love him too well. 
 
 Yet he does not know that I love him too well to 
 share his love with another. He will believe it to- 
 morrow! 
 
 Six o'clock I have been sleeping in my chair, I be- 
 lieve. My thoughts went away over the mountains, 
 almost to the Pacific, to the glen where my boy his 
 boy is buried. Shall I meet dear little West to- 
 morrow. I wonder if I if 
 
 Half -past seven I know I have slept, this time; a 
 glance at the clock tells me so. I have awakened calm 
 and clear in my mind. I am resolved! 
 
 Just now I went to the shelves, and looked where I 
 have ever kept our marriage certificate. I wanted to 
 look for the last time on the link that binds us two to- 
 gether binds us, though he will not own it, nor let 
 me avow it. I had it in mind that I would give it 
 one long, lingering look; that I would kiss it, perhaps; 
 and that then, for his sake, and for the sake of his hap- 
 piness with his new wife, I would burn it, before I go 
 hence. 
 
158 THE DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION 
 
 It is not there. Some hand has removed it. Whose 
 but his could it be? 
 
 Well, it is but another pang in the hour of death. 
 Let it go. It has been an empty possession to me. 
 To see it now would not comfort me. 
 
 These last lines are written in my chamber. I shall 
 not be disturbed; they will not find what is left of me 
 till morning. 
 
 Let me steady myself before I go. Let me take a 
 last thought of this world and its people. 
 
 It seems strange, does it not? that you can pass 
 so quickly from one world to another! 
 
 I have said it before; let me say it again, in my 
 dying moment! Life is sweet to me; but I give it up, 
 because it is necessary for his happiness that I do so. 
 I die for him. I give him all I have. 
 
 God, pardon me! O Christ, have mercy upon 
 me! This it is, to love too well! 
 
 1 hear the ticking of the clock; a faint sound of 
 distant laughter and footsteps reaches me. Five min- 
 utes hence what shall I hear what see? 
 
 My work is almost done; a few more words, and I 
 shall lay this weary pen aside. But I shall sign this 
 paper with my rightful name, for the first and last time; 
 with the name he gave me. 
 
 The vial is before me, with its colorless, deadly 
 draught. Welcome the sudden, quick relief that it 
 brings! 
 
 No more no PHEBE MAYHEW. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 THE DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION. 
 
 ONE week had passed since the return of June' 
 Gregory, her father and lover, to Bardwell. The coro- 
 ner's jury had viewed the remains of Mrs. Phebe 
 Mayhew, as she must now be called, taken the testi- 
 
THE DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION 159 
 
 mony of the servant, her mother, and Dr. Eldridge, 
 and returned a verdict that the deceased had died from 
 the effects of poison administered by herself. Hardly 
 anything but the strange events that we have been 
 recording was talked about in town, and the press had 
 taken them up and published them far and wide through 
 the land. It may be doubted if any case that, on ac- 
 count of its peculiar circumstances and surroundings, 
 never got into court, ever excited more comment or 
 interest than did the famous " Mayhew case." 
 
 We will introduce the reader to the pleasant sitting- 
 room of the Gregory mansion o*n the Saturday after- 
 noon which closes the week referred to. 
 
 It is the pleasant hour after dinner, when a family- 
 circle and its guests may sit and chat in that quiet 
 enjoyment that is found nowhere but in a home. Mr. 
 Gregory and his wife, much subdued by the late terri- 
 ble experience, and the narrow escape of their little 
 family from disgrace and ruin, were deeply thankful 
 for that escape. Ernest Mulford had informed them 
 of the large share of Mr. Lear in the success of his 
 own efforts, and they had invited the detective to dine 
 at their home on this day. Ernest was there, also; and 
 as June was not yet able to walk about, and hardly 
 strong enough to stand, he claimed the privilege of 
 drawing her in her easy-chair back and forth between 
 the sitting and the dining-room, and to sit by her, that 
 he might attend to her wants. 
 
 Mrs. Gregory had recognized in the detective an 
 old friend and acquaintance of her young days at Dins- 
 more. The subject of the early love of this man for 
 her sister Jane was rather too delicate a one to be 
 much talked about, even in this small circle; but from 
 the little that Mr. Lear permitted to be said upon it, 
 Ernest saw that the tender recollections which Mr. 
 Lear cherished for his deceased mother had prompted 
 him to come so powerfully to his own assistance in this 
 critical time. 
 
160 THE DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION 
 
 The detective was restive under the warm acknowl- 
 edgments and fervent thanks showered upon him by 
 the four persons present. He tried to protest that " it 
 was all a matter of business," and that "such things 
 have become easy to me, by long experience;'* but it 
 would not do. 
 
 " I want to know how I can reward you, sir," 
 Ephraim Gregory warmly said. " I am not exactly 
 rich, but I am comfortably well-off. Money cannot 
 pay for such service as you have done for us; but any- 
 thing in reason you can ask me for." 
 
 " I shall ask you for nothing, Mr. Gregory, except 
 to be a guest occasionally in your house, should I 
 remain in this part of the country, as I am quite likely 
 to do. It is as you say; there are some things that 
 money cannot pay for. Of that sort is all that I have 
 done, or may be able to do, for the son of JaneMulford 
 and for the lady whom I hope before long to salute 
 as Mrs. Mulford," he added, bowing to June, who 
 smiled, colored, and was not offended. " Money is no 
 object to me; otherwise I should not have left the 
 Great West, where of late the year has been a poor 
 one that has not yielded me ten thousand dollars in my 
 vocation. Now, let us change the subject. Mr. Mul- 
 ford will remember that on the evening when he 
 returned with you and your daughter, Mr. Gregory, to 
 Bardwell, I told him that there was a most astonishing 
 revelation to be made, which would be of the greatest 
 importance to him and Miss Gregory; but I refused to 
 inform him then what it was, as it seemed better to 
 wait until I could give it to you four together. That 
 time has now come." 
 
 They were all attention and listened eagerly while 
 he proceeded: 
 
 " First, I will read you the confession left by that 
 unhappy woman who was lately buried by the side of 
 the man she loved with such an absorbing, I might say 
 such an unreasoning, passion. Poor creature! In 
 
THE DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION 161 
 
 death she has received what was wrongfully, basely 
 denied her in life recognition as the lawful wife of 
 Weston Mayhew. That she was his wife, there cannot 
 be the shadow of a doubt. 
 
 " I attended the coroner's inquest that was held over 
 her and directed the attention of the coroner to the 
 importance of securing proof upon one point in that 
 investigation which had not occurred to him; I believe 
 it had not occurred to any person but me. My 
 experience in such cases made me of some assistance 
 upon that inquiry, and when I asked the coroner to 
 allow me to make a copy of Mrs. Phebe Mayhew's 
 dying confession, explaining to him the use that I 
 wished to make of it, he cheerfully consented. 
 
 " You will much better understand what I am about 
 to tell you by first hearing that confession." 
 
 He read it to them. It is unnecessary to say that 
 they were deeply affected by it. There was not a dry 
 eye in the room when he had finished; his own voice 
 trembled a little toward the close. 
 
 " Let us now call your attention," he said, " to cer- 
 tain facts that were developed on the inquest. 
 
 " The servant-girl, Emilia Grove, testified that her 
 mistress dismissed- her for the day on the afternoon of 
 the 1 8th, at a few minutes past three. 
 
 " Both she and her mother testified that Emilia 
 reached home shortly after seven o'clock. 
 
 ' The conversation that followed between the two 
 occupied some minutes. It seems that Mrs. Grove 
 had become suspicious about her daughter being sent 
 away so often by her mistress. She thought that there 
 was something wrong in the frequent desire of that 
 lady to have her servant away from the house. Mrs. 
 Grove is a strict woman, of Scotch descent, and very 
 watchful as to anything that could bring reproach upon 
 her daughter. She ordered Emilia to go back and find 
 out what was going on. The girl had a real regard for 
 
 A Sharp Night's Work iz 
 
162 THE , DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION 
 
 her mistress, and she flatly refused. Mrs. Grove, with 
 considerable temper, put on her bonnet and shawl, and 
 started herself. 
 
 " At this point of the inquiry, I whispered to the 
 coroner, and he asked some minute questions. 
 
 " ' Mrs. Grove, can you say what time it was when 
 you left your house? ' 
 
 " ' Aye, sir, I can. I looked at the clock, and saw 
 that it was twenty minutes to eight.' 
 
 " ' Are you quite certain as to that? ' 
 
 " ' Certain sure, sir.' 
 
 " ' Can you tell how long it took you to go to Mrs. 
 Bashford's house? ' 
 
 " ' Not more than ten minutes. 1 
 
 " * How can you be positive of that? ' 
 
 " ' Well, sir; in this way: More than once within a 
 few weeks past, I have walked straight there from my 
 house, to see Em about something or other; and once 
 I timed myself, just out of idle curiosity, and found that 
 it took just ten minutes. On the evening of the 1 8th 
 I was a little provoked by Em's stubbornness, and I 
 know I walked a little faster than usual.' 
 
 " 'You swear, then, that you got to Mrs. Bashford's 
 as early as ten minutes before eight? ' 
 
 " 'That's it, sir; I'm positive of it.' 
 
 " The daughter, I may state, thoroughly corrobor- 
 ated her mother as to the question of time. 
 
 " I resume my story. 
 
 " Immediately upon arriving at Mrs. Bashford's, 
 Mrs. Grove rang the door-bell. Without waiting to 
 have it answered, she tried the door. It was locked. 
 The house was dark. She went along the verandah, 
 and at one of the windows, I presume the same one 
 where I made important discoveries one night, she 
 made the first discovery of the tragedy of that night. 
 
 " She unfastened the blind, and looked through the 
 window under the curtain. 
 
THE DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION 163 
 
 " What she saw, she described in a few abrupt sen- 
 tences. I copied them from the coroner's minutes." 
 
 The detective read from another slip of paper. 
 
 " I saw the bed-room door open. The chamber was 
 lighted from a lamp that I could not see. I saw the 
 foot of the bed. There was a hand thrown over the 
 foot-board. A woman's head hung over the side of 
 the bed, her hair loose and sweeping the floor. The 
 face was toward me, turned upside down, and the great 
 ejfes were fixed, and staring in the most horrible way. 
 She was perfectly still; not a hair of her head moved." 
 
 " Upon seeing this terrible sight," the detective went 
 on, " Mrs. Grove rushed home in a panic. Her daugh- 
 ter was incredulous as to the story that she told her in 
 a few gasping words, but went immediately back to the 
 house, her frightened mother following a long way 
 after. Emelia entered the house by means of the key 
 to the front door that she had always been allowed to 
 have, and repaired to the fatal chamber. She found 
 the body of her mistress in precisely the position that 
 her mother had described, and perfectly motionless. 
 The girl was terrified, as a matter of course; but she 
 testified to two items that are of the greatest import- 
 ance, and which show that she had her wits about 
 her. 
 
 I " One was, that she lifted up Mrs. Bashford's arm, 
 and that it fell like lead when she let it go. 
 
 " The other was, that her eye happened to rest on a 
 small clock on the chamber-mantel, as she fled from the 
 room. 
 
 ' The hands pointed to twenty minutes past eight. 
 
 "What followed, you have heard about. The almost 
 frantic women, in their search for Dr. Eldridge, did 
 not reach him till more than an hour later, when Emelia 
 found him in this house, soon after the arrival of Mr. 
 Mulford. The doctor went immediately to the death- 
 chamber with the women, reaching there, as he thinks, 
 shortly before ten o'clock. He found the suicide dead, 
 
164 THE DETECTIVE'S NEW REVELATION 
 
 the body still remaining in the position in which both 
 the women had seen it. He called them in to take 
 particular notice of its appearance, of the empty vial 
 on the table, strong with the scent of prussic acid, and 
 of the disordered appearance of the bed, plainly show- 
 ing a dying struggle. 
 
 " Right here, remember that the last entry of time 
 in the confession is half-past seven, and that there is 
 little written after that. 
 
 " Dr. Eldridge's testimony was very direct and posi- 
 tive. 
 
 "'The woman died of prussic acid,' he said. 'A 
 few drops remained in the vial, which I analyzed, and 
 I find it the strongest and deadliest solution of that 
 powerful poison known to the medical science. Much 
 less than half an ounce would kill a healthy person in 
 two minutes. 
 
 " 'Judging from her appearance as seen by Mrs. 
 Grove, 'the coroner asked, ' do you think she was then 
 dead or alive?' 
 
 " 'Dead, unquestionably. 
 
 " 'And when seen by Emelia Grove a little later? ' 
 
 " 'Dead, of course. Her experiment with the arm 
 would show it.' 
 
 " 'But you saw the corpse shortly before two, as you 
 say. You then gave it a careful examination. How 
 long, in your judgment, had this woman been dead at 
 that time?' 
 
 " 'I can speak with positiveness. It could not have 
 been less than two hours.' 
 
 " Now, Mr. Gregory," said the detective, " you may 
 tell us when your daughter was married to Weston 
 Mayhew." 
 
 " At precisely half-past eight," was the prompt re- 
 sponse. " I timed it with my own watch. " 
 
 The detective looked at June and Ernest, as they sat 
 together. A shadow of the meaning of these strange 
 developments was stealing over the girl's face, but the 
 
RECOMPENSE 165 
 
 quick mind of Ernest had already leaped forward, and 
 grasped the disturbing truth. He started up and held 
 out both hands in entreaty. 
 
 " For God's sake, Mr. Lear, say no more ! For June's 
 peace of mind, please drop the subject. You have been 
 our friend; don't distress us with such a shocking fact 
 as all this evidence points to." 
 
 " My dear Ernest, I must go on! I must state the 
 truth, just as it is, just as my close investigations have 
 established it. It is not to distress either of you; it 
 is to lead the way to the most astounding part of this 
 whole affair, and one that you will both rejoice to 
 know. 
 
 " First, then, it is established by certain proof that 
 Phebe Mayhew, wife of Weston Mayhew, died before 
 eight o'clock on the night of September i8th. 
 
 " Second, that Weston Mayhew was married to 
 June Gregory at least half an hour later. 
 
 " Mr. Mayhew, then, had been a widower at least 
 thirty minutes prior to this last marriage! 
 
 " He no doubt intended to commit bigamy; but he 
 did not. Unknown to himself, he was legally free, and 
 capable of marrying again, at half-past eight. You, 
 Miss Gregory, then became his lawful wife. You are 
 now his lawful widow. Your name is Mrs. June 
 Mayhew. " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 AT this startling announcement June uttered a low 
 cry, and placed a hand on Ernest's shoulder, as if fear- 
 ing that some undefinable harm was yet to come to her 
 from her dead and buried husband of half- a- day. 
 Ernest threw an arm about her, and looked anxiously 
 at the detective. Mr. and Mrs. Gregory were troubled 
 and distressed. 
 
I 66 RECOMPENSE 
 
 Mr. Lear went rapidly on. 
 
 " Be assured, my friends, if it had been merely to 
 establish a curious fact, I should never have taken all 
 this trouble. I had a definite object in view from the 
 first. I saw consequences of the largest kind depend- 
 ing upon the proof of the fact that I have just stated 
 to you. 
 
 " Return now, for an instant, to the deceased Mrs. 
 Mayhew's confession. Mark her words, where she 
 says of her husband: 
 
 " ' He told me that he had no parents living, no 
 brothers nor sisters, nor children of brothers or sisters,; 
 that he had no relations on earth but two distant 
 cousins. ' 
 
 " After reading that statement, I was very anxious 
 to verify it. For the last three days I have employed 
 the telegraph across the continent to establish the truth 
 of those words; and I have entirely satisfied myself 
 that they are true. I learn that the sole surviving 
 relatives of the deceased, Weston Mayhew excepting 
 his widow are two persons living in Sacramento, both 
 wealthy, and both cousins, three degrees removed. 
 
 " Mr. Mayhew, as you all know, left an estate valued 
 at two hundred thousand dollars. It consists entirely 
 of personal property; it is all in this State. 
 
 " To whom will the law give it? ; 
 
 " The facts, as you have seen, I have settled beyond 
 a question. Now let me read an extract that I took 
 to-day from the statute-book of this State: 
 
 " ' If the deceased leave a widow, and no descendant, 
 parent, brother or sister, nephew or niece, the widow 
 shall be entitled to the whole stirplus. ' 
 
 " I think you understand me now! Mrs. Mayhew, 
 I can understand how it may be a very disagreeable 
 thing, after everything that has happened, for you to 
 bear that name; and I think you are quite correct in 
 desiring to change it speedily to some other name 
 Mulford, for instance. But I tell you that your right 
 
R1COM1BNSB 167 
 
 to that name also gives you the right to two hundred 
 thousand dollars, left by the deceased." 
 
 There is a certain bewilderment caused by such an 
 announcement as this, that no person is superior to. 
 The detective leaned back in his chair, enjoying the 
 amazement that he had caused. Mrs. Gregory was the 
 first to find her tongue. 
 
 " O, June! " she cried. "Ought you to take it? " 
 
 The girl looked at her lover, silently appealing to 
 him to answer. 
 
 " If you leave it to me to say," said Ernest Mulford, 
 slowly and deliberately, " I am perfectly prepared with 
 an answer. That bad man has gone to his account; it 
 is not for us to judge him; I am not judging him in 
 what I shall say. But just reflect on how the last two 
 months of his life were passed! All that man could 
 do to blast the good name of another he did towards 
 me. He separated June and me by his falsehoods; he 
 kept us separated by his crimes; he sought deliberately 
 to make her the innocent victim of his unhallowed de- 
 sires, to ruin her happiness for life, as well as mine. 
 And he almost succeeded! Heavens! I shudder now, 
 when I think by what a narrow and desperate chance 
 he failed in condemning June to misery. Well, out of 
 the strange complications of this case it seems that 
 the law gives his property to her. He has two very 
 distant relatives, both rich. Shall June take it? Why 
 should she not? I regard it as some recompense to 
 her for what she has suffered. Not very often does 
 the law deal so justly and righteously as it will with 
 her. Shall she take it? I say yes, most assuredly." 
 
 " And you are quite right," said Mr. Lear. 
 
1 68 LAST SCENE OF ALL 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 LAST SCENE OF ALL. 
 
 WHEN, a few weeks later, Ernest and June became 
 husband and wife, and came into possession of this for-, 
 tune, they did not forget those, who by their tireless 
 devotion during those tremendous and critical hours of 
 the night of the i8th and the morning of the iQth of 
 September had helped make their happiness possible. 
 
 They took no " wedding-tour." The mere mention 
 of the name caused Mrs. Mulford to shudder, from the 
 associations it recalled. Their honey-moon was passed 
 in the quiet and comfort of the Gregory mansion. 
 
 They varied their own happiness, they added to it, 
 by going about and doing good to those who had aided 
 them when they sorely needed help. 
 
 Their first care was for the widow and orphan child- 
 ren of the heroic engineer who had died at his post 
 of duty. They visited the widow, they condoled with 
 her, and surprised and delighted her with a check for 
 five thousand dollars. 
 
 The fireman, too, was remembered in a substantial 
 and most acceptable way. 
 
 Ted Vaun had insisted on being carried to his home 
 near Drayton, as soon as the doctor would permit it. 
 There they found him, in bed with his broken leg, but 
 cheerful, and delighted to see them. 
 
 They stayed an hour with him. He highly enjoyed 
 the visit, and expressed no end of gratification that 
 everything had turned out so well. Ernest told him 
 that he should pay all the expense of his sickness, and 
 that he might call on him for anything he wanted. 
 
 "Oh, I will when I want anything," Ted re- 
 plied. " Don't know when that'll be, though. One 
 thing I want, though; when I get able to drive again, 
 I want to take you two on a long ride behind them 
 animals. Nothing like 'em in these parts. But for 
 
LAST SCENE OF ALL 169 
 
 that cussed stone they'd have have got you through in 
 time, sure! David came right back home himself, 
 that night. They're powerful good hosses but, as I 
 told you, David is a leetle just a leetle the best." 
 
 The kind Bartrams were not forgotten. For some 
 years Wally had fretted under an uncomfortable mort- 
 gage on his little place. Ernest paid it off, and he and 
 his wife gratified the honest pair by making them a 
 day's visit. 
 
 Emmett Ashley had no need to be helped in a mate- 
 rial way; but he was a guest at the wedding, where few 
 were invited, was running over with good nature and 
 was proud in the friendship of the bride and groom. 
 He took a personal interest in happiness that he had 
 done so much to secure. 
 
 That wedding was a quiet, unostentatious affair. 
 Through dark ways and devious paths these two had 
 finally reached their happy goal. And " all's well that 
 ends well." 
 
 It is the wedding night. The simple ceremony is 
 over; the supper has been eaten; the congratulations 
 spoken, the guests have departed. It is late at night; 
 the house is still and dark. 
 
 But not entirely dark. In the chamber of Elias Lear, 
 still an honored guest at this mansion, and urged to 
 prolong his stay, a light burns. 
 
 The detective has been sitting alone for an hour. He 
 has been thinking of the past; the recent past, the past 
 far gone. Tenderly, sadly has he thought of it. The 
 happiness of June and Ernest has given him the deepest 
 satisfaction. He thinks of them as though they were 
 his own children. But his thoughts go back to another, 
 whom he may not see. The old man becomes young 
 again. He takes her picture from its place near his 
 heart; he gazes with a kind of rapture at the beautiful 
 face; he kisses it again. 
 
LAST SCBNE OF ALL 
 
 " I have done what would have pleased her,'* fee 
 murmurs. " Does she not know it?" 
 
 And he seeks his tranquil pillow, as one who knows 
 that the greatest blessing of this life is: 
 
 " To learn the luxury of doing good." 
 
 THE END. 
 
PIANOS. 
 
 The Pianos bearing the above name stand pre-eminently in the front 
 rank, and are conceded to be the highest achievement in the art of piano 
 manufacturing, containing, in a wonderful degree, all the essential qualities 
 of a perfect piano. 
 
 FAULTLESS TONE, 
 
 PERFECTION IN ACTION, 
 
 EXTREME DURABILITY, 
 
 ELEGANCE IN DESIGN and FINISH. 
 And are universally endorsed by leading musicians and musical people. 
 
 SHONINGER ORGANS 
 
 ARE THE LEADING ORGANS OF THE WORLD 
 
 Because they are the best. 
 
 These celebrated Organs have been before the public for over thirty-five years, and aro 
 acknowledged to be the BEST ORGANS KTOW HADE. 
 
 Medals and Fh-st Premium wherever exhibited. 
 
 OVER 95,000 IN USE. 
 
 ESTAJ3L.ISHE3D 185O. 
 
 Semd for catalogue to 
 
 *B. s^ionsriisroEi^L oo., 
 
 345 STATE STREET, CHICAGO. 
 Factories, New Haven, Conn. 
 
SHORT V LINE 
 
 F-i^onvc 
 C H I C AG (Via C., M. & St. P. Ey.) 
 
 - TO - 
 
 PINTO m MODE, 
 
 HARLffETTE, WIS. FT. HOWARD, WIS. 
 GREEN BAY, WIS. DE PERE, WIS. 
 
 NEENAH, WIS. MENASHA, WIS. 
 
 APPLETON, WIS. 
 
 MARQTTETTE, Mich. HANCOCK, Mich. 
 
 ISHPEMING, Mich. HOUGHTON, Mich. 
 NEGAUNEE, Mich. L'ANSE, Mich. 
 
 EEP UBLIC, Mich. CHAMPION, Mich. 
 
 CALUMET, Mich. 
 And all Paints on the G. B. W. & St. P. Railway. 
 
 PULLMAN PALACE SLEEPING CARS 
 
 ON ALL NIGHT TRAINS. 
 
 C. F. DUTTON, W. B. SHEARDOWN, 
 
 General Superintendent. General Ticket Agent. 
 
KAMAKEE LINE, 
 
 THE POPULAR ROUTE BETWEEN 
 
 The Best and Quickest Route between Chicago and Chattanooga, 
 
 Atlanta, Macon, Savannah, Jacksonville, Florida, 
 
 and all points in the Southeast. 
 
 THE ENTIRE TRAINS 
 
 run through without change between Chicago, Lafayette, Indianapolis 
 and Cincinnati. Elegant Parlor Cars on Day Trains. Pullman Sleepers 
 and Luxurious Reclining Chair Cars on Night Trains. Pullman Sleeper 
 Cars through without change from Cincinnati to Jacksonville, Florida. 
 
 Special Pullman Sleepers between Chicago and Indianapolis. Passen- 
 gers arriving in Indianapolis at 3 125 a. m. may remain in the car until 
 8 o'clock. North-bound, the car will be ready to receive passengers at 9 p. m. 
 and will stand on spur track west of Union Depot. 
 
 Trains depart from and arrive at Lake Street, Twenty-second Street 
 and Thirty-ninth Street Depots, Chicago, the Union Depot, Indianapolis, 
 and Grand Central Passenger Station, Cincinnati, which is situated in the 
 very heart of the city and in the immediate vicinity of the principal 
 hotels and business center. 
 
 Connection with all Trains 
 
 of Cincinnati Southern Ry., C. W. & B. and C. C. C. & I. Ry., are made 
 in the same depot at Cincinnati, thus avoiding the tedious omnibus transfer 
 incident to other lines. 
 
 Tickets for sale at the principal ticket offices. 
 
 Tor detailed information, Time Tables, Maps, Rates of Passage of 
 The Kankakee Line, Address 
 
 J. C. TUCKER, 
 Gen'l N. W. Pass. Agt., 121 Randolph St., CHJCAUO. 
 
 JOHN EGAtf, Gen'l Pass, and Ticket Agt., Cincinnati, O. 
 
THE GREATEST DETECTIVE STORY 
 
 EVER WRITTEN. 
 
 This sterling romance possesses all the strength of a marvel- 
 usly developed story of detective experience, and yet has a grand, 
 realistic basis upon which ft is founded. ITS OFFICIAL RECOG- 
 NITION IS MADE MANIFEST by the following letter: 
 
 City of Chicago, Department of Police, 
 
 CHICAGO, August I, 1886. 
 6EO. W. 06ILVIE, Publisher, Chicago, III.: 
 
 DEAR SIR In furnishing the facts concerning the celebrated 
 Artesian Well tragedy, which form the initial chapter of " Manacle 
 and Bracelet," we have given many details hitherto unknown to the 
 public. 
 
 The dark deeds committed by the criminal elasses are often hid 
 by Impenetrable mystery, as in this noted case, and the sagacity of 
 the police, the shrewdness of the assassin, and ait the elements of 
 Intrigue and plot, present in such tragedies, have been woven into a 
 romajise of rare interest, with what Is most unusual, a basis of soJid 
 feets. Truly yours, JOSEPH KIPLEY, 
 
 JOHN D. SHEA, 
 Chiefs of Deteetlvis. 
 
 No pains or expense havo been spared In the illustrations of this 
 story, and it will delight the reader and open a new and varied 
 field of genuine detective exploit. " Manacle and Bracelet " It M 
 ordinary romance, and will prove beyond doiibt the great snooess of 
 the year. 
 
 FOR SALE BY THE NEWS AGENT ON THIS TRAIN. 
 
ESTABLISHED IN 1877. 
 
 THE CHICAGO VACUUM, MEDICAL AND SURGICAL INSTITUTE, 
 
 Dr. H. N. JD. JPARKER, Proprietor. 
 
 Office. Room 10 113 Adams St., North-east cor. Clark. 
 
 OFFICE HOURS: ELKVATOR ENTRANCE, 
 
 10 to 12 and 1 to & 4BMt 113 Adams Street. 
 
 A METHOD OF CURE WITHOUT MEDICINE. 
 
 For Paralysis^ Rheumatism, Consumption, Asthma, Insomnia, Neuresthenia, Ner- 
 vous Exhaustion, Writers' Cramp, Operators' Paralysis, Diseases of the Spine, 
 Kidneys, Liver, Spleen, Heart, Digestive Organs, Diseases of the Brain, Nerves 
 and Nerve centers, Curvatures of the Spine, Tumors, Shrunken, Atrophied or Un- 
 developed Limbs or parts of the Body, Impptency, Spermatorrhea, ana all Diseases 
 of the Procreative Orgaas, Paralysis Agitans, Locomotoe Ataxia, Bright's Dis- 
 ease. Diabetes, Inflammation of the bladder or Urinary Organs, Hemorrhage of 
 the Lungs, or Uterus, etc. 
 
 For the overworked, either physically or mentally, this treatment is of inesti- 
 mable value. It immediately relieves the congested nerve centers, stimulates the 
 circulation (equalizes the circulation of the blood), affording nutrition to all parts 
 of the system. The vacuum Treatment is entirely mechanical, scientific and nat- 
 ural, assisting nature in restoring the circulation of the blood and nerve vital fluids 
 to any and all parts of the diseased body. This improved circulation produces 
 health. Its stoppage in any part produces disease to that part, and if not arrested 
 will soon pervade every part of the system, causing DISEASE and finally DEATH. 
 
 ZVi-e Vacuum Treatment immediately restores the circulation of the life- 
 giving fluids to any and all parts of the body, restoring the diseased body (or parts 
 of it) to a strong and healthy condition. The above cut partly illustrates my 
 method of treating disease. I have instruments for treating every part of the body. 
 By its means I am enabled to withdraw, displace accumulate or concentrate a >art 
 of the blood, according as the varying circumstances of the constitution, ag, exist- 
 ing disease, etc., of the patient may render expedient. Though the blood is with- 
 drawn from the suffering part, not one drop is lost. Health is the result of good 
 blood, well circulated through free channels. In chronic diseases the capillaries, 
 or small blood vessels, become contracted or obstructed by the accumulation of 
 morbid matter; hence, disease of every name or nature. It is through the CAPIL- 
 LARIES that the body is nourished; the restoration of the circulation of the blood 
 to the diseased organs restores that organ to its normal condition, HEALTH. 
 
 The proprietor and manager ox this Institute, Dr. H. N. D. PARKER, 
 has had Twenty Tears* practical experience with the Pneumatic-Equalizer 01 
 Vacuum Treatment, for the CURE of Acute and Chronic Disease without 
 medicine, and the enviable reputation that this treatment now has is unquestiona- 
 bly due to his professional skill 2m& care of each individual case. 
 
 Pamphlets containing valuable information regarding this method, and tes- 
 timonials and references at the office or by mail free. Consultation at the office of 
 by mail, $1.00. Send your address for pamphlet. 
 

 &\ 
 
 f 
 
 SIM 
 >*: 
 
 ^ilN^^ 
 
 W f ^r?^ 
 
 V 2 
 
 . A^-*^* 
 
 '-'--** "%*,/ -X^-i/.k* -^v '-' 
 
 a^lfefe^ 
 
 Mf^fe^fV,*?^ 
 
 *^" 
 
 I 
 S^ 
 
 Sr"4i^i 
 
 is 
 
 ^^^ 
 
! 03663 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 g^s*s*2Sfi