THE MAN WITH ATHUMB
 
 THE 
 
 MAN WITH A THUMB 
 
 BY 
 
 W. C. HUDSON 
 
 (BARCLA V NORTH) 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE DIAMOND BUTTON: WHOSE WAS IT?' 
 
 "JACK GORDON, KNIGHT ERRANT, GOTHAM, 1883," 
 
 "VIVIER, OF VIVIER. LONGMAN & CO., 
 
 BANKERS," ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE
 
 COPYRIGHT, 
 
 1891, 
 BY CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
 RAHWAY, N. J.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. " WHY ! IT is BLOOD ! " , . . i 
 
 II. A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY, . . . 
 
 III. "How FORTUNE PLIES HER SPORTS," 
 
 
 
 IV. THE HEARING EAR AND THE SEEING EYE, 
 
 V. LETS IN NEW LIGHT THROUGH CHINKS, 
 
 VI. WEAVING A THEORY, .... 
 
 VII. SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION, 
 
 VIII. AN ADVENTURE 
 
 IX. THE MAN WITH A THUMB, .... 
 
 X. BY WAYS UNKNOWN, .... 
 
 XI. TALL, SLIM, WITH BROWN HAIR, 
 
 XII. NARROWING THE CIRCLE, . . 
 
 XIII. NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS, . . . .133 
 
 XIV. LOWERING SKIES, 146 
 
 XV. CRUSHING A REBELLION, . . . .156 
 
 XVI. BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS, . 164 
 
 XVII. PIECING OUT A STORY, .... 177 
 
 XVIII. THE STORY PIECED OUT, ... 195 
 
 XIX. EUSTACE IN THE TOILS, . . . . 204 
 
 XX. A MYSTERY REPEALED, .... 218 
 
 iii 
 
 2138242
 
 iv CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXI. AN UNEXPECTED TURN, . . . . 227 
 
 XXII. STRANGE REVELATIONS, .... 238 
 
 XXIII. A SIGN IT is OF EVIL LIFE, . . .251 
 
 XXIV. CATHCART CLOSES HIS BOOKS, . . 261 
 XXV. CONCLUSION, 265
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " WHY ! IT IS BLOOD. 
 
 OCTOBER of 1879 and a brisk evening. The 
 hour is nine. People walk rapidly under the 
 stimulus of the cool night air. 
 
 One of the number, however, does not. Closely 
 examining the buildings on either side of the street, 
 he moves along slowly. Sometimes he stops on 
 the curbstone and gazes intently at a house upon 
 the opposite side. Thus he makes slow progress 
 until he reaches the corner of Broadway and Bleecker 
 Street. Here he stops and peers down the cross 
 street. Apparently he debates with himself as to 
 which way he shall go. Slowly he walks off in the 
 direction of the Bowery and into the middle of 
 events which powerfully influence his whole life. 
 
 He was a tall, athletic man. A careless observer 
 would have said he was nearly forty. But he was 
 in fact barely thirty-one. The stern, deep-seated 
 lines of his face, suggesting settled grief, or harsh 
 experiences in life, made him appear older than he 
 was these, and an expression of habitual melan- 
 choly.
 
 2 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 His course lay upon the lower or south side of 
 Bleecker Street. Crossing Crosby, he walked a few 
 rods and then stopped in front of a house upon the 
 opposite side. 
 
 Certainly, the reason lay in no peculiarity of the 
 house. It was not particularly distinguished from 
 its neighbors. As a matter of fact it bore a resem- 
 blance to them all, for it was one of a row o v f old- 
 fashioned houses all built at the same time. Though 
 degraded from the high rank they had once held, 
 they had not lost entirely their pretentions to dig- 
 nity. Dingy they had become, but that air of 
 spaciousness, so lacking in our modern architecture, 
 they still possessed. In spite of the degenerate 
 times upon which they had fallen, they still had the 
 power to force you to consider the days when they 
 were prosperous and fashionable. 
 
 This particular house was of brick, three stories 
 high with a low basement. The windows of the 
 second and third stories were ablaze with light, and 
 at them were to be seen, even at that hour, the 
 occupants of the rooms they lit, at work. The first 
 or parlor floor was dark. The front door, with its 
 rounded casement, minutely carved, to which a 
 flight of three or four marble steps led, was wide 
 open, but there was no light in the hall. Between 
 what were once, at least, the parlor windows, 
 fastened to the brick front was a new oval sign, 
 displaying a young woman whose yellow bodice 
 was very low, whose blue skirts were very short, 
 and whose red boots were very high, dancing upon
 
 "WHY! IT IS BLOOD" 3 
 
 rose-colored clouds, a suggestion of ethereality 
 utterly destroyed by the robustness of her nether 
 limbs and the abnormal breadth of her bared shoul- 
 ders. While she danced she held a black mask 
 before eyes roguishly but fixedly cast, indiscrim- 
 inately, upon all passers-by. Over her head were 
 the words, " Madame Delamour"; under her feet 
 the single one " Costumer. " 
 
 Under these parlor windows, stretching across 
 the whole width of the house, was a long, narrow 
 sign bearing the words, " Weinhandlung." 
 
 One of the windows of the basement front had 
 been transformed into a door. On either side of 
 this door was a tub painted green. In each tub 
 was an evergreen tree, slowly turning yellow. The 
 iron fence which once had separated the sunken 
 area from the pavement had been remoyed. The 
 light streamed forth brightly and invitingly from 
 both door and window. 
 
 " That is the house," muttered the young man 
 on the other side of the street. " To what base 
 uses we may return, and so forth. I have a fancy to 
 see the inside of it." 
 
 Crossing the street the young man entered the 
 " Weinhandlung." Inside he swept the room with 
 his eyes, and an expression of astonishment mingled 
 with disappointment passed over his face. 
 
 To accommodate the business of the dispenser 
 of wines, the partitions had been torn out, so that 
 the whole basement floor was one room. Where 
 the hall had been the bar was, and behind the bar 

 
 4 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 a stolid-looking German, smoking a long pipe, con- 
 templating without the suggestion of an expression 
 upon his large, round face, a group noisily playing 
 a game of cards. In the rear of the room were 
 two billiard tables. In the corner on the left as 
 one entered was a round table at which there were 
 four chairs and on it several newspapers. 
 
 The young man sat himself at this table, taking 
 the chair in the corner, which, while it secured him 
 comparative privacy, enabled him to command the 
 room at a glance. At one of the small tables in the 
 middle of the room, and in close proximity to the 
 card-players, sat an old gentleman, perhaps seventy, 
 deeply engrossed in his newspaper. As the young 
 man entered he lifted his head. Something in the 
 new-comer's appearance arrested his attention. He 
 laid his paper upon his knees and followed the 
 young man with his eyes, and his face took on an 
 expression of perplexity. Though he resumed 
 reading, his eyes ever and anon wandered to the 
 young man in the corner. Soon his paper lost 
 interest for him, for he again laid it on his knees and 
 looked into space over his spectacles, without losing 
 his thoughtful, perplexed expression. 
 
 The young man summoned- the stolid proprietor 
 and ordered a stoup of wine and a cigar. His 
 orders complied with, he struck a match, and as he 
 held it up in the air with his right hand, until the 
 sulphur should have burned away, he held his cigar 
 within an inch of his lips with his left hand. The 
 old gentleman, watching him covertly, smiled ;
 
 "WHY ! IT IS BLOOD." 5 
 
 the wrinkles on his brow vanished, the perplexed 
 expression passed away, and nodding to himself 
 approvingly, he returned to his paper. By-and-bye 
 he beckoned to the proprietor, and by a gesture 
 indicated that he desired the empty glass at his 
 elbow refilled. An unusually loud outburst came 
 from the card-players ; with a smothered exclama- 
 tion of disgust, he picked up his glass and crossed 
 to the table at which the young man was sitting, 
 saying politely: 
 
 " Shall I be intruding if I seat myself at this 
 table ? Our friends, the card-players, are boister- 
 ous ; they annoy me." 
 
 " By no means," replied the young man. " I 
 imagine every vacant chair in the room belongs to 
 the man who claims it." 
 
 With a bow, the old man sat down. 
 
 " Perhaps so," he said, " but an etiquette obtains, 
 or should obtain even here, and I would not intrude 
 upon one wishing to be alone." 
 
 " I am alone," returned the young man, " not 
 because I wish to be, but because, in a whole cityful 
 of people, I am." 
 
 " A stranger to the city, then? " inquired the old 
 man. 
 
 " Yes, and no," was the reply, in the manner of 
 one propounding a riddle. " I am not a stranger, 
 for I was born here. I am, because I have been 
 continuously absent for the past eight years. I 
 walked the streets to-day without seeing a face I 
 knew, and I do not know where to go to find one I 
 formerly did know."
 
 6 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " New York is a large city, and like all large 
 cities its face takes on a new expression each year. 
 You have but just returned then ? " 
 
 " This morning." 
 
 " It is strange the more celebrated places did not 
 attract you." 
 
 " I stepped out of my hotel near by for the fresh 
 air, and I strolled hither under the influence of a 
 recollection of my boyhood, almost infantile, days." 
 
 For an instant only, the old man peered over his 
 glasses sharply at his companion, and then said : 
 
 " I am much attached to this house, not because 
 my habit leads me here nightly, but because I have 
 been familiar with it ever since I was a young man." 
 
 The old man lifted his glass and sipped his beer, 
 apparently unconscious that he had said anything 
 to attract the increased attention the young man 
 gave him. 
 
 " Even younger than you are now," he continued. 
 " Lord ! Lord ! what dinners I have eaten what 
 gay times I have had in this very room. A young 
 friend of mine we boarded in Chambers Street 
 together in those days bought this house while it 
 was yet building, and when it was finished, carried 
 his sweet young bride into it. And a great house- 
 warming we had too. I was opposed to it that is, 
 to the house ; I thought it too fine for him to begin 
 on ; for you must know, young sir, there were few 
 finer houses in this city when this was built. Yet 
 he could afford it. Young as he was, he was the 
 head of a flourishing business, built up by his
 
 "WHY! IT IS BLOOD." 7 
 
 father, who had died and left it to his only son, 
 with a number of old and experienced clerks. Yes, 
 indeed, no house in this city stood higher than that 
 of Dorison & Co." 
 
 As the old man indulged his reminiscential vein, 
 the younger kept his dafk eyes fixed upon him, and 
 at the mention of the name of the firm the color 
 crept slowly into his cheeks. 
 
 " Yes, there have been gay times in this old 
 house," continued the old man. " I have seen the 
 beauty and chivalry of old New York gathered 
 within these walls. Sometimes when the weather 
 is fair I venture out to the park to see the ladies 
 drive by, whom as young girls, in all their bravery 
 of silks and laces, I have seen sweep up and down 
 these stairs. Happy times, indeed ! I was always 
 welcome here as the confidential friend of the head 
 of the house, and I love it in its degradation. I 
 have seen sorrow and mourning here, too. I have 
 followed each one of Dorison's children through 
 the door above to their graves save the youngest, 
 a boy. But the time came when this house was 
 not fine enough for Dorison, and he moved into a 
 brownstone front in Twenty-third Street. There 
 disaster fell upon him. His wife died and he was 
 never the same man. He retired from business a 
 mistake, for the time hung heavily on his hands, 
 and he drooped. His only interest was his only 
 son only child in fact. I saw him daily if in 
 town, but in those years, having interests abroad, I 
 was away from town a great deal."
 
 & THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 He interrupted himself to sip his beer. Had he 
 looked at the young man he would have seen a most 
 singular expression on his face ; high color showing 
 through his dusky skin and eyes intense and burn- 
 ing. The old man did not, for he continued calmly; 
 
 " Dorison and his son lived in this fine house 
 alone for some years. Then one morning early, a 
 servant entering the library found Dorison bent 
 over the table at work. Wondering at the early 
 rising of his master, he spoke. Receiving no 
 answer, he went up to him. Dorison was dead. 
 He had died in the act of writing a letter. The 
 most singular thing of it was, that his executors 
 found that he, whom we all supposed so rich, had 
 not a dollar. The very house he lived in was mort- 
 gaged to its full value." 
 
 The young man leaned forward, and extending 
 his hand laid it upon the arm of the elder man, say- 
 ing with great decision : 
 
 " You have a purpose in telling me this story ! " 
 
 The old man looked up with a surprised air as he 
 replied : 
 
 " What purpose, young sir, could I have in telling 
 such a story to an entire stranger? " 
 
 The young man made no reply for a moment, but 
 continued to gaze steadily into the eyes of the elder 
 one, as if thinking profoundly. Then he said in a 
 deep, low voice, quivering with emotion : 
 
 "I will continue the story. Mr. Dorison was 
 fond of the young man his son, treating him indul- 
 gently and giving him a most generous allowance.
 
 "WHY ; IT is BLOOD:* 
 
 The son was a youngster caught up in the whirl of 
 fashion a member of the leading clubs, following 
 what you doubtless would call a fast life, but as 
 compared with others not fast. If extravagant, he 
 brought no trouble upon his father ; if reckless in 
 his life, no disgrace upon the name of Dorison. 
 The letter his father was writing, when he was so 
 suddenly stricken with death, ruined the son. To 
 whom this letter was addressed, or what the father's 
 motive in writing it, never was known, and it is 
 doubtful now whether these things ever will be 
 known. The letter ran thus : 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND : The end is well-nigh 
 reached. Indeed, if you cannot immediately give 
 me the assistance I need, it is even now reached. 
 With such assistance and a few years more of life, 
 all can be repaired. I am a broken man in spirit 
 and in health. The last few years I have been tor- 
 tured as no human being ever was, I believe. I 
 have been compelled to sit helplessly by and see a 
 fine property devoted to covering the consequences 
 of crime ; to making good forgeries on my own 
 name, against which I could not even lift my voice 
 in protest ; to repairing losses of others by rob- 
 beries and defalcations ; to stopping the wheels of 
 justice, which if permitted to go on would have 
 brought exposure and disgrace ; and all the while 
 have been compelled to sustain and conceal the 
 knowledge that all this was done and brought upon 
 me by an ungrateful son, who " 
 
 " Death fell upon him," continued the young man, 
 "the moment he had condemned the son. To 
 whom was this letter addressed ? Crushed and
 
 10 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 agonized, the son in a frenzy sought the one to 
 whom it was written as a means of proving that the 
 condemnation of the son by the dying father was 
 untrue. All efforts were unavailing. The fact of 
 the condemnation was bruited about ; it became 
 known in the cnubs ; it became public property ; it 
 was published in the papers ; the police undertook 
 to bring the crimes alleged against the son home to 
 him, but they were no more successful than he was 
 in his efforts to disprove them. His friends fell 
 away from him ; the doors of his acquaintances were 
 closed against him ; he was cut on the streets. 
 Efforts being made to expel him from one club, he 
 resigned from all and fled the city, practically pen- 
 niless, under an assumed name. Seeking employ- 
 ment in a Western city, he remained until a few days 
 ago, when, under an impulse he could not restrain, 
 he returned to the city of his birth after eight years' 
 absence. I am he John Dorison disgraced by 
 his dead father, not by himself." 
 
 " I was sure of it ; I was sure of it," murmured 
 the old man. 
 
 " You too," continued the young man, his voice 
 trembling with the violence of his emotion, "you 
 too, a friend of my father, believed and do now 
 believe the libel my father left me as his only 
 heritage." 
 
 There was something so despairing and even 
 pathetic in the attitude and intensity of the young 
 man, that the spectacles of the old gentleman 
 became dimmed with moisture. There was no
 
 "WHY ! IT IS BLOOD" II 
 
 appeal for belief in the tones of the young man. 
 The elder read utter hopelessness in the intense 
 dark eyes bent upon him ; he saw the grief under- 
 lying the strong face which he had newly aroused 
 was an old settled grief, not one finding expression 
 in wild gestures and fierce words, but one that had 
 come to abide with the young man forever, with 
 which its possessor had become familiar as with a 
 daily companion from whom he never expected to 
 be parted. 
 
 The old gentleman, regarding the face of the 
 younger closely and for the first time openly, 
 replied slowly and forcibly : 
 
 " No ; I did not believe the charge when I first 
 heard it ; I never have believed it ; I do not believe 
 it now." 
 
 The reply was unexpected. Dorison fell back 
 in his chair with a gasp, staring blankly at the elder 
 man. At the end of eight years, and for the first 
 time, he had found one who believed him innocent 
 of the charges. 
 
 "You believe me innocent of those vile 
 charges ? " 
 
 " I do," emphatically returned the old man. 
 " When your father died I was absent from the 
 city. After I returned and I learned the circum- 
 stances, I sought you to say so and to offer my 
 assistance, but you had left the city." 
 
 Still staring at the elder man as if not compre- 
 hending what was said to him, Dorison remained
 
 12 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 silent. Suddenly, and the question came as if 
 driven from a gun, he asked : 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because," replied the old man slowly, " I knew 
 something of your life ; because I had heard your 
 father praise your conduct, your character, and 
 your rectitude, and, therefore, believed that in his 
 sane mind he could not mean you ; because of cer- 
 tain matters within my own knowledge, perhaps it 
 were better to say suspicions, which I have never 
 mentioned to any man and which I will not now, 
 at all events until I can look over my papers and 
 refresh my memory. That letter of your father's 
 has always been an incomprehensible mystery to 
 me, and the most charitable construction I can put 
 upon it is that he was not a sane man when he 
 penned it. But what became of his great fortune ? " 
 
 The young man laughed bitterly. 
 
 " Your words, the first of belief in my innocence 
 I have ever heard, are grateful and comforting. If 
 your belief were based upon more substantial rea- 
 sons, it would give me what I am now utterly with- 
 out hope. My life has been ruined by that unfin- 
 ished letter. Such is the only result I have reached 
 after eight years of endeavor to fathom the incom- 
 prehensibility." 
 
 " My dear young sir," said the old man, kindly, 
 but with a tone of pain in his voice, as he leaned 
 forward and laid his hand upon the arm of the 
 younger one, " I can understand your bitterness. 
 I sympathize with you from the bottom of my
 
 "WHY! IT IS BLOOD." 13 
 
 heart. I admire you, that with the strong feeling 
 you naturally have, you have given expression to 
 not one word of abuse of the parent who did you 
 this, almost irreparable injury. However, it is time 
 for me to go to bed. Come and see me to-morrow 
 at my office. We will talk this matter over then 
 and see what can be done. Here is my card. 
 Good-night." 
 
 The old man went out briskly. Dorison re- 
 mained staring at the card, which bore these 
 words, " Job Nettleman. Commercial paper nego- 
 tiated. No. Broad Street, New York City." 
 
 He fell back in his chair in a confusion of 
 thought. Light seemed to be breaking upon his 
 dark horizon. Would the sun rise ? One man 
 believed him innocent. It was not much, to be 
 sure, but he could not let go the fact. His mem- 
 ory was aroused to acute activity. He lived over 
 again those agonized days following the death of 
 his father; his frenzy, his wild rebelling against 
 his fate, his desperate endeavors to escape the evil 
 consequences of that unfinished letter ; his mad 
 efforts to prove himself guiltless all this passed in 
 review before him, and again he felt the sharpness, 
 the bitterness, the agony of those days, and he 
 became oblivious to his surroundings. 
 
 Suddenly he was startled into consciousness of 
 external things by-a cry of horrified surprise. It 
 came from one of the card-players : 
 
 " Why ! it is blood."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 
 
 was commotion in the room at once. 
 1 Every one sprang to his feet. Crowding 
 about the table from whence the outcry came, they 
 looked up to the ceiling, from whence the drop 
 which had excited the exclamation had apparently 
 fallen. 
 
 A long, irregular crack in the ceiling was plainly 
 visible. At one end, that over the table, a small, 
 dark spot was to be seen. Dorison, who had come 
 with the rest, sprang upon the table. Hardly had 
 he assumed an erect position when the small, dark 
 spot, resolving itself into a globule, dropped off, 
 barely escaping his clothes, being immediately suc- 
 ceeded by another spot. 
 
 " It is blood," he said. "It is dripping through 
 this crack. It must come from the floor above. 
 Who occupies it ? " 
 
 All eyes were turned upon the German proprie- 
 tor, who, in reply to this mute questioning, said : 
 
 " I don't know. Dey haf shoost move in. Dey 
 vos kostumers." 
 
 " Some one may have been murdered," suggested 
 a voice in the crowd. 
 
 In an instant, as if by a common impulse, every 
 14
 
 A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 1$ 
 
 one ran out and mounted the steps leading to the 
 front door, leaving Dorison alone with the proprie- 
 tor. The trampling of many feet upon the floor 
 above and poundings on the door for admission 
 was heard. 
 
 Clambering down from the table, Dorison asked 
 the German if there was not a rear entrance to the 
 first floor. 
 
 " Yaw," replied the German. " Go dat door 
 owit and oop the stairs." 
 
 Dorison hurried through the door pointed out 
 and found, at his right, a flight of steps which he 
 ascended quickly. Pushing open the door at the 
 top, he entered a sheltered veranda. He tried the 
 door leading into the hall, but it was locked. He 
 sought the first window opening on the veranda, 
 and on trying to lift the lower sash it ran up with 
 ease. A curtain obstructed his way, which he 
 pushed aside and stepped into a large, square room, 
 unfurnished, save by two chairs and a worn carpet. 
 The gas burned dimly at a side jet. 
 
 He crossed the room to the sliding doors, which 
 were closed, but he found no difficulty in throwing 
 one back. Heavy curtains confronted him ; part- 
 ing them he passed into a room well lighted. 
 
 He recoiled with an exclamation of horror. At 
 his feet lay the body' of a woman weltering in her 
 own blood. Of steady nerves and strong self-con- 
 trol, yet the scene sickened him, and he staggered 
 back almost fainting, the while those in the hall 
 were thundering at the door.
 
 1 6 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 The woman had fallen forward, and as she had 
 done so her face had been turned toward her right 
 shoulder, her right arm stretched out as if she had 
 grasped at something and missed it. Where the 
 neck was exposed an small gash was seen from 
 which the blood had spurted and streamed in tor- 
 rents, covering her dress and all things in her 
 immediate vicinity. A small stand, evidently heavily 
 weighted with articles of clothing of fantastic color 
 and shape, had been overturned in the struggle 
 which preceded the murder, for the goods were 
 scattered some distance and the woman had fallen 
 upon them. 
 
 Recovering almost immediately from the first 
 shock of surprise and horror, Dorison bent over the 
 body. It was that of a young woman, perhaps 
 twenty-six or seven. The face was prepossessing, 
 and he conjectured she might in life have been 
 called handsome. 
 
 He made a rapid survey of the room. At his 
 right and in front of the mantel-piece was a long, 
 narrow table, with deep drawers in it and the top 
 of which was covered with blue felt. Against the 
 wall, on all sides, were fitted drawers surmounted 
 by shelves, filled with goods. Over the windows 
 and the two doors opening into the hall, curtains 
 were drawn closely. 
 
 Immediately at his left hand, within his reach, 
 was a small round table. On it were two articles. 
 Barely conscious of his act, he stretched forth his 
 hand and took them up. One was a ring, the other
 
 A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. I? 
 
 a small, old-fashioned oval portrait in a narrow gilt 
 frame. 
 
 He was astonished overwhelmed. 
 
 The portrait was a picture of his father, taken at 
 least twenty years before his death. He could not 
 trust his senses. Was his imagination affected by 
 the horror of the scene and playing him tricks ? He 
 looked at it again. There could be no mistake. 
 He examined the ring. He recognized this too. 
 He had seen it in his boyhood days, a hundred 
 times, on his father's finger. 
 
 Confused and overwhelmed, and under an im- 
 pulse he could not analyze, he slipped them both 
 into his pocket. 
 
 There was a new movement in the hall and new 
 steps, which had in them the sound of authority. 
 
 A voice said : 
 
 " We can't open that door." 
 
 "Then we'll break it down," said a stern "one in 
 reply. 
 
 Aroused, Dorison undertook to step over the 
 prostrate body at his feet, intending to open the 
 door. As he did so he saw a piece of paper in the 
 hand of the murdered girl. Moved by an uncon- 
 trollable impulse, and without reason governing 
 him, he bent down quickly and gently disengaged 
 it. Hastening now to the door, as he was about to 
 push back the curtain, he perceived upon the floor 
 a large piece which he picked up and pocketed 
 under the same singular impulse. 
 
 Drawing the bolts, he opened the door, just as
 
 1 8 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 two policemen placed their shoulders against it to 
 burst it open. They fell upon him, and without his 
 assistance would have fallen to the floor. 
 
 A man in citizen's clothes pushed his way 
 between the two policemen and hastily swept the 
 room with his keen eyes. Observing the body on 
 the floor, he turned to the officers and said : 
 
 " Guard that door. Let no one in or out." 
 
 Walking over to where the body lay, he closely 
 examined it and the surroundings. Then he came 
 back to Dorison and demanded : 
 
 " What were you doing here ? " 
 
 " Who are you ? " demanded Dorison in return. 
 
 "An officer of the law. Answer my question." 
 
 " I entered from the rear, while the others were 
 trying to force an entrance from the front." 
 
 The officer, who was the most celebrated detec- 
 tive of his day, bent a piercing look upon Dorison, 
 who, however, did not flinch from the scrutiny. 
 
 " We'll see about that. Dolan," he said, turn- 
 ing to an officer in uniform, " arrest this man." 
 
 " I shall not attempt to prevent you from arrest- 
 ing me," said Dorison quietly, but firmly. " But 
 you must make no mistakes, for I shall not forgive 
 them." 
 
 This calmness and self-possession made an 
 impression on the officer. 
 
 " How is it that you were here alone ? " he asked. 
 
 " I have told you. After the alarm was raised, 
 all who were in the saloon below ran up to this 
 door except myself. I asked the proprietor if there
 
 A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 19 
 
 was not a rear entrance, and being told there was, 
 came up that way and made an easy entrance." 
 
 " Yaw. Das iss so," remarked the proprietor of 
 the saloon, from the door. " Dey vos all gone owit 
 an' he ask me. I say go oop de back stairs." 
 
 " He was drinking in your saloon then ? " 
 
 " Yaw. He drink ein glass wine and smoke ein 
 cigar, and talk mit old Mr. Nettleman all de night." 
 
 " The gentleman sat with the rest of us, Cap- 
 tain," said another voice from the hall. " When 
 the man cried out that blood was dropping on his 
 cards, the gentleman jumped on the table to see 
 where it was coming from." 
 
 " I see," said the Captain, in an altered tone, and 
 turning to Dorison said : " It was imprudent of 
 you to attempt an entrance before the officers were 
 called." 
 
 " Perhaps," returned Dorison, with a sober smile. 
 " In such emergencies, however, men are rarely 
 prudent. The prudent thing for me to do was to 
 walk away entirely. As it is, I presume I have 
 made a witness of myself for the coroner's inquest." 
 
 This was so true that the detective smiled and 
 regarded him with more favor. 
 
 " What is your name .' " he asked. 
 
 Dorison hesitated. He had registered himself at 
 a neighboring hotel under the name he had borne 
 since he left New York eight years before James 
 Dudley. He knew the next question would be his 
 address, and if he were to give his proper name an 
 examination of the register would discover the dis-
 
 20 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 crepancy, with a resulting suspicion. If, on the 
 contrary, he were to give his assumed name, he 
 would, if application were made to Mr. Nettleman, 
 since he had not given his assumed name to that 
 gentleman, be at a disadvantage in that quarter. 
 He perceived his dilemma without seeing his proper 
 course. 
 
 His hesitancy aroused the suspicion of the detec- 
 tive. With increased sternness the demand was 
 repeated. 
 
 Under the belief that less trouble would result 
 from using his registered name, he replied : 
 
 "James Dudley. I come from Dubuque, Iowa. 
 I am registered at the Grand Central. I arrived 
 in town at seven this morning. I have not been in 
 New York for eight years before." 
 
 "Why did you hesitate in answering?" 
 
 "Because I vainly thought by concealment of 
 my name I might escape the annoyance of being a 
 witness, but a moment's reflection showed me the 
 absurdity of the idea." 
 
 This was promptly said, but frank and ingenuous 
 as the reply seemed to those who heard it, the detec- 
 tive, looking into Dorison's eyes, saw something 
 there which did not satisfy him. 
 
 " Do you know this Mr. Nettleman ? " 
 
 " I have known about him all my life since boy- 
 hood." 
 
 " Does he know you ? " 
 
 " Yes " 
 
 At this moment two men in citizen's clothes, who
 
 A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 21 
 
 were admitted by the uniformed officers, entered 
 and took up their stations respectfully behind the 
 detective. 
 
 " What did you see when you entered ? " asked 
 the detective, after a long and keen examination of 
 Dorison's face. 
 
 " That," replied the young man, pointing to the 
 body on the floor. " I had but just entered when 
 you came." 
 
 The detective did not permit his eyes to follow 
 the pointed finger of Dorison, but still continued 
 his stern and searching examination, while Dorison 
 fully appreciated that he had become an object of 
 suspicion. 
 
 There was a slight diversion at the door. A man 
 of average height, inclined to be stout, perhaps 
 sixty, with shaven face, whose only striking feature 
 was a pair of eyes, small, dark, keen, active and 
 restless, who had been standing without the door, 
 pushed his way in. The officers guarding the door 
 made a motion as if to stop him, but, upon an 
 almost imperceptible nod from the Captain, per- 
 mitted him to enter. 
 
 The new-comer crossed to the table covered with 
 blue felt, his hands in his vest-pockets, and leaning 
 against the end furthest from the body, sent his 
 eyes into every part of the room with rapid darts, 
 finally fixing them on Dorison, without abandoning 
 the motionless attitude he had assumed on entering. 
 
 The detective began a systematic inspection of 
 the body, the room, the entrances thereto. He
 
 22 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 took the names of all present and those in the 
 saloon when the drop of blood was discovered. He 
 closely questioned the proprietor. The only fact 
 he elicited was that two weeks previously the rooms 
 had been rented by a woman, who announced that 
 she would conduct a costumer's business, and that 
 the saloon proprietor had never seen but one person 
 he knew to be connected with the business, and 
 that an old woman, and she but once. Brought in 
 to examine the body, he declared he had never 
 seen the woman in life, and did not know who she 
 was or where she came from. 
 
 The detective turned to Dorison again : 
 
 " When you ascended those back stairs, was the 
 door at the top open or shut ? " 
 
 " Shut." 
 
 " Did you try the door leading from the veranda 
 to the hall ? " 
 
 " I did, and found it locked." 
 
 " How did you enter ? " 
 
 " By the window, next the door." 
 
 V Was the sash raised as it is now ? " 
 
 " No ; I threw it up." 
 
 " It was not fastened then ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " How did you enter this room ? " 
 
 " Through those sliding doors." 
 
 " Were they open as now ? " 
 
 " No, I threw them back.'-' 
 
 " Was there ajight in the back room ? " 
 
 " Yes ; just as there is now."
 
 A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 2$ 
 
 Turning to one of the men in citizen's clothes, at 
 his back, the Captain said : 
 
 " Jones, go into that yard and see if it is possi- 
 ble for a man to make his escape over the fence 
 and reach the street." 
 
 " It would be possible for a man to descend 
 those back stairs, enter the saloon below from the 
 rear, and so gain the street," said the old man with 
 his hands in his vest-pockets, without moving. 
 
 The detective looked at him sharply and replied : 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 " He even might have sat down and drank beer 
 afterwards and been in the saloon when the blood 
 was discovered." 
 
 " That also might be true," returned the detec- 
 tive. 
 
 " The proprietor ought to know whether he 
 served a customer whom he did not notice enter 
 the front door." 
 
 " Again that may be so ; I'll inquire." 
 
 " Also," continued the old man, " if you are 
 speculating, your man might have entered the 
 saloon and slipped out to gain this room by the 
 rear as this young man did, and slipped back again 
 after he did the job." 
 
 " Ah," said the detective, turning a look of ap- 
 parent renewed interest upon Dorison. He took 
 the proprietor aside and questioned him on the 
 points raised by the old man. The German was 
 quite certain Dorison had never stirred from the 
 chair he seated himself in when he first entered,
 
 24 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 until the blood was discovered ; he was in full 
 sight and could not have moved without his knowl- 
 edge ; besides, he had talked all the time with Mr. 
 Nettleman, a fact that attracted his attention, since, 
 though the old gentleman came there nightly, he 
 rarely talked with any one. As to the possibilities 
 suggested by the old man with regard to others, he 
 could not speak so positively, though he did not 
 think that anything like that suggested by the old 
 man had occurred, because the saloon had not 
 been so full that he could not take cognizance of 
 every one in the place. When asked to look over 
 the throng in the hall to see if all were there who 
 were in the saloon when the blood was discovered, 
 he said after examination that while there were 
 some in the hall who were not in the saloon, there 
 was one who was in the saloon who had stood by 
 him in the hall when he was called in to see if he 
 could recognize the body, who was not there then. 
 He was a stranger who had come in early and 
 drank brandy. He could not describe him, save 
 that he was not an old man, was not tall, and had 
 brown hair and mustache. 
 
 " That undoubtedly is the man I want," said the 
 detective. 
 
 Sending Dorison to the Headquarters in charge 
 of one of the policemen, in order that a statement 
 as to himself and the events of the night might be 
 taken, and telling the officer to put a man on to 
 shadow Dorison after he left Headquarters, the 
 officer busied himself with completing his exami-
 
 A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 25 
 
 nation of the premises. Finally, leaving an officer 
 in charge, he went away, accompanied by the 
 remaining officer in plain, clothes. 
 
 " This night has not brought forth much," he said, 
 " but I suppose we can find out from the woman 
 who rented the rooms who the girl is. We must 
 hunt her up the first thing to-morrow morning. 
 That must be your job. " 
 
 "Go to the agent who rented the rooms, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes ; that's the quickest way." 
 
 " Do you think that fellow Dudley is mixed up 
 in it ?" 
 
 " He ? No, but he's concealing something. I 
 suspect he does not want to be too closely ques- 
 tioned about himself. But he hasn't anything to do 
 with this case." 
 
 " The old man turned up again prompt. " 
 
 " Yes, " replied the Captain. " He seems to have 
 the scent of a buzzard for a dead body. Strange 
 fancy, isn't it ? I once knew a fellow who had a 
 fancy for going to every funeral he could hear of, 
 whether he knew the people or not. This old fel- 
 low is a sharp old duck and has some excellent 
 ideas. But who he is I can't tell."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " HOW FORTUNE PLIES HER SPORTS." 
 
 JOHN DORISON awoke the next morning 
 betimes, with an uneasy sense of having passed 
 through a nightmare. It was some moments before 
 he could recall the events of the night previous. 
 When he did, he leaped quickly from his bed, for 
 by them was also recalled a resolution to seek Mr. 
 Nettleman as early as possible, to inform him of the 
 assumed name he had given the police the night 
 previous, and to beg him to assist him in preserving 
 his incognito. 
 
 Dorison did not fear implication in the murder, 
 though he knew that the detective regarded him 
 with more or less suspicion. What he did fear, 
 however, was that if his proper name were known 
 it would awaken recollection of the events attend- 
 ing and the consequences of his father's unfinished 
 letter. The police at that time had been employed 
 to search for the crime his father's letter had 
 charged him with. 
 
 Therefore he hastily dressed, the while he cursed 
 the impulse that had induced him to return to the 
 city of his birth, where everything served to remind 
 him of his undeserved disgrace. Absently thrust- 
 ing his hand in his pocket, he came upon the 
 26
 
 "HOW FORTUNE PLIES HER SPORTS." 2J 
 
 portrait and ring he had obtained the night previ- 
 ous. 
 
 It was with a shock of surprise that he drew 
 them out, for he had forgotten them. 
 
 Taking them to the window he gave them a 
 careful examination. 
 
 There could be no mistake. 
 
 The portrait was that of his father, and the ring 
 was too familiar for him to make an error concern- 
 ing it. But how came they in the room where he 
 had found them ? Who was the young woman in 
 whose possession they apparently were ? If, as he 
 supposed, she was no more than twenty-five, she 
 
 could have been only 
 about seventeen when 
 his father died. The 
 portrait was taken 
 when she was about 
 five. It was unex- 
 plainable. Or, could 
 Madame Delamour be 
 a dealer in old relics 
 
 * ''* -* j i * Ti 
 
 /> r\ and jewelry ? It was 
 
 worth examining into. 
 
 But how ? 
 
 He could not stir 
 without showing how 
 he had obtained pos- 
 session of the articles. 
 
 He returned them 
 to his pocket, and in
 
 28 "HOW FORTUNE PLIES HER SPORTS." 
 
 doing so encountered the slips of paper he bad- 
 found at the same time. 
 
 Both were written upon, and he was startled by 
 the similarity of the writing to that of his father. 
 He endeavored to obtain sense of what was writ- 
 ten. The pieces were evidently torn from letters. 
 The smaller one, that which he had taken from 
 the girl's fingers, conveyed no intelligence to him. 
 
 Dorison puzzled long over this, but could make 
 nothing of it. He examined the other slip. It was 
 in the same hand. 
 
 * &**.
 
 " HO W FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS. " 2$ 
 
 A little more intelligence perhaps was to be 
 gained. Some one named Harold had evidently 
 been doing wrong and had caused some one to pay 
 out money to repair the consequences of the wrong- 
 doing. The more he studied the two scraps of 
 paper, the more he became convinced that the 
 writing was that of his father. 
 
 He was greatly agitated and much confused. 
 Having exhausted speculation, he descended to 
 the breakfast-room, but with no appetite, for the 
 emotions by which he was possessed robbed him of 
 all relish for food. He contented himself with a cup 
 of coffee. Arising from the table he saw it was 
 after eight o'clock, and thinking it would be fully 
 nine before he could reach Mr. Nettleman's office, 
 he determined to set out at once. 
 
 He did not notice that as he set foot upon the 
 pavement, a slight, undersized man followed him out 
 of the hotel, nor that he entered the same stage 
 he did, nor that, on reaching Wall Street, this 
 individual followed close after him and had busi- 
 ness in precisely the same direction. He was 
 too much preoccupied in the events through which 
 he had just passed to give heed to matters about 
 him. 
 
 As it was, the slight, undersized individual fol- 
 lowed him directly to the door of the building in 
 which were Mr. Nettleman's offices, even ascending 
 the ^stairs to the second floor where they were 
 situated. 
 
 The old gentleman was at his desk, intently
 
 36 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 reading the morning paper. As Dorison entered, he 
 looked up and cried out with animation: 
 
 " Ah, is that you ? Do you know that a murder 
 was committed last night in the very house where 
 we met ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Dorison, sitting down beside the 
 desk. " I was still there when it was discovered. 
 Indeed I may claim the honor, if honor it be, of 
 discovering it." 
 
 " Oh," said the old gentleman, highly interested. 
 " Were you the one who first saw the drop of 
 blood ? " 
 
 " Not that, but I was the one who forced my 
 way through the rear, found the body, and unfast- 
 ened the door for the police." 
 
 " But the paper says it was a man named Dud- 
 ley James Dudley. That is as near as the papers 
 get to it." 
 
 " The papers are right on the information given 
 them," said Dorison. " It is about that very name 
 I have hurried so early to see you this morning. 
 You will recollect I told you that when I left the city 
 eight years ago, I did so under an assumed name. 
 That was the name I used, and under it I registered 
 when I returned to town yesterday morning." 
 
 The old gentleman recollected well, and Dorison 
 hastily recounted his fears that the police would 
 discover the assumed name through Mr. Nettleman 
 if not warned in -time, and giving his reasons for 
 desiring to preserve his incognito, he begged the old 
 gentleman to assist him in preserving it.
 
 "HOW FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS." 3 J 
 
 At this point they were interrupted by a caller. 
 Handing the morning paper to Dorison, the old 
 gentleman sat himself down with the stranger in 
 a remote corner of the room, where he held a 
 whispered conversation. 
 
 After the stranger departed, Mr. Nettleman re- 
 turned to Dorison, his fine old face wreathed in 
 smiles. 
 
 " Not a moment too soon. That was an agent 
 of the police come to inquire about you, just as you 
 had anticipated. Oh, I was discreet ! Do not be 
 alarmed. I vouched for you. I assured him your 
 name was Dudley, that you had arrived in New 
 York yesterday morning after an eight years' 
 absence, and I told him the one he was inquiring 
 about was you sitting there. I threw the mantle of 
 my friendship and protection about you." 
 
 Well pleased that he had moved so promptly, and 
 congratulating himself over his narrow escape, Dori- 
 son attempted to lead their conversation back to 
 the subject of the evening previous, but there was 
 another interruption. 
 
 A short, stout, elderly man entered, whom Dori- 
 son at once recognized as the old man who had 
 pushed his way into the room of the murder, with 
 both hands in his vest-pockets, the night previous, 
 and who had done not a little toward directing 
 suspicion toward himself. 
 
 As he entered, Mr. Nettleman cried out jocularly : 
 
 " Hello, Simon the Cellarer ! Come here and sit." 
 
 The old man crossed the room with a contorted
 
 32 THE MAX WITH A THUMB. 
 
 face which required the aid of imagination to recog- 
 nize as a smile. 
 
 As he sat down, Mr. Nettleman in high spirits 
 said, turning to Dorison : 
 
 " My young sir, I want you to know this man. 
 He is my cousin, who was brought up with me. 
 Simon Cathcart. I call him Simon the Cellarer. 
 Did you ever hear of Vidocq ? There he is. Only 
 a greater one. He's a ferret a ferret, sir." 
 
 The old gentleman leaned back in his chair greatly 
 amused over his own wit and the perplexed face of 
 Dorison. 
 
 All the time the sharp little eyes of the new-comer 
 were keenly scrutinizing Dorison. 
 
 "My cousin," he said slowly, "is a very funny 
 man. He thinks it very funny that I, who have 
 spent my life as a detective in the West, having 
 accumulated enough money to make me indepen- 
 dent at least, should, having nothing in the world 
 to do, follow from interest occasionally my old busi- 
 ness. Well, I don't object. I get even with him, 
 for he has to look after my investments for the 
 privilege of being funny at my expense. It was 
 you," he continued, breaking off suddenly into a 
 new subject, "who brought me here this morning." 
 
 " I," cried Dorison in surprise. 
 
 "Yes. When you were giving an account of your- 
 self last night, Cousin Nettleman was mentioned 
 as having talked with you, and I came down to see 
 what he knew about you." 
 
 " You don't suppose me to be connected with
 
 " HO W FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS." 33 
 
 the murder, do you ? " asked Dorison, amused by 
 the directness of the old man. 
 
 " No. I know you are not. But, young man, you 
 are not a good actor. Any one could see you were 
 concealing something. The man who examined 
 you saw it at once. You are an object of suspicion. 
 You are shadowed now." 
 
 " Me ? Shadowed ? How do you know ? " 
 
 " I do know it, and that is enough," said the old 
 man positively. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Mr. Nettleman, enthusiastically, 
 " this is the very man to help us. Simon, do you 
 recollect the day we went down to Coney Island 
 last summer, when I told you at dinner that strange 
 thing about my old friend Dorison ? " 
 
 " Perfectly well." 
 
 " And how he was found dead with a letter writ- 
 ten before him ? " 
 
 " Yes, charging his only son with certain crimes." 
 
 " The same. And you recollect I said I believed 
 the son to be innocent ? " 
 
 " Yes. You said that the letter was to be ac- 
 counted for on one of two grounds. Either Mr. 
 Dorison was insane, or, that if he had been per- 
 mitted to finish his letter it would have been found 
 he did not charge his son with those things." 
 
 " Precisely." 
 
 " And I told you that if you had stated correctly 
 the words of that letter, the second ground fell and 
 you'd have to stand on the first. And I further 
 said that it would be a very pretty case to work up."
 
 34 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " Precisely. Well, this young man is the son." 
 
 There was no expression on the old man's face 
 as he turned it upon Dorison, but his eyes showed 
 a greater interest. 
 
 "You gave the name of Dudley, last night?" 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes," replied Dorison. " That is what I was 
 concealing. After my trouble, and when I fled 
 the city, I changed my name." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Nettleman, briskly and quite 
 excitedly, " I recognized him last night by a trick 
 he has of handling his cigar precisely as his father 
 did, besides his strong resemblance, so I sought 
 him in conversation. More than, that, I have 
 promised to aid him in trying to get at the bottom 
 of this mystery. Simon, will you assist ? " 
 
 "Yes. It's a pretty case, and it will please me 
 to unravel it if I can." 
 
 Much agitated and not a little moved by the 
 enthusiasm shown, as well as the conviction evinced 
 by Mr. Nettleman that he was innocent, he failed 
 to notice the manner in which Cathcart had taken 
 the case to himself and quietly assumed that he 
 only could unravel it. He got up from his chair 
 to walk about to quiet himself. As he did so he 
 thrust his hand in his pocket and felt the portrait 
 and ring. 
 
 He returned quickly. 
 
 " You say," he said earnestly to Mr. Cathcart, 
 "that you saw I was trying to conceal something
 
 "HOW FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS. " 35 
 
 last night ; I was. Something had occurred between 
 the time of my entering and my admittance of the 
 police, which I did not speak of which I was 
 concealing." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the ex-detective, interested at once. 
 
 Dorison took the portrait from his pocket and 
 handed it to Mr. Nettleman, saying : 
 
 " Do you know that picture ? " 
 
 " Do I know it ? Why, of course I do. It is a 
 picture of your father taken nearly thirty years ago. 
 And a very good picture it is. Do I know it? 
 Yes, indeed, and I can tell you who took it. Fred- 
 ericks did. I was with your father when it was 
 taken. He had two, one of which he gave to me. 
 Where did you get this one ? " 
 
 Without replying, Dorison took from his pocket 
 the seal ring. 
 
 " Do you recognize this ? " 
 
 Much astonished, Nettleman took the ring in his 
 hand and examined it closely. 
 
 " I gave that ring to your father," he said, " the 
 day before he was married. He gave a half a 
 dozen of his young friends a dinner that day, and 
 we each made him a little present. This was 
 mine." 
 
 He handed it back. The ex-detective was an 
 interested observer. 
 
 Dorison now asked Mr. Nettleman whether he 
 had any letters or documents in his father's hand- 
 writing. 
 
 " I ought to have plenty of his letters. Let me
 
 36 THE MAX ll'lTll A I'll U MB. 
 
 see. I did all his insurance for years. I gave up 
 that b'usiness in 1861. Let me look at my '60 box. 
 You are younger than I am, .take that step-ladder 
 and hand me from that upper shelf the box with 
 ' 1860 ' on it." 
 
 Dorison did as he was requested and brought 
 the box to the old man, who, opening it, ran over 
 its contents and finally picked out a letter or 
 two. 
 
 Dorison handed him the two fragments of paper 
 saying : 
 
 " Please compare the handwriting on those two 
 fragments of paper with my father's letters and tell 
 me what you think." 
 
 The old gentleman, much excited, did so, and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " It is the same. There can be no doubt about 
 it. There is no doubt about it." 
 
 Dorison, reaching out his hand, recovered the 
 two fragments of paper, and turning to Mr. Cath- 
 cart, said : 
 
 " Last night, as you know, I reached the room 
 where the murder was committed first and alone. 
 On a small, round table near the sliding doors I 
 found this portrait and the ring. In the hand of 
 the murdered girl was this smaller slip of paper, 
 which I took from it. On the floor this larger slip. 
 You can imagine my amazement on finding my 
 father's portrait and the ring I had so often as a 
 boy seen on my father's finger. Hardly knowing 
 what I was doing I placed all in my pocket, when
 
 " HOW FORTUNE PLIES HER SPORTS" 37 
 
 I knew the police were about to enter. This is 
 what I was really concealing." 
 
 Mr. Nettleman looked with astonishment on the 
 young man, almost helpless in surprise. 
 
 " A rather serious thing to do," said the ex-de- 
 tective, " but I think I would have done the same 
 thing had I been in your place." 
 
 " I have no regrets now," replied Dorison. " But 
 I am puzzled to know how they got there, and 
 what connection there could have been between 
 that girl and my father." 
 
 The ex-detective got up, and placing his hand in 
 his vest-pockets, walked up and down the room in 
 a deep study, the others watching him as he walked. 
 
 After a time he said to Dorison : 
 
 "You want to find out the mystery of that unfin- 
 ished letter, and to prove that the charges under 
 which you have rested for eight years are un- 
 founded ? " 
 
 "I do, most earnestly." 
 
 " I earnestly want to find out who committed 
 that murder. I am impressed with the idea that in 
 the discovery of the one will be found the revela- 
 tion of the other. Well, then, let us join our forces 
 and work give ourselves up to it and do nothing 
 else." 
 
 "There is an obstacle as far as I am concerned," 
 said Dorison. 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " I am without funds. I work for my living, and 
 must return to Dubuque to my position."
 
 3 THE ALLY IVITII A THL'Mll. 
 
 " There is none," cried Nettleman. " I have 
 plenty, and 
 
 The young man interrupted the impetuous prof- 
 fer with an indignant gesture, saying : 
 
 " I am not an object of charity." 
 
 " Will you take employment from me ? " asked 
 Cathcart calmly. Perceiving the young man to 
 hesitate he added: "The pay will be $175 a 
 month and expenses employment to continue 
 until the murder of last night is ferreted out." 
 
 The young man's blood flushed into his face, 
 and he inclined a glance full of wonder upon the 
 one making to him so singular a proposition. 
 
 " I mean it," added Cathcart. " I had deter- 
 mined to enter upon the case of the murder before 
 I came here, and I foresee I shall need just such a 
 man as you are. It will be hard work, and you 
 will find me a hard taskmaster. I offer you small 
 wages because there is the additional incentive in 
 the possibility of the discovery of the secret that 
 worries you. Come, is it a bargain ? " 
 
 " Where is your profit?" asked Dorison. 
 
 " That is my affair," sharply replied Cathcart, 
 and seeing Dorison's face darken, he added, 
 " There is plenty of profit for me, but I am not 
 going to tell how or how much." 
 
 " I will accept the employment," said Dorison. 
 
 " I do not see why I am pushed aside," said 
 Nettleman reproachfully. " Do you think I have 
 no interest in this matter ? I am comparatively 
 rich, young man, and what I am, I owe to the
 
 " HO W FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS. " 39 
 
 aid your father gave me over many years. That 
 mystery which has clouded his name has been a 
 sorrow to me these many years, and I've wanted to 
 clear it up, without seeing my way clear to begin- 
 ning until now. I can do but little more than 
 contribute to the expenses of this search." 
 
 " We will arrange that matter between us/' said 
 Cathcart, before Dorison could interpose a word. 
 Then, turning to the young man, he said : " Do 
 you now go straight to your hotel and stay there 
 until I call upon you. Before you begin work I 
 must find some means to get that shadow off your 
 track." 
 
 .With this he hurried off, leaving Dorison and 
 Nettleman together, astonished at his abrupt de- 
 parture.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " THE HEARING EAR AND THE SEEING EYE." 
 
 /^ATHCART made his way hastily to Pine Street, 
 Vy where he entered the office of a real estate 
 agent, one who had charge of the Bleecker Street 
 property. The agent was willing to tell all he 
 knew, but it was not much. About two weeks pre- 
 viously an elderly woman had called upon him to 
 rent the floor where the murder had taken place. 
 She had said that the necessity of earning an 
 income had only recently made itself felt, and she 
 wanted to open a costumer's business, with which, 
 in her younger days, she had been familiar ; that 
 while she could, if it were required, present refer- 
 ences, still, as she had for twenty-five years been 
 regarded as independent in circumstances, she did 
 not care to call upon them, and would therefore pay 
 the rent quarterly in advance ; and this she thought 
 was all the more necessary as she had determined 
 to conduct her business under the name of Madame 
 Delamour ; as a matter of fact her name was 
 Farish Mrs. Emma Parish and her address was 
 No. , East Sixteenth Street. Who the young 
 woman reported to have been killed in her place 
 was, he did not know. 
 
 40
 
 " THE HEARING EAR AND SEEING E YE." 4* 
 
 Upon this information, Cathcart determi-ned to 
 go directly to Mrs. Farish. 
 
 On nearing the house, he saw a group of people 
 gathered at the foot of the steps of the dwelling. 
 A policeman stood at the foot of the steps, and 
 another guarded the door at the top. 
 
 " They have brought the body of the girl to the 
 house of Mrs. Farish," he muttered to himself. 
 " She must have been nearer than a mere employee." 
 
 Reaching the foot of the steps, he said to the 
 policeman : " Who is in charge ? " 
 
 " Captain Lawton." 
 
 He mounted the steps, and though the guardian 
 of the door stopped him, he said, " I am on this 
 business and must see Captain Lawton." 
 
 He stepped through the door and encountered 
 the Captain in the hall. 
 
 " They have brought the body of the girl here 
 then? " he said. 
 
 The Captain stared at him, and without reply 
 pointed to the door leading into the parlor. 
 
 He entered. Accustomed as he was to such 
 scenes, this one shocked him. 
 
 Oft the floor lay the body of a gray-haired woman. 
 As in the other case, she was weltering in her blood. 
 The two had been killed in a similar manner. The 
 Captain had followed him to the door, keenly obser- 
 vant of him. Turning, he said : 
 
 "Mrs. Farish?" 
 
 The Captain nodded in acquiescence. 
 
 " Madame Delamour ? " he added.
 
 4* THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 An expression of wonder passed over the detec- 
 tive's face, and bidding Cathcart follow him, he led 
 the way upstairs and into the front room on the 
 second floor, closing the door after him. 
 
 " Now then," he said, " what do you mean by 
 that ? " 
 
 " By what ? " asked Cathcart in return. 
 
 " By calling Mrs. Farish, Madame Delamour." 
 
 " Because Madame Delamour was Mrs. Farish." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " The same way you do." 
 
 " But I don't know it." 
 
 " One of your men called on the agent who has 
 charge of the Bleecker Street property, before I did, 
 and was told the two were one, as I was. Madame 
 Delamour, an assumed name to conduct the busi- 
 ness of costuming under real name, Farish ; ad- 
 dress, this house." 
 
 " Ah ! I was called here before he could report. 
 But who are you ? What are you interfering in 
 this case for ? What interest have you in it ? " 
 
 " What ! " said Cathcart, with as near an expres- 
 sion of surprise as he could achieve. " I have lived 
 for a year within gunshot of your headquarters; and 
 you do not know who I am ? " 
 
 " No, I don't," replied the Captain sternly. 
 
 " Not very flattering to my fame," said Cathcart, 
 as he extended a card to the other. " That was 
 my business card little more than a year ago." 
 
 The Captain read the card with an unmistakable 
 start of surprise, while a slight flush overspread
 
 " THE HEARING EAR AND SEEING E YE." 43 
 
 his face. A change took place in his manner at 
 once. 
 
 " What ! " he cried. " You are the celebrated 
 Cathcart ? " 
 
 The Captain might well have felt abashed. 
 However little the average citizen might know of 
 the fame of the insignificant appearing man who 
 had just revealed himself, there was not a police 
 officer, of the upper grade at least, who had not 
 heard of the exploits of Cathcart, known to crim- 
 inals as " The Devil of the West," of his deeds of 
 courage in the hunting down and taking of des- 
 peradoes in the most desperate parts of the Western 
 country. His reputation for courage amounting to 
 recklessness, for shrewdness unrivaled in its results, 
 for ability in unraveling tangled knots, and for per- 
 sistency when on the trail, equaled only by that of 
 a sleuthhound, was known wherever policemen 
 talked. 
 
 " I knew you had gone out of business," said the 
 Captain in a deferential manner, "but not that you 
 had come to New York." 
 
 " Yes," replied Cathcart, " I've made my pile, 
 and as I've passed sixty I wanted to retire. They 
 would not let me alone out there, so I came back 
 to where I was born and where my relatives are." 
 
 " I see ; are you on this business ?" 
 
 "No! Perhaps! That is, I am not employed. 
 It is a nice case. If I touch it, it is for the fancy of 
 the thing." 
 
 " What do you know about it ?"
 
 44 THE MA.V U'lTH .1 THUMB. 
 
 " Only what I have told you." 
 
 " The two murders are connected ? " 
 
 " No doubt of it ; killed the same way. When 
 was this done ? " 
 
 " Last night, some time between eight and eleven. 
 The servant was permitted to go out at eight and 
 returned at eleven, through the basement door, the 
 key of which she carried. No lights were in the 
 house, except in the hall, as was usual when she 
 went to bed after the family. Supposing Mrs. 
 Parish and her daughter, the only inmates of the 
 house, had retired, she turned out the light and 
 went to her room. This morning, descending the 
 stairs at the usual hour, she made the discovery of 
 the murder and gave the alarm." 
 
 "Where is the daughter ? " 
 
 " She went away yesterday forenoon where the 
 girl does not know. She has not returned yet." 
 
 " The young woman killed in Bleecker Street." 
 
 " The devil ! Yes. It must be." 
 
 " Let us find that out first. Whose room is this ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Parish's." 
 
 " Then we'll look here first." 
 
 Cathcart's eyes swept the room, taking in every- 
 thing with one comprehensive glance. Between 
 the windows was an old-fashioned bureau, and on 
 either side of the glass were two ledges in the frame 
 about mid way of the glass. On each a photograph 
 one of an elderly woman, the other of a younger 
 one. Cathcart pounced upon them. Taking the 
 one of the younger person he cried :
 
 " THE HEA1UXG EAR . I XD SEEING E YE." 45 
 
 " There she is. You have questioned the ser- 
 vant." 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " Let us have her up again, in view of the new 
 phase this case has assumed." 
 
 Upon the summons of the Captain, the girl came 
 into the room, worn, trembling, and frightened. 
 
 * Whose picture is that ? " asked Cathcart. 
 
 " Miss Anne's," replied the girl in a faltering 
 voice. 
 
 " Who is Miss Anne ? Mrs. Parish's daughter ? " 
 
 * Yes, sir." 
 
 Cathcart handed the picture to the Captain, 
 and showing the other to the girl, asked whose that 
 was. 
 
 " Mrs. Farish," replied the girl. 
 
 " The mother of Miss Anne ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Madame Delamour ? " 
 
 " Sir," said the girl, wonderingly. Cathcart 
 neither repeated nor explained the question, but 
 handed this photograph to the Captain. Then bid- 
 ding the girl to be seated, he in a kindly tone began 
 to question her. He induced her to tell of her dis- 
 covery of the murder, and without interference per- 
 mitted her to exhaust her story of the part she had 
 played. 
 
 "When did Miss Anne leave the house?" he 
 asked, when he had finished. 
 
 " After breakfast yesterday morning." 
 
 " Was that her usual habit ? "
 
 46 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " She's gone away after breakfast for a week, 
 coming home at six." 
 
 " Did Mrs. Farish remain at home during this 
 week?" 
 
 " No, sir, she would go out later and come back 
 earlier." 
 
 " Were Mrs. Farish and her daughter in the 
 habit of being out a good deal ? " 
 
 " No, sir, not much. About three weeks ago they 
 began to be out a good deal, but not regular until 
 a week ago." 
 
 " Did Mrs. Farish have any business ?" 
 
 " What ? " asked the girl, unable to understand. 
 
 " Did Mrs. Farish have to earn money ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; she owned this house and had money 
 in the bank." 
 
 " How long have you lived with her ? " 
 
 " Going on three years.". 
 
 " Did Mrs. Farish have plenty of visitors com- 
 pany, you know ? " 
 
 " No, sir. Very few. Sometimes a neighbor 
 would call in." 
 
 " Didn't she have any relatives to come and see 
 her ? " 
 
 " She hadn't any. I've heard say she hadn't but 
 one, and he lived out West." 
 
 " Who was he ? " 
 
 " She didn't say. Once in a long time a young 
 man would come to the house." 
 
 " Who was he?" 
 
 " I don't know."
 
 " THE HEARING EAR AND SEEING E YE." 47 
 
 " Didn't you ever hear anything about him ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " What did he look like ? " 
 
 " I hardly know. They always seemed to know 
 when he was coming, and Miss Anne watched 
 for him and let him in herself. They always took 
 him in the parlor and shut the door. When he 
 went away Miss Anne always looked as if she'd 
 bin cryin' and Mrs. Parish was down like. Once 
 I heard Miss Anne say, " He's got no mercy ; he's 
 all selfishness ; he'd take all you've got and leave 
 nothing." 
 
 " What did Mrs. Farish say ? " 
 
 " Nothing." . - 
 
 " Can't you tell me what this young man looked 
 like ? " 
 
 " I never saw his face but once, and then just a 
 glimpse. I was coming up the basement stairs 
 when he was let in, and saw him go into the parlor. 
 He was tall and slim, and had brown hair." 
 
 " How often did he come here? " 
 
 " About once in three months." 
 
 " How long did he stay when he came ? " 
 
 " Sometimes an hour ; sometimes longer ; once 
 he stayed all afternoon. I laid a plate for him for 
 supper, but he did not stay. Just before he went 
 away he was angry and talked loud." 
 
 " Was that the only time you heard him angry ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Did Mrs. Farish and her daughter go out visit- 
 ing?"
 
 48 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " I never knew them do so. They lived by 
 themselves." 
 
 " Did they go to church ? " 
 
 " Every Sunday, twice a clay, down here to the 
 church on the corner. The minister, Mr. Carman, 
 used to come once in a while to see them." 
 
 " Was Mrs. Farish pretty comfortable about 
 money ? " 
 
 " She seemed to be, sir." 
 
 All this time the Captain had been a close 
 listener, not interfering in the examination. Cath- 
 card having finished, he dismissed the girl. 
 
 " What do you make of it ? " asked the Captain. 
 
 " Nothing. The case is as dark as night. That 
 young man is worth looking after." 
 
 " Yes. I had got that point out of the girl 
 before. You got two additional ones that he 
 was angry the day he stayed so long ; and that 
 the daughter cried and the mother was sad when- 
 ever he came. I have searched the house system- 
 atically from top to bottom and found nothing to 
 throw any light on the deed or the people, no let- 
 ters or documents in the house." 
 
 " The place in Bleecker Street wants a thorough 
 search now." 
 
 " It will have it to-day." 
 
 " If that young man is all right, he'll turn up of 
 his own accord ; if crooked, he wont." 
 
 " His failure to turn up will make the more rea- 
 son for looking for him. But how and where to 
 begin the search for him ? "
 
 " THE HEARING EAR AND SEEING E YE." 49 
 
 To this the old detective made no reply, but 
 thrusting his hands in his vest-pockets, walked out 
 of the room, and descending the stairs entered the 
 parlor, where the body lay, carefully noting every 
 article in the room and their disposition. His 
 keen eyes perceived something lying on the floor 
 near and partially under the body. He beckoned 
 to the Captain standing at the door and pointed to 
 it. The officer, bending down, said : 
 
 " Ah, a glove a man's glove." 
 
 " A clue," said Cathcart.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " LETS IN NEW LIGHT THROUGH CHINKS." 
 
 THE Captain stretched forth his hand to pick up 
 the glove, but Cathcart restrained him. Look- 
 ing about the room he found a small straw fan. 
 Carefully lifting the glove at the wrist, he skillfully 
 thrust the fan under the glove so that it rested 
 upon the fan without its form having been dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 "The hand of the man that will fit this glove is 
 the hand of the man who did this deed," said Cath- 
 cart, straightening up and carrying the glove into 
 the light to examine it. " Criminals have been 
 brought to justice from a clue less than this." 
 
 The Captain was deeply interested. 
 
 " The hand this glove fitted," continued Cathcart, 
 " is not that of a working-man, yet one whose bones 
 are naturally large, and whose knuckles and joints 
 are prominent. See how large and prominent that 
 second knuckle is. Moreover, the man who wore 
 this glove is a nice dresser careful about his ap- 
 pearance and the fit of his clothes a bit of a dandy. 
 He either is or tries to be a gentleman. Nor does 
 he spare cost in his clothes. You see the kid is of 
 the best quality, but this" is the point that glove 
 was made only for the hand that wore it. See ! 
 50
 
 ' ' LE TS AV XE }V LI Gil T." 5 I 
 
 The peculiarity of the hand is the thumb. It is 
 long and bent backwards at the end ; it is out of 
 all proportion in its size and length to the fingers. 
 It is almost a deformity. You might examine the 
 hands of all the men in the city and not find one 
 like it. Yet see how perfectly the glove has fitted 
 the hand every finger exactly filled, the thumb 
 also not a wrinkle in the glove. That glove was 
 not got by accident, nor picked out of a general 
 stock in a store. One so chosen, if it fitted the 
 thumb, would have been too large for the fingers ; 
 if it fitted the fingers, the thumb couldn't have 
 gotten in. You wanted to know where to begin 
 your search for the young man who called at stated 
 intervals. There you are. Take care of that 
 glove. Put a bell-glass over it ; it's precious." 
 
 The Captain, either because he was much im- 
 pressed by the old detective, or because he was too 
 great for jealousy and was anxious for all the aid 
 he could secure in a dark case, took the glove and 
 the advice with good grace. 
 
 Cathcart, bending over the body, saw something 
 calling for greater attention, and crossing to the 
 other side, kneeled down and narrowly examined 
 the body. 
 
 " Robbery," he muttered. " Something has been 
 torn from her breast/jeither before or after she was 
 murdered." 
 
 The Captain nodded : 
 
 " I was waiting to see whether my conclusion 
 would be yours," he said. " But mark you, she has
 
 52 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 money and jewels on her person. They have not 
 been taken." 
 
 " Valuable papers perhaps," said Cathcart. 
 
 At this moment there were the sounds of many 
 feet at the door. The. officer passed the word that 
 the coroner and his jury were come to view the body. 
 
 The two detectives retired to a rear room, reach- 
 ing which Cathcart turned suddenly upon the 
 Captain : 
 
 " You have that man who first entered the 
 Bleecker Street room shadowed ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " There is something suspicious about him. I 
 want to know who he is ? " 
 
 " Do you connect him with the murder ? " 
 
 " No ; yet he seemed to get into those rooms 
 very quickly. There was a familiarity with the 
 house about that." 
 
 " It was all explained." 
 
 " Yes, but well, he had something to conceal." 
 
 " He had. He gave you a false name." 
 
 The Captain wondered how this sharp old man 
 had managed to learn so much in so short a time. 
 
 " Do you recollect the Dorison case of eight 
 years ago ; " asked Cathcart. 
 
 " I ought to," replied the Captain. " It was the 
 very first important affair I was engaged on. It 
 was a strange case and came to nothing." 
 
 " That man is John Dorison the son," said Cath- 
 cart, watching keenly the effect of his words.
 
 "LETS IN NB W LIGHT." 53 
 
 The Captain was evidently astonished ; he said : 
 
 " But he gave the name of Dudley last night ? " 
 
 "That is the name he has been known by since he 
 left the city eight years ago. He returned yester- 
 day morning and revealed himself to one of his 
 father's old friends old man Nettleman." 
 
 " Yes " interrupted the Captain, " the man he 
 talked with in the saloon." 
 
 " The same." 
 
 " But," said the Captain, loth to give up a possi- 
 ble clue, " how do you account for his extreme 
 familiarity with the house in Bleecker Street, and 
 his going to that particular house on the first night 
 of his return ? " 
 
 " He was born there. Idle curiosity while out 
 for fresh air took him to look at the house of his 
 birth, since he was in the neighborhood." 
 
 " True," mused the Captain, " that was Dorison's 
 house. I had forgotten it." 
 
 " Having given you this information concerning 
 him, and standing ready to give you any more you 
 may want, I ask you to take the shadow off." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " I have undertaken to discover the mystery of 
 that unfinished letter." 
 
 " You believe the son then, and not the father ? " 
 
 " I believe the son is innocent of what appear to 
 be charges against him in a letter death prevented 
 the father from finishing." 
 
 " It will be difficult to trace the matter after this 
 lapse of time."
 
 54 THE MAN. WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "It will." 
 
 " Our people do not agree with your view of the 
 case." 
 
 "Possibly. Was anything ever found in the 
 young man's life to give color to the charge ? " 
 
 " No ; that was the puzzler. But the charges 
 were distinct and unequivocal. I will give you a 
 copy of the report in the case." 
 
 " Thanks ; that will be a help. But I want that 
 shadow off. It will embarrass my work." 
 
 " I will call him off at once, if you will be respon- 
 sible for your man's appearance when wanted." 
 
 " I will be. In the mean time treat my commu- 
 nication that is, as to the man's identity as con- 
 fidential." 
 
 " It will be so treated. But you had better help 
 us in this matter." 
 
 " No. You are competent enough." 
 
 " It is a case dark enough to stagger the most 
 competent." 
 
 The bustle in the adjoining room indicated that 
 the coroner and his jury had completed their 
 investigation of the scene of the murder, and were 
 departing. The two detectives left the room they 
 had retired to, and the Captain accompanied Cath- 
 cart to the door. As they stood on the top step, 
 the Captain said : 
 
 " Mr. Cathcart, I have a foreboding of failure in 
 this affair. I wish I could persuade you to work 
 with us." 
 
 The old detective looked down upon the throng 
 for a moment or two, and replied :
 
 "LETS IN NE W LIGHT." 5 5 
 
 " I may work on the case. Its very difficulties 
 attract me. But I cannot work with any one. I 
 have had assistants, obedient to my orders, never 
 associates, whose views I was compelled to con- 
 sider. It will be better for us to work apart. We 
 can meet from time to time and compare notes. I 
 cannot work any other way." 
 
 The Captain shook hands warmly with the old 
 man, saying that so much was better than nothing. 
 Cathcart descended the steps with his hands in his 
 vest-pockets. 
 
 He sought the minister of the church attended 
 by Mrs. Parish and her daughter, without delay. 
 Presenting his request to see Mr. Carman upon an 
 important matter, he was ushered into the parlor. 
 Mr. Carman came to him promptly, and a single 
 glance sufficed to show the old detective that the 
 minister was much agitated. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " if your business can be delayed 
 I would like it. I have but this moment learned 
 that one of my parishioners has been foully mur- 
 dered. It is my duty to at once visit the daughter, 
 and offer her such consolation as I can." 
 
 "It is about that murder I have called," replied 
 Cathcart. " Permit me to urge you to sit down. 
 Indeed, permit me to urge you to prepare yourself 
 against another shock." 
 
 The minister, impressed by the manner of the 
 old detective, did as he was requested. 
 
 " Now that you are seated," continued Cathcart, 
 " let me tell you that your visit can be of no use. 
 There is no daughter'to console."
 
 56 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " I-do not understand you," wonderingly replied 
 Mr. Carman. 
 
 " This is the shock you must brace up against. 
 In another part of the city last night, the daughter 
 was also murdered." 
 
 " Oh, my merciful Father ? " cried the minister. 
 " Who are you who brings such dreadful tidings?" 
 
 " I am a detective seeking the cause and the 
 perpetrator of the double murder. The case is 
 shrouded in darkness and no reason as yet appears 
 for these deeds. But there was one, and in an 
 inquiry into the lives and antecedents of these 
 women we hope to discover it." 
 
 But the good old minister was more anxious to 
 ask than to answer questions, and he poured forth 
 a torrent of them. When his curiosity was satisfied 
 the detective began. 
 
 " How long have you known these women ? " 
 
 " Since I have been pastor of this church, now 
 some twelve years. Both mother and daughter 
 were enrolled members of the congregation when I 
 came to it." 
 
 " Did you know anything of their surroundings ?" 
 
 " No. I knew her as a widow, of a small prop- 
 erty, amply sufficient for their modest life. They 
 were much respected in the church." 
 
 " Did you learn anything of their antecedents ? " 
 
 " Why, no ; when I assumed charge, their places 
 in the congregation were fixed, and I accepted them 
 at the valuation placed upon them by the other 
 members. They were unobtrusive people, reserved,
 
 " LE TS IN NE W LIGHT." 5 7 
 
 not seeking society, talking not at all of them- 
 selves. I made regular pastoral calls upon them. 
 They took little part in the social side of the 
 church, but were not remiss in their duties." 
 
 " Did they have any intimacies with any one in 
 the church ?" 
 
 " I can recall none that were noticeable." 
 
 " Did not the young lady mingle with the young 
 people ? " 
 
 " She did when I first came, but when she was 
 about twenty, say six years ago, she abruptly with- 
 drew herself." 
 
 " Can you recall anything within your knowledge 
 which at any time seemed uncommon, or out of the 
 way, mysterious, so to speak ? " asked Cathcart. 
 
 The minister thought a few moments. 
 
 " Well, sir," he said at length. " I have often 
 said to my wife that Mrs. Parish gave me the im- 
 pression of a woman with a history. To me, 
 though others laughed at the idea, there was a sug- 
 gestion of sadness under what was normally a 
 bright, cheerful disposition. I do not know if I 
 make myself plain. Under a sweet, equable tem- 
 per, there was to me signs of a latent grief, settled 
 to be sure, but the cause of constant sorrow. 
 Shortly after I came here, I remarked this to her. 
 She did not seem well pleased, but answered that 
 in her young days she had passed through a period 
 of deep sorrow, and she supposed it had left its 
 impressions upon her. On another occasion when 
 Mrs. Parish was calling at the parsonage, my wife,
 
 $8 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 referring to a case just then occupying a great deal 
 of space in the public press, bore down heavily on 
 the woman involved, when Mrs. Parish, much 
 agitated and evincing an impatience foreign to her, 
 cried out to my wife to be merciful. ' There are 
 lives,' she said, ' that God alone can see the inno- 
 cence of, but which a censorious world would pro- 
 nounce evil?' Then she added these singular 
 words, addressing my wife : ' ' Judge not, lest ye 
 be judged.' Your condemnation of this poor 
 woman rings in my ears as a condemnation of 
 myself.' My wife and I often talked of this inci- 
 dent, but could make nothing of it. Again, eight 
 years ago, I called at her house and found her in 
 great distress, and though I endeavored to console 
 her, she would say nothing as to its cause. At 
 that time she put on mourning, which she wore 
 ever after, and it was at that time that the daughter 
 withdrew from association with the young people. 
 This is all I can recollect, I think. Stop, there is 
 one more incident, trivial perhaps, but I will tell it. 
 One day about three years ago I had been from 
 home in attendance upon a funeral, and returning 
 was told that Mrs. Parish had been awaiting me in 
 the study a long time. Going to her I found her 
 in great trouble. She said, however, that though 
 she had come for advice upon a matter giving her 
 great pain, she had reflected while waiting and had 
 reached the conclusion that it were better for all 
 concerned to say nothing ; that she would bear 
 this new trouble as she had borne other troubles all 
 her life, alone ; and she went away."
 
 " LE TS IN NE W LIGHT." 59 
 
 The old detective had listened most intently, never 
 interposing a word, gesture, or expression, though 
 his keen bright eyes gave heed to everything. 
 
 "Of what did her family consist all these years?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Herself and daughter. I once heard her refer 
 to the boyhood of a son. But from her speech I 
 presumed he had died young." 
 
 Cathcart asked and received tht names and 
 addresses of some of the older members of the church, 
 whom he next sought in inquiry. He learned little 
 from them, for they could give him even less than 
 Mr. Carman. Two points, however, he obtained in 
 addition. One old lady recollected that when Mrs. 
 Farish first came among them she had a son, but 
 that he disappeared when about eighteen her 
 understanding being that he had gone to the care 
 of a relative in another city. The daughter of 
 another old member contributed the fact that during 
 the past three years, she had seen Anne Farish walk- 
 ing, on three different occasions, in Union Square 
 with a young man the same young man. She had 
 noted and remembered it, since it was the only time 
 Anne had been know to be in the society of one of 
 the other sex, and also from the fact that she seemed 
 to be greatly troubled on each occasion, and further 
 that the young man was most fashionably clad and 
 had the air of being fast. 
 
 The day was well spent when Cathcart finished 
 these inquiries, and he now recollected he had 
 neither lunched nor dined. He hurried to the 
 Grand Central Hotel.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WEAVING A THEORY. 
 
 D ORISON was wandering about the office of his 
 hotel in an aimless manner, inexpressibly 
 bored by his^compulsory inaction. When he saw 
 Cathcart, his face lighted up, and he greeted the 
 old man effusively. 
 
 "How long am I to remain a prisoner here," he 
 asked. 
 
 "No longer," replied Cathcart. "The shadow 
 has been removed and you are free to come and go 
 at your will. Come and dine with me. I want to 
 talk over the events of the day with you." 
 
 As much pleased as if he had been released from 
 actual imprisonment, Dorison accompanied the old 
 detective to a quiet restaurant in University Place, 
 where they could secure themselves against inter- 
 ruption. While they dined Carthcart detailed to 
 the young man the occurrences of the day. Intensely 
 interested, and shocked as he was over the second 
 murder, Dorison could not but wonder at the cool 
 matter-of-fact manner in which Cathcart recited 
 the event of the death of Mrs. Parish. He evinced 
 neither agitation nor unusual interest, evidently 
 treating it in his mind as incidental to the search 
 he had set out upon. The impression produced 
 60
 
 WEAVING A THEORY. 6 1 
 
 upon Dorison was not an agreeable one, for the old 
 man was apparently so heartless and indifferent, 
 showing neither horror over the deed nor conscious- 
 ness of its enormity. They seemed only to be puz- 
 zles which he must work out. The while, however, 
 Dorison admired the power of lucid statement pos- 
 sessed by the old man. The recital consumed the 
 time of the dinner. When the coffee and cigars 
 were brought, Cathcart said: 
 
 "Now I want to reason and reason aloud. If 
 you discover a flaw in my argument put your finger 
 upon it at once, else do not interrupt me. Now to 
 begin: A woman named-Farish, who has a daughter, 
 living in Sixteenth Street for twenty years in the 
 same house, which she owns, having no occupation 
 and subsisting on her money, suddenly changes her 
 mode of life, and, under the assumed name of 
 Madame Delamour, rents the parlor floor of a house 
 in Bleecker Street and opens a costumer's business. 
 
 "Inference : A change has taken place in her 
 financial affairs, necessitating the earning of an 
 income after twenty years of comparative indepen- 
 dence. 
 
 "The business is opened one day, and on the 
 night of the next day the daughter is found dead, 
 stabbed in the neck in such a manner as to sever 
 the carotid artery. On the same night, in her own 
 house in Sixteenth Street, Mrs. Farish alias Madame 
 Delamour, is found dead, under the similar circum- 
 stances stabbed in such a manner as to sever the 
 carotid artery.
 
 6 2 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "Inference: The two murders were committed 
 by the same hand; the methods of taking life are 
 the same; the murdered women bore the relation of 
 mother and daughter. To suppose that these two, 
 bearing to each other the relation they did, were 
 killed by different persons for different reasons, is 
 to admit the existence of a coincidence without 
 parallel in the history of crime. 
 
 "Inference second : The murder was committed 
 by a man who has some knowledge of anatomy and 
 some surgical skill, as is argued by the precision 
 with which these arteries were found and cut. 
 
 "A young man, whose attention is attracted to 
 the possibility of wrong-doing in the Bleecker Street 
 house, forces his way into the room occupied as a 
 costumer's place, and finds in the fingers of the 
 murdered girl a torn scrap of paper, and on the floor 
 near by another torn scrap, both covered by writing 
 in the same hand, the scraps suggesting that they 
 were torn from letters wrested from the hands of 
 the girl. The police discovered that the dress of 
 Mrs. Farish is violently torn in the breast with all the 
 appearance of something having been dragged from 
 it. Valuables and money on the person are not taken. 
 
 ''Inference: The murderer desired to possess 
 himself of certain documents or papers held by the 
 murdered woman ; hence the motive of the crime. 
 
 "This young man also discovers the portrait and 
 ring of Reuben Dorison in the room, and determines 
 the writing on the torn scraps of paper to be in 
 the hand of Reuben Dorison.
 
 WE A VING A THEOR Y. 63 
 
 "Inference : In some way Reuben Dorison, dead 
 eight years, was connected with the woman Farish 
 and her daughter. Query, how? Not at present 
 clear or ascertainable. 
 
 "Inquiry elicits these facts: The two women live 
 quiet, regular and proper lives; are constant in 
 attendance upon church and their duties; they have 
 no intimate friends, few callers, and no social rela- 
 tions; at stated intervals, a young man, tall, slim, 
 with brown hair, whose visits leave the mother sad 
 and the daughter in tears, calls upon them ; by her 
 own admission the mother in her younger days has 
 passed through a period of great sorrow, sorrow so 
 great as to influence her after life ; on two occasions 
 she is known to be in deep distress once eight 
 years ago, when she refused to explain the cause, 
 but immediately dresses in mourning, and the 
 daughter withdraws from all association with young 
 people; the other three years ago, when seeking her 
 minister for advice, the mother thinks better of it 
 and says she will meet this trouble as she has met her 
 other troubles, alone. Reuben Dorison died eight 
 years ago, coincidental with the appearance of Mrs. 
 Farish in mourning. Inquiry also elicits that when 
 the minister's wife is, in the presence of Mrs. Farish, 
 condemning a woman for irregularity of life, Mrs. 
 Farish cries out in protest, saying that the con- 
 demnation of the woman rings in her ears as a con- 
 demnation of herself. 
 
 "Inference: There was something a fault, a 
 misfortune, or a crime in the life of the mother,
 
 64 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 with which the caller at stated intervals, and pre- 
 sumably Reuben Dorison, is connected. 
 
 " Inquiry also elicits the fact that the daughter, 
 who has no association with young people, is seen 
 on three different occasions walking in Union 
 Square, evidently 'greatly troubled, with a young 
 man, tall and slim, of fast appearance, dressed in 
 extreme fashion. 
 
 " Inference : The caller at staged intervals and the 
 walker in Union Square are one and the same. 
 
 " Near the body of the mother was found a man's 
 glove, the form of which shows it was worn by a man 
 with a large hand, prominent knuckles and joints, 
 whose thumb was disproportionately long. This 
 glove was cut and made to fit only the hand that 
 wore it, an indication that the wearer was a man 
 exceedingly particular as to his personal appearance 
 and nice as to his apparel. 
 
 " Inference : First, as the walker in Union Square 
 was noticeable because of his fine dress, and as the 
 wearer of the glove was, as it indicates, careful as 
 to his appearance, the wearer of the glove, the 
 walker in Union Square, and the caller at stated 
 intervals were one and the same. Second, as the 
 glove was found close to the body of the mother 
 after her death, and as one caller on the family 
 was the incident of a month, this wearer of the 
 glove was the murderer of the mother. Third, if 
 of the mother, then of the daughter. 
 
 " One more point : Inasmuch as after the two 
 women engaged in the costuming business it was
 
 WEA VING A THEOR Y. 65 
 
 the habit of the mother to return home before the 
 daughter, and the daughter to return at six, and 
 as the servant left Mrs. Farish alone at eight, there 
 is reason to believe that the daughter was mur- 
 dered first and the mother after. 
 
 " Now, as to a theory : Mrs. Farish had been 
 connected with some event, the secret of which she 
 jealously guarded, in her early life, which was 
 criminal. She had documents relating to this 
 event, possession of which she shared with her 
 daughter. These documents either implicated a 
 young man who called upon her at stated intervals, 
 or which, being in his hands, would prove of such 
 value, that to possess them he could bring himself 
 to commit murder. With these events Reuben 
 Dorison is associated, since the only glimpse of 
 any part of them we have obtained, shows his 
 handwriting. The young man for years persecu- 
 ted the two women to obtain the papers, being 
 always refused and placated with gifts of money to 
 such an extent, that in time the independence of 
 Mrs. Farish was so impaired that she was -com- 
 pelled to resume a business she had many years 
 before been engaged in. He had become desperate 
 in finding that he could neither obtain the docu- 
 ments nor any more money, the latter fact being 
 made clear to him when he learns that Mrs. Farish 
 has gone into business. Believing these documents 
 to be in the possession of the young woman, he 
 visited the Bleecker Street apartment, and finding 
 no other way to obtain them, murders her and
 
 66 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 seizes them. He finds, however, that he has not 
 all, and he goes to the Sixteenth Street house to 
 see the mother. He demands and is refused them. 
 He takes theni by force, and he now knows that Mrs. 
 Farish will unerringly attribute the murder of the 
 daughter to him, and as a matter of self-preserva- 
 tion, he kills the mother. 
 
 " We have the motive for the deed. The crimi- 
 nal is a tall, slim man, with brown hair, who 
 dresses in extreme fashion, who is dissipated, and 
 who can be recognized by a large hand, with 
 prominent joints and knuckles, and whose thumb 
 is so disproportionately large and long as to be 
 almost a deformity. He is a surgeon or has 
 studied surgery. To find that man is to find the 
 murderer, and, in my judgment, is to find the secret 
 of that unfinished letter of your father's." 
 
 The old detective looked into the face of Dori- 
 son for the first time since he had begun to reason. 
 Upon it was expressed excitement and admiration. 
 Dorison's eyes burned brightly, his lips were 
 parted, high color was in his cheeks, and he breathed 
 heavily. Something of the fever of the chase was 
 upon him. 
 
 "It is wonderful! It is wonderful!" he breathed 
 out, rather than articulated. "It is profound, subtle 
 reasoning, and all from such meagre and insufficient 
 facts. It is reasoned out to a conclusion." 
 
 "No," said the old detective, "it is only the first 
 theory, and may be utterly overturned by the first 
 real, substantial fact hit upon."
 
 WEAVING A THEORY. 67 
 
 "I cannot believe it," protested Dorison. "Your 
 conclusions are too strong." 
 
 "But my premises may be weak," persisted Cath- 
 cart. "Don't lean too heavily upon a theory. The 
 value of one is only that it gives you a basis from 
 which to work. The danger of a theory is that you 
 will cling to it, refusing in its interest to recognize 
 the plain facts under your nose. The difference 
 between a shrewd detective and a dull one is this: the 
 latter becomes a slave to his theory and it controls 
 him; the former treats it with suspicion and aban- 
 dons it whenever facts justify such abandonment. 
 But even working on the lines of an erroneous 
 theory, you are more apt to hit upon the true facts 
 that when you are working wild without plan or 
 purpose. There is always some truth in every 
 theory. The trouble with this theory of mine is 
 that it is too natural and plausible. I always dis- 
 trust that which seems natural in the beginning of a 
 dark case." 
 
 Dorison was plainly disappointed and puzzled at 
 the manner in which the old detective treated his 
 own theory. He did not speak for some moments, 
 and then he suddenly ejaculated : 
 
 "If I had so little confidence in a theory that I 
 had spent so much pain and labor in building up, 
 I would not work on it." 
 
 "Yes," calmly replied the old detective. "That 
 is just what an inexperienced man like you would 
 do. But that is what neither you nor myself will.
 
 68 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 We will go to work on it, and your work will begin 
 very soon." 
 
 Dorison looked up interested. 
 
 "My plans," continued Cathcart, "have been 
 materially changed by the events of to-day, espec- 
 ially as to your work. It is my belief that the owner 
 of that glove is to be found in the places frequented 
 by young men of fashion. And it is in those places 
 I want you to look for him." 
 
 "That I presume I can do without especial 
 shrewdness?" 
 
 "I do not intend to give you my reasons for the 
 plans I have formed. Reasons I always keep to 
 myself. But, for reasons of my own, I want you to 
 be informed upon the ways of the young men of the 
 day and the young men themselves. To do this 
 you must know them, associate with them, and to 
 a certain extent be one of them. Hence, I want to 
 set you on foot as soon as possible as a young man of 
 fashion about town. Your business you are to keep 
 closely to yourself; never lisping it to any one, and 
 you will not be required to do any work which will 
 betray it. You have been a young man of fashion 
 once; you can easily resume the role." 
 
 "I have no desire to do so now," replied Dori- 
 son, by no means pleased with the line marked out 
 for him. 
 
 "That may be, and is so, doubtless. But it is 
 necessary. I will smooth your way for you. You 
 shall have ostensible employment in a reputable 
 house; you shall have the necessary credit at a
 
 WEA VING A THEOR Y. 69 
 
 fashionable tailor, and you shall have the introduc- 
 tion to young men of fashion that will give you a 
 start." 
 
 "But when all this is done, what am I to do?" 
 
 "Continuously extend the circle of your acquaint- 
 ance and become familiar with fashionable haunts of 
 all kinds, and obtain invitations, if possible, --to visit 
 people's homes. In the mean time watch people's 
 hands. In short, so that you may not think you 
 are upon a fool's errahd, I will tell you that I want 
 you to be eyes and ears for me in places where I 
 cannot go myself without arousing suspicion." 
 
 "You think the murderer will be detected in 
 such circles." 
 
 "If not detected, facts and circumstances will 
 be secured that will lead up to detection. I am 
 digging deeply, for if my experience is worth any- 
 thing we will not come to the end of this matter to- 
 morrow nor for many days thereafter. You must 
 change your quarters to-morrow. Look out for 
 them a place where a moderately fashionable man 
 should live." 
 
 With these words the old detective arose and, 
 taking his hat, led the way to the door of the restau- 
 rant, where he said : 
 
 "Go where you will to-night. I will see you 
 early in the morning." 
 
 They parted with this.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 
 
 WITHIN a week after his conversation Dorison 
 was in occupation of a comfortable suite of 
 apartments in Twenty-ninth Street. 
 
 Through the agency of old Mr.Nettleman he had 
 gathered a stock of such fashionable clothing as he 
 had not had since the days prior to his father's 
 death; he was in enjoyment of an income over and 
 above his salary of two hundred dollars a month 
 with which to support his pretensions, supplied by 
 Mr. Nettleman. Also he was connected nominally 
 with a mercantile house in the lower part of the city, 
 and this also through Mr. Nettleman, who had taken 
 a friend into his confidence, and given Dorison there- 
 by a standing other than that of a mere idler of the 
 town. And in addition he had brought the young 
 man into pleasant relations with several young men, 
 sons of his friends. 
 
 All of this was in pursuance of the suggestions of 
 Cathcart, and though he did not inform Dorison as 
 to his reasons, he did his cousin. The reasons 
 were not so much that Dorison could aid in the 
 capture of the murderer as that he saw that any 
 explanation of Reuben Dorison's strange letter was 
 to be obtained in the circle in which he had moved. 
 70
 
 SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION, 71 
 
 And he hoped to edge the younger Dorison into it, 
 without his identity being known. 
 
 Cathcart had a -theory as to Reuben Dorison 's 
 connection with the Parish's which he kept closely 
 to himself. In what direction it tended may be 
 imagined from this brief exchange with his cousin 
 Nettleman one evening when they were together. 
 
 "What was Reuben Dorison's private life, Cousin 
 Nettleman?" he asked suddenly. "Was he given to 
 intrigues with women?" 
 
 Mr. Nettleman was indignant and in arms at 
 once. 
 
 "No, sir," he replied emphatically. "No purer 
 man in his private life ever lived. Of that I am 
 certain. His home life was perfectly happy." 
 
 "Are you saying that because you think you must 
 be loyal to the memory of your dead friend, or 
 because you believe it?" 
 
 "I say it because it is true. From the moment 
 he married his wife, he was a devoted husband and 
 a pure man." 
 
 "His wife died how many years ago?" 
 
 "She died the first year he moved into Twenty- 
 third Street in 1851." 
 
 "Ah, twenty-eight years ago." 
 
 Whatever he thought, he was exceedingly busy 
 in these days, leaving Dorison much to himself. 
 About two weeks after the young man had entered 
 upon his second career as a man of fashion, as 
 Cathcart called it, the old detective made his 
 appearance at Dorison's rooms. It was early in the
 
 72 THE MAN WITH A THUM&. 
 
 morning, before the young man was out of bed. 
 He pushed himself into the sleeping-room and sat 
 himself upon the bed as he talked. 
 
 "I have found out who transferred by deed that 
 house in Sixteenth Street to Mrs. Parish, " he said 
 without preface. "After a search which carried 
 me to Buffalo, I found that the man had been dead 
 a year. I have made diligent search for Mr. Far- 
 ish, and have not found a person who ever heard 
 of him. I have, however, picked up a great many 
 trifles which will in time, no doubt, be of value. I 
 have been hoping to find a starting place for you." 
 
 "I thought you had abandoned me to my fate 
 as a fashionable rounder," said the young man 
 lightly. 
 
 "No," replied Cathcart seriously. "But I want 
 you to make a systematic study of hands." 
 
 "Of what," said Dorison, perplexed by the seem- 
 ing irrelevancy of the remark. 
 
 "A study of the hands of the young men of your 
 acquaintance. You must, as I have indicated 
 before, look high and low for such a hand as I have 
 described to you." 
 
 ' 'And finding such a hand arrest the body to which 
 it is attached, I suppose?" 
 
 "No; inform me. Find his name, occupation, 
 and surroundings." 
 
 "Ah, an easy matter surely when you've caught 
 your bird." 
 
 "Here," continued the detective, taking out a 
 well-filled wallet and extracting a paper from it,
 
 SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 73 
 
 "is a complete list of all places where they make 
 gloves to order. You must visit each place and 
 order gloves for yourself, and while doing so get up 
 a talk on the peculiarity of hands that glove-makers 
 meet with, and perhaps you may stumble upon the 
 maker of the glove I have told you about." 
 
 "That ought to be easy." 
 
 "Now, don't go too fast," said Cathcart warn- 
 ingly. "It is by no means as easy as you think that 
 is,to do it without arousing suspicion. People do 
 not like detectives except in books, and if you give 
 them reason to suspect you to be one, you will find 
 the bars up against you. Again, you are liable to 
 direct the attention of the police to yourself, and I 
 particularly desire to avoid that. Now one word 
 more, and I am off. I want you to meet me at Po- 
 lice Headquarters at eleven precisely this morning. 
 Not before that hour, because I don't want those 
 fellows to get at you as they will be sure to do ; 
 not after that hour, for I don't want to wait a 
 moment." 
 
 With this he was gone. Dorison consulted his 
 watch and found he would have barely time to 
 dress and breakfast. So he hurried into his bath. 
 
 At eleven, as he turned into Mulberry Street 
 from Bleecker, he saw Cathcart approaching- from 
 Houston. They met at the foot of the steps of the 
 Police Headquarters. 
 
 "One moment before we enter, j' said Cathcart. 
 "Answer no leading question except by evasion. I 
 want you here to make a study of that glove. If
 
 74 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 you have the slightest aptitude for this business, 
 from a close examination of the glove, you can gain 
 an intelligent knowledge of the character of the 
 hand you are to seek. And let me tell you there 
 is as much character in a hand as in a face. Impress 
 it on your memory, burn it in, and when you have 
 fastened it on your mind, turn to me and say, 'No, 
 I never saw this glove. I do not recognize it.' Do 
 you understand?" 
 
 Assuring the old man he did, Dorison followed 
 him into the building and into the office of the 
 detective we have twice met before in the course of 
 our narrative. The detective himself was seated 
 in his office chair, his feet stretched out, his hands 
 in his pockets, his chin on his breast, and his face 
 wearing a gloomy, perplexed expression. 
 
 As he perceived his visitor, he brightened up 
 and rose to greet Cathcart. 
 
 "Ah," he said, "I am glad you have come. I 
 was this moment desiring to see you. Have you 
 anything new?" 
 
 "I have something to say to you," replied Cath- 
 cart gravely. "But first I want my friend Dudley 
 to see that glove we found." 
 
 The detective, who had not greeted Dorison, 
 though he had recognized him, now addressed a salu- 
 tation to him, and bending over his desk moved a 
 newspaper revealing the glove under a glass, still on 
 the little fan on w,hich it had been placed. Cathcart 
 took it, and, moving the glass, handed it to Dorison, 
 who carried it to the light. He expended five min-
 
 SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 75 
 
 utes in its examination. Turning, he handed it 
 back to Cathcart with the words the old detective 
 had bade him utter. 
 
 "Another disappointment, " quietly remarked the 
 old man as he turned to go. He was detained by 
 the Captain. 
 
 "I thought you had somethWig to say to me," he 
 said. 
 
 "Yes," replied Cathcart. "Excuse me, Mr. 
 Dudley." 
 
 Taking this as an intimation to remove himself as 
 far as possible, Dorison took a seat near the door. 
 Cathcart and the Captain talked in whispers. 
 
 "What is it," asked the Captain. "What did you 
 bring him here for?" 
 
 "A bare chance," replied Cathcart; "he talked 
 to me of a man with a long thumb, and I brought 
 him here to see if he could recognize it. He does 
 not know the meaning of his visit." 
 
 The Captain closely examined the face of Cath- 
 cart as he was thus glibly lying, but it was inscru- 
 table. 
 
 "Now what have you to tell me?" asked the 
 Captain. 
 
 "Only as to what I have been at work on. Noth-. 
 ing as to what I have found, for it is nothing. From 
 her minister I have found there was some strange 
 or wrong event in Mrs. Parish's life, but what, I 
 cannot even guess at. I have found out who deeded 
 the house to her only to find him dead. In short, 
 I have been looking into her antecedents without
 
 7$ Till'. MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 result. No one knows where she came from, or 
 what she was prior to turning up in Sixteenth Street 
 twenty years ago." 
 
 "Your experience is not unlike my own. You 
 are discouraged then?" 
 
 "No; if I were at the beginning of my career, 
 say thirty-five year^. ago, I should throw up my 
 hands. As it is, I feel as the real search had only 
 begun." 
 
 "Oh," said the Capjain, with his peculiar srnile. 
 "What is your plan?" 
 
 "To tramp around until I knock against some- 
 thing that will give me a suggestion." 
 
 "Well," said the Captain, after a moment's hesi- 
 tation, "here is one thing. Mrs. Parish had a son, 
 who was wild and unmanageable, and left home when 
 he was eighteen to go into Jhe West. He gave his 
 mother much trouble." 
 
 "Ah, where did you get that?" 
 
 "By accident. An old carpenter, who used to 
 do odd jobs for Mrs. Farish, blew in here a day 
 or two after the murder with that single bit of 
 information." 
 
 "Name and address," demanded Cathcart, pulling 
 out his memorandum book. The Captain gave it, 
 and it was duly entered. 
 
 "It is not much," said Cathcart, as he put up his 
 book. "I had heard of the son, but the minister 
 believed him dead, from the way his mother had 
 referred to him. What else have you heard?" 
 
 "Nothing," returned the Captain; "I have been
 
 SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 77 
 
 traveling over the same ground you have, and with 
 a like result. But as a matter of fact I have not 
 been able to devote my whole time to the case. A 
 series of most skillful burglaries haVe been going on 
 for some time, and we are unable to get trace of 
 them. The Commissioners are making my life mis- 
 erable, and I am nearly wild over it. They are skill- 
 ful and audacious. They are hands new to New 
 York. The methods they employ show that they 
 are not the old cracksmen. And the old fellows 
 do not know them any better than we do. I have 
 half the thieves in town looking for them from curi- 
 osity." 
 
 "Ah," said Cathcart, much interested. "What 
 are the peculiarities of their work?" 
 
 "There is no picking of locks; no lifting of win- 
 dows; all entrances are made through front doors 
 to which they have keys; intimate acquaintance 
 with the location of valuables and of the interior of 
 the houses. They take money, jewelry, and small 
 plate if it is silver, and nothing else. In three 
 instances they have passed over negotiable securi- 
 ties, refusing to take them." 
 
 "Accomplices from the inside?" 
 
 "That was my first thought. But I have aban- 
 doned it. Here are two strange things. They scat- 
 ter their work. Night before last they entered a 
 house in Sixty-third Street near Madison Avenue. 
 Last night in Fifteenth Street near Sixth Avenue. 
 And so it goes. Every house they enter has a sick 
 person in it; it never fails."
 
 78 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "Ah, ha!" said Cathcart, "There is your point. 
 Follow that up. Those things don't happen. Con- 
 fine yourself to that point." 
 
 "I wish you would work with us in that murder 
 affair. ' ' 
 
 "I will give you assistance. Devote yourself to 
 these robberies. I will follow the murder up until 
 I know something. You cannot divide yourself on 
 two such important cases and succeed in either. If 
 you want reports from me every morning I will give 
 you something you can show as indicating your 
 progress. Trust me." 
 
 The Captain wrung Cathcart's hand. 
 
 "That was the very proposition I was going to 
 make. You have removed half the load from my 
 shoulders. If you want men send to me for them. 
 I leave the case to you." 
 
 "Discreet and skillful shadows will be all I want." 
 
 "Send for them then any hour of the day or 
 night." 
 
 They parted at the door. 
 
 Dorison followed the old detective into the street, 
 when he said : 
 
 "You have those torn scraps of paper safe." 
 
 "Yes," replied Dorison. 
 
 "Hold fast to them. Put them in a safe place. 
 The time may come when they will be of the utmost 
 value." 
 
 On the corner of Broadway and Bleecker Street, 
 Cathcart halted and said: 
 
 "My visit has turned out better than I could have
 
 SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 79 
 
 expected. The Captain has given the case into my 
 hands. Now I've got it. It is a question of time 
 only. No interference now by blunderers. I know 
 the man and how to catch him with proof." 
 "You know the man?" said Dorison surprised. 
 "Yes, I know the man. That is to say " 
 The old detective stopped suddenly and attentively 
 regarded a man passing on the other side of the 
 street. Without a word he slipped across, leaving 
 Dorison so astounded, he could do nothing but 
 stare after him as he nimbly followed the man who 
 had attracted his attention.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 . T HAVE seen politer gentlemen," remarked 
 
 1 Dorison to himself, when he recovered from 
 his astonishment. He stood for a moment upon the 
 corner. "Well," he muttered, "he has given me 
 instructions as to one piece of work, and I will go 
 at it at once." 
 
 He took from his pocket the list of glove-makers 
 given him by Cathcart. Discovering that one was 
 not far away, he determined to begin there. As he 
 walked up the street, he busied himself with prepar- 
 ing a few tactical questions which should lead to a 
 general discussion of glove-making, out of which 
 might come some hints as to the wearer of the glove 
 he had recently examined. 
 
 Reaching Eighth Street he crossed to the other 
 side of Broadway, on which the glove-maker was, but 
 his steps were checked by an omnibus which stopped 
 immediately in his way to permit a young girl to 
 descend a young girl perhaps of nineteen summers, 
 whose bright, pretty face, surmounted by a wreath 
 of golden curls, attracted his admiring attention. 
 She turned to the sidewalk, to which he was cross- 
 ing, without seeing a pair of horses rapidly driven 
 down the street. 
 
 80
 
 AN AD VENTURE. 8 1 
 
 Before Dorison could sound a warning the girl 
 was knocked down by one of the horses, and but 
 for a mighty leap upon his part, which enabled him 
 to reach her in time to drag her from under the 
 wheels nearly upon her, she would have been run 
 over. He lifted her to her feet quickly. Perceiv- 
 ing she was either injured or fainting from fright, he 
 bore her in his arms to the sidewalk, a policeman, 
 who had run to the girl's assistance, stopping the 
 vehicles to make way for him. 
 
 As he reached the curbstone with his burden, a 
 young man stepped up to him and with no little 
 insolence said : 
 
 "I'll relieve you of your charge," attempting at 
 the same time to take the girl. 
 
 Dorison, from a rapid survey of the young man, 
 was not impressed favorably, and said curtly : 
 
 "I do not recognize your right." 
 
 'Then I'll make you," angrily returned the young 
 man. 'This lady I know; I am her friend." 
 
 "Stand back now," said the policeman, "your 
 right will be recognized when the lady can tell who 
 her friends are." 
 
 To Dorison: "Is she hurt? Carry her to that 
 drug store," pointing to one near by. 
 
 At this moment the occupant of the carriage came 
 hurrying up. 
 
 "Is she injured?" he asked. "Bring her to this 
 drug store. I am a physician." 
 
 "By ! Fassett," cried the young man who had 
 
 interfered, with an oath, and who was following,
 
 82 THE MAN WITH A THUMB, 
 
 "you manufacture your patients. You ought to 
 have y<5ur neck broken for driving like that." 
 
 "Be quiet, Harry, for Heaven's sake!" implored 
 the physician. 
 
 During this brief interchange Dorison, accom- 
 panied by the policeman, who was assisting in bear- 
 ing the young lady, had reached the drug store and 
 placed her in a chair. 
 
 The other two followed, and the physician, bend- 
 ing over the girl, said: 
 
 "It is a faint." 
 
 Calling for remedies, he soon restored the young 
 lady to consciousness. 
 
 Opening her eyes she looked about in a dazed 
 manner for a moment, as if she could not collect 
 her senses. 
 
 "Where am I?" she asked, bewildered. "What 
 has happened?" Recognizing the physician she 
 said, "Oh, is it you, Doctor? How came I here?" 
 
 "Are you injured, Miss Eustace? Tell me. It 
 was I who knocked you down." 
 
 "Yes," bitterly laughed the young man, "with 
 his fine, fast span, he knocked you down." 
 
 The girl looked up, and Dorison was certain he 
 caught an expression of dislike and contempt, as it 
 flitted over her face during the moment her eyes 
 rested upon the speaker. For the first time Dori- 
 son seriously regarded the young man, and observed 
 that his face bore the unmistakable evidence of 
 rapidity of life, and that he was no stranger to the 
 brandy bottle. Yet the face would have been called
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 83 
 
 handsome by most people ; the flush attributed by 
 Dorison to alcohol, by many would have been taken 
 as an evidence of youth and health ; and his air and 
 manner called dashing and engaging. His fine 
 clothes were extreme in cut and loud in colors. 
 The sum of Dorison's rapid conclusions was that 
 the man was a low-bred "cad." 
 
 The physician repeated his question. 
 
 "No," replied the young girl. "I am not hurt. 
 But what does it all mean?" 
 
 The policeman replied to her question : 
 
 "It means that after you got out of the Fifth 
 Avenue stage opposite here, you were knocked down 
 by a team, and you'd 'a' bin run over but for the 
 spryness of this gentleman," indicating Dorison 
 with a nod, "who leaped forward, pulled you from 
 under the wheels, and brought you to the sidewalk. ' ' 
 
 The girl lifted her violet eyes to Dorison, with a 
 most grateful expression, and blushing as she 
 spoke, said simply : 
 
 " I thank you, sir." 
 
 " I thank my good fortune I was so near as to 
 be of service," replied Dorison, a little embarrassed 
 under such grateful eyes. 
 
 " None but the brave " sneered the young 
 man. 
 
 " Be quiet," said the policeman, so savagely 
 the utterer of the sneer found it convenient to walk 
 away a short distance. The physician began to 
 question her as to possible injuries. 
 
 To all inquiries the young lady made such
 
 84 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 replies as indicated no serious damage had been 
 done, although she was evidently much shocked. 
 
 " I do not think the young lady has sustained 
 any injuries beyond a few bruises," said Dorison. 
 " She was struck by the shoulder of the horse near- 
 est her. I am certain nothing else touched her, 
 not even a horse's hoof." 
 
 "Then," said the physician, "I am thankful to 
 be able to say that a slight stimulant is all that will 
 be required to enable her to return home." 
 
 This was administered, and the dirt and dust 
 having been brushed from her clothes, the physi- 
 cian said : 
 
 " I hope, Miss Eustace, you will permit me to 
 make a slight reparation for my blundering care- 
 lessness, by driving you home ? My excuse for 
 rapid driving is that I was hastily summoned to a 
 very sick man." 
 
 " Then do not let me detain you another moment, 
 Doctor," hastily replied the young lady. " I am 
 wholly recovered, and I think I was silly to faint." 
 
 " I will accompany Miss Eustace home," said the 
 young man, perceiving an opportunity and striving 
 to utilize it. 
 
 " No, sir, it is unnecessary," replied the lady, 
 with such coldness and haughtiness as to make a 
 repetition of the proffer impossible. To the offi- 
 cer she said, " Will you do me the favor to call a 
 cab." To the physician, <k Doctor, you must go to 
 your patient. I insist upon it. I will forgive you 
 for knocking me down, if you will go at once, and
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 85 
 
 I never will if you don't. Go. I am not injured 
 at all." 
 
 The doctor departed with apologies, as the offi- 
 cer entered, having caught a cab at the door. 
 
 The young lady, rising, turned to Dorison and 
 with color again flushing her cheeks said : 
 
 " Sir, if I have not expressed gratitude to you 
 for your service, it is not because I am insensible 
 of its value. Indeed, I thank you very much." 
 
 With this, to which Dorison responded with a 
 low bow, she walked off with the officer, who 
 returned a moment later saying : 
 
 " The young lady desires to know your name 
 and address, so that her father may call upon you." 
 
 Dorison had regained his self-possession fully, 
 and he replied : 
 
 "Say to the young lady, with my compliments, 
 please, that while I shall esteem it as an honor to be 
 visited by her father, his thanks are unnecessary, 
 since I am grateful for having been able to render 
 service to his daughter. My name is James Dud- 
 ley; my address is No. Twenty-ninth Street." 
 
 It is doubtful whether the officer repeated any 
 more of this rather grandiloquent speech than the 
 address. Dorison, turning, saw the young stranger 
 regarding him with an insolent sneer. It made him 
 angry and all the more so because he was conscious 
 that his speech, a little too pompous to be in good 
 taste, had given reason for the sneer. 
 
 So he rushed forthwith into another error. 
 
 "My name is James Dudley. What is yours?"
 
 86 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 ' 'Really," said the young man, with studied inso- 
 lence, "your information is highly important, but I 
 am not bartering on such terms." 
 
 An angry reply leaped to Dorison's tongue, but 
 perceiving the absurdity of a quarrel upon such 
 insufficient grounds, he walked out of the store. 
 
 It was some time before he cooled, for he felt he 
 had made himself ridiculous. Indeed it was not 
 until he recognized the humor of the situation 
 that he desired to punish the young man for having 
 himself been absurd, that he could laugh it off. By 
 this time he found he had passed the store he wished 
 to call at, and retraced his steps. Although he 
 endeavored to bend his mind to the business he had 
 in hand, he was not able to banish that charming 
 face, especially those upturned eyes. Perhaps his 
 failure to elicit any information, and he visited the 
 whole list, was due to that haunting face and to the 
 memory of the pressure of that soft, yielding form 
 in his arms as he bore it to the sidewalk. 
 
 Tired out at the end, disgusted with his failure, 
 and blaming himself for having done his work badly, 
 he returned to his apartments to prepare himself for 
 his evening's work. His thoughts turned to the 
 purpose Cathcart had in view in sending him into 
 the life he was leading. And while he acknowl- 
 edged to himself that he had fallen into old ways 
 and habits with astonishing ease, and that his life 
 was far from disagreeable, yet he doubted the wis- 
 dom of Cathcart and could not put away the idea 
 that he was merely the puppet of the whims and
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 87 
 
 caprices of a man who had entered upon his dotage. 
 Consequently, he could not believe that he could 
 continue long on his present course. These thoughts, 
 not unmixed with occasional reversions to the adven- 
 tures of the day, occupied him as he dressed for 
 the evening. Indeed, he had barely completed 
 his dressing when a card was presented bearing the 
 words: "Herbert Clavering Eustace." 
 
 As he directed his caller to be shown up, he was 
 conscious of a feeling of elation, reason for which he 
 could not satisfactorily give to himself. However, 
 little time was given for self-examination, for in a 
 moment Mr. Eustace was ushered into the room. 
 
 His caller was a tall, slim gentleman, whose sixty 
 winters bore lightly upon him ; a gentleman of ele- 
 gant and courtly bearing; whose head was covered 
 with snow-white hair, while a mustache as white 
 swept across his face and lost itself in soft, silken 
 white whiskers. With perfect breeding he stated 
 the purpose of his call to be wholly that of thanking 
 Mr. Dudley for the inestimable service rendered his 
 daughter; and not only, he said, did he convey the 
 thanks of the other members of the family, but of 
 the young lady herself, who, she was quite certain, 
 at the time of the accident had not shown proper 
 appreciation of what she had been saved from by 
 Mr. Dudley's quick wit and ready hand. 
 
 All of this overwhelmed Dorison, who was really 
 a modest fellow, and he felt that shamefacedness 
 at being so much thanked, manly men ever do. By 
 a strong effort he pulled his wits together and met
 
 88 THE MAX IVITir A THUMB. 
 
 the courtesy in a well-bred manner, avoiding the 
 error of treating a service the beneficiaries regarded 
 important, as trivial, as ill-bred people are so apt to 
 do. This in turn impressed Mr. Eustace. They 
 glided into a general chat of a few moments, when 
 the caller arose and again renewing his distinguished 
 considerations, expressed the hope the day was not 
 far distant when the young lady might thank him 
 in person, but in such general terms and in such 
 tone that Dorison instantly felt that he would be a 
 consummate fool if he were to take the expression 
 to be anything more than a polite courtesy. 
 
 He accompanied Mr. Eustace to the door, and in 
 doing so passed into another light, giving Mr. 
 Eustace for the first time a fair opportunity to 
 observe his face. 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed the old gentleman, 
 startled out of his propriety, "What a marvelous 
 resemblance. Sir, are you related in any way to 
 Reuben Dorison?" 
 
 Too well disciplined in this direction to be taken 
 aback, Dorison replied: 
 
 "The gentleman is unknown to me." 
 
 "He is dead these eight years. He was a dear 
 friend of mine. Your resemblance to him at the 
 age you are now, is something wonderful. Indeed, 
 intervening years pass away, and as I talk with you 
 I seem to talk with him. You have his voice, his 
 bearing, his very tricks of manner, even your smile 
 is his. Upon my word it is wonderful." 
 
 It required all the self-control Dorison could sum-
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 89 
 
 mon to prevent a betrayal of himself in this outburst. 
 Murmuring something about strong resemblances 
 being not uncommon in this world, he bowed his 
 visitor out. 
 
 The door closed, and he threw himself into the 
 first chair; he wildly cursed the fate that compelled 
 him to deny his birth, his identity, his claim to the 
 consideration of his father's friends, and to mislead 
 and prevaricate to a fine, honorable gentleman, as 
 he was certain Mr. Eustace was the father of his 
 daughter. The bitterness of his destiny came upon 
 him with even greater force, and he passed an hour 
 in passionate revolt against the fortune that had been 
 meted out to him. Out of this futile rebelling, he 
 passed into a frenzy of determination to wrest the 
 secret of his disgrace from unwilling time, and went 
 out into the air.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 WHEN Dorison rushed out, under the impulse 
 of his determination, he felt strong enough to 
 wrestle with worlds. When he reached the street 
 and considered what he should do he felt his weak- 
 ness. As suddenly as he had burst into his spasm 
 of passionate remonstrance, as suddenly he relapsed 
 into hopelessness. Lost in gloomy thought he wan- 
 dered on, caring little whither he went. He reached 
 Third Avenue without knowing why he had walked 
 in that direction. 
 
 Near the corner, an elderly man, with long hair 
 and beard, had erected a frail, low platform which 
 he had lit with oil lamps. He was an itinerant 
 phrenologist, and was holding forth in long words 
 and execrable grammar upon the marvelous head of 
 a street gamin he had persuaded to submit to exami- 
 nation. Over his head was a placard, "A man is 
 what he makes himself." 
 
 Dorison did not ask what pertinency the aphorism 
 might have to the old man's occupation, but apply- 
 ing it to himself, laughed bitterly, and asked aloud, 
 ' ' Is that so ? What am I but the foot-ball of chance 
 a chip on the rushing waters of life, I can neither 
 resist nor control." 
 
 90
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 9 1 
 
 He stopped idly to listen to the street fakir as he 
 gulled his auditors, standing on the outer edge of 
 the circle in a shadow. Tiring of listening, he turned 
 to go, when his attention was attracted by a figure 
 which seemed familiar. A glance sufficed to show 
 that it was the young man he had encountered at 
 the time of the accident to Miss Eustace, who was 
 so insolent. Perceiving that he was not observed 
 by the young man, he determined to remain where 
 he was, rather than encounter for a second time the 
 one who had filled him with such repugnance. 
 
 The young man, dressed as he was in the after- 
 noon, lounged under the shadow of a covered 
 entrance to the rear of the corner saloon. As Dori- 
 son watched him, a man, sharp-eyed and alert in 
 his bearing, taking note of everything about him, 
 passed by. Dorison heard a low, shrill whistle and 
 thought he discovered an exchange of signals 
 between the new comer and the lounger, but so rapid 
 and insignificant were they, that perceiving no 
 change in the attitude of the young man, and seeing 
 the other one pass on, he concluded he was mistaken. 
 A moment later the sharp-eyed man returned, pass- 
 ing close to the lounger in the shadow, and this 
 time Dorison saw plainly that a folded paper was 
 transferred from the lounger to the passer-by, who 
 went on a little distance and then sauntered back. 
 As he passed the lounger he said, without turning 
 his head: 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "To-night," replied the lounger.
 
 92 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 The sharp-eyed man joined the circle of those 
 listening to the phrenologist, listened.a moment, and 
 then stepping back said: 
 
 "What hour?" 
 
 "Between twelve and one," came the answer from 
 the lounger. 
 
 The alert man again joined the circle, and again 
 listening a moment, stepped back and Dorison 
 heard the further exchange: 
 
 "How many?" 
 
 "Three." 
 
 With this the alert young man walked off rapidly 
 toward the corner and disappeared. The lounger 
 emerged from his shadow and went off in the direc- 
 tion of Broadway. 
 
 "Mysterious," muttered Dorison. "Now, what 
 can that mean? If I were Cathcart I presume I 
 would construct the theory of a great crime or a 
 huge conspiracy." 
 
 He came out of the dark corner. A young woman 
 was coming down the street intent upon her own 
 thoughts, humming a tune. As she came opposite 
 the entrance to the saloon referred to, as the one 
 under the shadow of the cover of which the antipa- 
 thy of Dorison was lounging, the door was flung 
 open and a loudly dressed man, partially intoxi- 
 cated, came out. 
 
 Seeing the young woman he cried out: 
 
 "Hello, Bess, old gal." 
 
 "Go 'way," she replied, trying to evade him. 
 
 But he reached forward and, catching her by the
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 93 
 
 arm, tried roughly to pull her to him, as he said, 
 with a taunting laugh : 
 
 "No, you don't, my bird. Come here and give 
 me a kiss." 
 
 "Let me go," cried the girl, struggling to free 
 herself. "Let me go, you big loafer, or I'll call 
 the police." 
 
 "Or, Johnny the grip, eh! Oh, no, you don't go 
 until you give me a kiss." 
 
 He bent over in an endeavor to carry out his 
 threat, when she dealt him a smart blow upon his 
 cheek with her open hand. 
 
 With an oath he made a motion as if to strike 
 her, when a policeman, running from the corner, 
 cried out : 
 
 "None of that, now." 
 
 Dorison, before whose eyes this scene had been 
 enacted so rapidly that he could not interfere, sup- 
 posed the cry of the policeman was addressed to 
 the ruffian, but to his surprise he saw him seize the 
 girl. 
 
 "I've been looking for this. Now I'll take you 
 in." 
 
 "I've done nothing," said the girl in alarm. "He 
 insulted me for no reason." 
 
 "Oh yes! Of course. That's likely," cried the 
 officer, scornfully. 
 
 "Officer," interposed Dorison, "you will do an 
 act of injustice if you arrest this young woman. I 
 was a witness of the whole thing." 
 
 "Do you know this woman?"
 
 04 THE MAN WITH A THUM&. 
 
 "No, I don't, but I know she was not to blame 
 in this matter." 
 
 "Well, I do," persisted the officer. 
 
 " Whether you do or not, " replied Dorison, "you 
 mustn't arrest her for anything she's done to-night. 
 If' you commit such an outrage I'll make trouble 
 for you." 
 
 "Are you a 'pal' of her's?" 
 
 "I'm a 'pal' of nobody," said Dorison with dig- 
 nity. 
 
 "Do you know what she is?" asked the officer v 
 with a sneer. 
 
 "No, and I don't ask. But I do know she was 
 passing along the street quietly when this ruffian 
 came out of that door, and seizing her, tried to kiss 
 her, an indignity she very properly resented. You 
 must not arrest her ; if you do I will make a com- 
 plaint against you where it will trouble you. If you 
 must arrest any one arrest the rascal who molested 
 her." 
 
 Impressed by Dorison's stern manner, the officer 
 looked for the offender denounced, and to the sur- 
 prise of all he had disappeared. 
 
 "He's had some reason for sliding out," said the 
 officer to himself. 
 
 Then turning to the girl he said : 
 
 "Your're in luck to-night in havin' this swell at 
 your back. You look out though, I'm watchin' 
 you." 
 
 The girl, who had not spoken a word during the 
 passage between the officer and Dorison, now turned 
 to the latter and said :
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 95 
 
 \ 
 
 "I am obliged to you for your kindness, sir. 
 You've got me out of a bad scrape, sir." 
 
 The policeman had gone back to the corner. The 
 girl, watching him, laid her hand upon the arm of 
 Dorison to detain him. 
 
 "I'm not what that man wants to make me out. 
 I've got a man I am as much married to as if the 
 priest had said the words. That man the police- 
 man has been followin' me for a year, and he's got 
 it in forme because I told him to go about hisbusi- 
 ness. The other man's crooked he's a thief, and 
 my man knows he is. I won't forget your kindness. 
 It isn't every swell as would interfere to help a 
 woman like me." 
 
 She went off nodding and smiling. 
 
 "I'm in for adventures to-day," muttered Dorison, 
 as he retraced his steps through Twenty-ninth Street 
 to Broadway. "I wonder if destiny directed me 
 this way to help that poor girl. Apparently I have 
 an occupation in life the rescuing of pretty young 
 women. It does not promise to be remunerative, 
 yet if thanks were coin, I would be rich to-night." 
 
 The incidents of the evening had stirred him from 
 his gloomy thoughts, and his mind reverted to the 
 espisode of the early afternoon, bringing the fair 
 young face with violet eyes and clustering golden 
 curls before him. In what direction his thoughts 
 strayed may be judged from the remark he muttered 
 aloud as he turned into Broadway. 
 
 "It was a sunbeam shot athwart a dark life, and 
 as unattainable as the sun itself."
 
 96 THE MAX WITH A THUMB. 
 
 Arriving in front of Daly's Theater, upon a sud- 
 den -impulse he turned in and bought a ticket. 
 Though the curtain was up the play had not pro- 
 gressed far into the first act when he found himself 
 comfortably seated. 
 
 Passionately fond of the drama, he was soon 
 engrossed in the brightness of the dialogue and 
 the skill of the sterling favorites, Rehan and 
 Lewis. 
 
 Immediately in front of him sat a gentleman with 
 whom he had a slight acquaintance. Beside this 
 acquaintance, evidently his companion, sat a young 
 man whose countenance he noted was the most attrac- 
 tive he had ever seen in a man. Somewhat plump 
 and fair, good humor, intelligence and refinement 
 reigned in it. He further noted, that the young man 
 was endowed with a head of hair which should by 
 right have been bestowed upon one of the other 
 sex, for it was pure golden, fine, soft, silky and curly. 
 From time to time, as interest in the play flagged, 
 Dorison turned to look at that kindly, winsome 
 face, remarking how artless and responsive it was 
 without losing a particle of manliness. 
 
 "Yet," he commented, "such a face, I take it, 
 would win more with men than with women." 
 
 By-and-bye the young man who had thus attracted 
 his attention threw his arm over the back of the seat, 
 permitting it tojiang limply behind him. 
 
 Dorison started violently. He turned pale and a 
 feeling of sickening faintness swept over him. Had 
 not all faces been intent upon the stage, his marked
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 97 
 
 agitation must have attracted the attention of all 
 about him. He trembled in every limb. 
 
 There was the hand he had been bidden to seek. 
 
 Not only was it the hand with prominent joints and 
 knuckles, and with disproportionately long thumb, 
 but it was encased by the mate of the very glove he 
 had that morning examined. 
 
 It was the same in color, in quality, in form and 
 in the peculiarity of its make. Like that one, it 
 fitted in every part of the hand that wore it perfectly. 
 
 Fora moment or two everything swam before his 
 eyes. He seized the arms of his seat to prevent 
 himself from falling. The sensation, as powerful as 
 it was, passed away and he got himself under better 
 control. He studied the hand and glove. There 
 could be no mistake. The opportunity for close 
 examination was ample before the young man with- 
 drew his hand. 
 
 From this moment the drama on the stage lost 
 interest for him. He now was concerned in a 
 tragedy before whose dread events the puny hap- 
 penings of the comedy paled into insignificance. 
 He studied the face of the young man with new 
 interest and from another point of view. 
 
 " It is the hand and the glove," he said to him- 
 self, " but it is difficult to believe that that face 
 could have been concerned in such awful work." 
 
 Yet, while he expressed this thought, he did not 
 falter in his belief that the murderer of Mrs. 
 Farish and her daughter sat before him. For a 
 brief moment he contemplated the wild idea of
 
 98 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 denouncing the man there and then. This was due 
 to the strength of Cathcart's theorizing. Though 
 the old detective would have laughed at Dorison's 
 certainty, he could not have failed to have been 
 complimented by this sincere testimony to the 
 power of his reasoning. 
 
 What Dorison did determine to do was to wait 
 until the play was done and follow the young man 
 with a view of discovering who he was. He grew 
 so impatient for the curtain to fall, and so ner- 
 vous over the slow progress the comedy made, 
 that, unable to sit still longer, he left his seat and 
 went into the rear of the theatre, from whence he 
 
 \ 
 
 could command a view of the house and not lose 
 sight of his prey. After what seemed to him an 
 interminable time the curtain fell, and the large 
 audience slowly made its way out. As the two 
 upon whom his eyes were fixed approached the 
 spot where he stood, the companion of the man 
 with a thumb recognized Dorison with a courteous 
 bow and passed on. Dorison followed. At the 
 outer door the twain stopped and conversed 
 earnestly. And suddenly, before Dorison could 
 anticipate the act, the man with the thumb flung a 
 laughing negative to some persuasion of his 
 friend, darted across the pavements, leaped into a 
 waiting carriage and was rapidly driven away. 
 
 The other turned to watch the people pass out. 
 Dorison stepped up, and saluting him, said: 
 
 " I have been strangely attracted by the face 
 of your companion of the evening. I have
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 99 
 
 rarely seen one more winning. May I ask his 
 name ? " 
 
 The gentleman, who was one introduced to 
 Dorison through the maneuvering of Nettleman, 
 laughed as he replied : 
 
 " The common experience. Every one is at- 
 tracted by it. I tell him that, like the tradi- 
 tional girl, he carries his fortune in his face. He 
 is as good a fellow as it indicates. His name 
 is " 
 
 At that moment a gentleman with a lady on 
 either arm addressed the speaker, and the sen- 
 tence was stopped short of the information it was 
 to convey. Lifting his hat to Dorison with request 
 to be excused, he offered his arm to one of the 
 ladies and walked away. 
 
 Dorison was disappointed, but he consoled him- 
 self with the thought that the information was not 
 lost, only delayed, since he could soon find the 
 gentleman who possessed it. 
 
 His first impulse was to seek Cathcart at once, 
 but reflecting that the discovery of the young man, 
 without further information, would carry nothing to 
 so practical a person, he determined to delay his 
 communication until he could gather the name of 
 the owner of the thumb and something as to his 
 surroundings. 
 
 Quite excited he strolled down the street and 
 entered that great thoroughfare, the Hoffman 
 House. Having made a tour of the corridors and 
 the art gallery without finding any one he knew, he
 
 loo THE J/.LV WITH A THUMB. 
 
 turned to go out, when he saw the man with the 
 thumb enter the door. 
 
 To his great surprise also, he saw the young 
 man whom he had seen twice before that day 
 under most dissimilar circumstances the inso- 
 lent young man start up from a corner and 
 address the other. 
 
 The man in whom he, Dorison, had so great an 
 interest, returned a cold and unmistakably haughty 
 bow, and passed on, while the other colored, 
 frowned and returned to his corner. 
 
 The man with the thumb supplied himself with 
 a cigar at the case, went out again, and leaping 
 into his cab was driven off. 
 
 " Strange," muttered Dorison, " that that man 
 should cross my path three times to-day, ending up 
 with showing he knows the man I want to know so 
 badly."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BY WAYS UNKNOWN. 
 
 "PEARLY the next morning, even before he had 
 .L/ breakfasted, Dorison sought the old detective 
 at his room. 
 
 "Have you found your glove-maker?" asked 
 Cathcart, as he entered. 
 
 "I have something much better," replied Dori- 
 son. "The man with the thumb." 
 
 "You are expeditious," said the old man, so 
 coolly as to dampen the ardor of the younger one, 
 who rather anticipated an outburst of surprise and 
 excitement. 
 
 "It was purely by accident," he said. 
 
 "Well, tell me the story, and begin at the begin- 
 ning." 
 
 Thus adjured, his enthusiasm repressed by the 
 total lack of it in the other, Dorison began with his 
 entrance into the theater, omitting no detail. 
 
 When he had finished, Cathcart shook his head 
 dubiously. 
 
 "What is wrong?" anxiously queried Dorison. 
 "Do you think I erred in permitting the young 
 fellow to get away without learning his name?" 
 
 "No; that can be easily obtained. But I dis- 
 trust the conclusions of your information." 
 101
 
 102 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 Dorison was puzzled and said so. 
 
 ' ' I mean this, ' ' said the old detective. ' ' Not only 
 did you find a hand which answers perfectly to the 
 one I want, but you found an exact mate to the 
 glove which you examined yesterday morning. You 
 have found too much. If you had found the hand 
 without the glove, or the glove without the hand, I 
 would feel better satisfied. You have found so 
 much at the first blush, which being established 
 would almost justify immediate arrest, it shakes my 
 confidence. I am afraid your imagination ran away 
 with you." 
 
 "Not in this instance," said Dorison, highly dis- 
 pleased and disposed to resentment. "There could 
 possibly be no mistake." 
 
 "My sensation is one of disappointment, and I 
 give great heed to my sensations. Perhaps you may 
 be entirely right. But let me present a considera- 
 tion to you. You do not doubt that the man who 
 lost the glove failed to discover his loss, do you ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then having done so, recollecting where he 
 removed it, and having committed the murders, 
 don't you think he would be worried over the loss, 
 and would fear that by it he had given a clue to a 
 search for himself ? " 
 
 " Very probably." 
 
 " Do you think a man so worried would don an 
 identically similar pair and go into so conspicuous 
 a place as a theater ? " 
 
 " Well, what do you argue then ? "
 
 &Y WAYS UNKNOWN. 103 
 
 "Either that you have been grossly mistaken, 
 or that the man with the thumo is not the man 
 we want." 
 
 " You are discouraging." 
 
 " I do not mean to be so ; we must be cautious 
 in so important a matter as an arrest." 
 
 " You must see the man yourself then," replied 
 Dorison, much nettled. " I can do no more than 
 tell you I have found a man whose right hand cor- 
 responds precisely in every particular, even to the 
 peculiar prominence of the second knuckle, to the 
 hand you want, and who wears a glove precisely 
 similar to the one I saw yesterday morning. Now," 
 continued Dorison, growing more earnest, " when 
 I examined that glove I paid less attention to the 
 form of the hand it indicated, than to the make, 
 kind and color of the glove particularly the color. 
 I accepted your description of the hand as true. 
 On seeing it, I saw it was one of the kind a man of 
 fashion would wear in the evening." 
 
 "Ah ! " cried Cathcart, interested. " Follow up 
 that point. Tell me what you mean ? " 
 
 " The man who wore it was in full dress. Fash- 
 ion's laws are inexorable. At present it prescribes 
 just that kind of a glove for evening wear, just that 
 color. Probably ten thousand men wore just such 
 a glove last night in the cities of the East. Now, 
 that young man, putting on full dress, would natu- 
 rally draw on one of that kind. You said the man 
 who wore the glove was a bit of a dandy. This 
 man is."
 
 104 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "You have made a point," said the old man. 
 " The man we want, besides having a big thumb 
 and prominent joints, was tall and slim, with 
 brown hair." 
 
 Dorison's face fell. He had forgotten this 
 requirement. He hesitated to reply. 
 
 " Well," said Cathcart, " does your man answer 
 to that ? " 
 
 " No," replied Dorison sullenly. " He was short 
 and plump, his hair was light a golden color." 
 
 " Then he is either not the man we want, or we 
 have come upon a variation in our theory. How- 
 ever," added Cathcart, " that is not to say your 
 information is not important. Upon the contrary, 
 it is highly so. You must follow him up ; make his 
 acquaintance, gain his regard, and if possible get 
 on terms of intimacy with him. When you have 
 found out his haunts I must get a look at him." 
 
 "You would do all this believing he is not our 
 man," asked Dorison, with something of a sneer. 
 
 " I believe nothing," replied the old man testily, 
 "but I disbelieve .nothing. You jump at conclu- 
 sions. It is a bad fault, especially in an inquiry 
 like the one we are engaged in. You came here 
 certain you had found the murderer. Now, upon 
 the expression of a possible doubt, you are certain 
 he is not. Yet you have shown me a flaw in my 
 reasoning. I neither believe nor disbelieve at this 
 stage of the game. I am open to conviction on all 
 sides. This man with the thumb must be followed 
 up. Obtain his name all about him."
 
 &Y WAYS I'A'A'A'OWtf. 10$ 
 
 " I had two chances at him last night. I saw him 
 afterward at the Hoffman." 
 
 " Indeed. Was he alone?" 
 
 " Yes, at the Hoffman. Though a man who had 
 crossed my path twice before during the day accos- 
 ted him." 
 
 "A friend ?" 
 
 " Evidently not. My man was cold and haughty 
 toward him came as near giving him a dead cut 
 as he could without doing so." 
 
 " Who and what was the other ? " 
 
 To answer that question involved a statement of 
 the episode of rescuing Miss Eustace, the call of 
 the father, and the strange incident upon the cor- 
 ner of Third Avenue and Twenth-ninth Street. 
 
 When Dorison finished, the old man, who had 
 been an attentive listener, said : 
 
 " The meeting of these two men was mysterious. 
 Something wrong there. So this man spoke to 
 your man, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, attempted to, but was repelled by the 
 other." 
 
 " Mr. Eustace discovered your strong resem- 
 blance to your father. You must follow that up. 
 You must cultivate his acquaintance." 
 
 " To what end ? " 
 
 "He was intimate with your father, and you may 
 find him valuable in solving the mystery of that 
 unfinished letter." 
 
 " Oh," exclaimed Dorison, with peculiar empha- 
 sis, " I had supposed that inquiry was lost sight of 
 in the superior importance of the other."
 
 Io6 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 The old man keenly regarded the other, as he 
 gave expression to the slight sarcasm. 
 
 " Do you not know," said Cathcart, impres- 
 sively, " that in the revelation of the mystery of 
 one, the mystery of the other will be revealed ? " 
 
 Somewhat abashed, Dorison hesitated before he 
 replied : 
 
 " You have not been particularly communicative 
 as to your theories. I have followed you blindly." 
 
 " I believe success is more surely attained by keep- 
 ing my plans to myself," replied Cathcart calmly. 
 
 " I do not complain," replied Dorison hastily. 
 "I recognize my own want of skill, and therefore 
 am content to obey implicitly." 
 
 " And thereby be most useful. Now seek this 
 man of yours. You need not come to me until you 
 have learned all you can. Let me tell you for 
 your own satisfaction, that notwithstanding your 
 belief that the one thing in which you are particu- 
 larly interested is being overlooked, that I have 
 devoted the past three days, and will possibly for 
 several days to come, to a most searching inquiry 
 into the relations your father maintained for the 
 years immediate'ly preceding his death. What I 
 have learned I shall not tell you, for I have not 
 yet digested it. As soon as you can accomplish it, 
 arrange so I can get a good look at your man." 
 
 Dorison, as he walked away from Cathcart, felt as 
 if he was a very inexperienced man, and had much 
 yet to learn of the ways of the world. 
 
 It was in this frame of mind that he sought the
 
 BY WAYS UNKNOWN. 107 
 
 Hoffman House for breakfast. The hour was not 
 early, and he was enabled to obtain one of those 
 tables adjoining the windows looking out on Broad- 
 way, where he could watch the tide of humanity as 
 it floated by. He was so much engrossed in this 
 watching that he did not observe a gentleman ris- 
 ing from a table near him, and cross the room to 
 his own table. It was Bushnell, the one whom he 
 had seen in the theater the previous evening with 
 the man with the thumb. 
 
 " I suppose an apology for my abrupt departure 
 last evening is due you, Mr. Dudley," he said. 
 
 Dorison replied courteously : 
 
 " The apology was made in the very cause of 
 interruption." 
 
 " I am glad you take it so politely. I'll answer 
 your question now. The name of the gentleman 
 you inquired about is Eustace, and there is no 
 better fellow alive than Charley Eustace." 
 
 " Eustace ! " said Dorison in surprise. " Eus- 
 tace ! indeed. What Eustace ? " 
 
 " He is the son of Herbert Clavering Eustace, 
 an old New York family of wealth and social posi- 
 tion. Charley has been abroad for many years, 
 having only returned a few months ago. Do you 
 know the family ? " 
 
 " I can hardly say I do, although I had a call 
 from Mr. Eustace yesterday evening. Earlier in 
 the day I had the honor of saving his daughter 
 from being run over on Broadway, and he called to 
 acknowledge the service."
 
 io8 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " Indeed ! " replied Bushnell, " was she injured ? 
 I heard last evening she was ill I presume it was 
 she who was ill there are two daughters, you 
 know." 
 
 " I did not know it," answered Dorison. " Miss 
 Eustace was not injured, though she was knocked 
 down by a horse ; but that she might be ill from 
 the shock she received, I can readily believe." 
 
 " Yes it must be she," returned Bushnell. " Char- 
 ley, who had not been home to dinner indeed he 
 maintains bachelor apartments did not know of it 
 last night when we were together. She is a charm- 
 ing girl." 
 
 Dorison did not reply for a moment or two. His 
 mind was busy with thoughts of how singularly the 
 affairs of these people were becoming tangled with 
 his own. 
 
 His companion rattled on : 
 
 " I saw you were much attracted to Charley last 
 evening. Everybody is. He carries the stamp of 
 his good-fellowship on his face." 
 
 " I was much interested in him. Does he follow 
 a profession ! " 
 
 " No ; he has studied surgery here and abroad." 
 
 Dorison gave such a visible start that his com- 
 panion stopped in wonderment and looked at him. 
 
 " It is nothing," said Dorison, casting about for 
 a reason for his involuntary manifestation of sur- 
 prise. " I saw a man that moment on the street I 
 could have sworn was two thousand miles from here. 
 You say your friend studied surgery abroad ? "
 
 BY WAYS UNKNOWN. 109 
 
 " Yes, here and abroad. But I doubt if he will 
 ever practice it. He is independently wealthy by 
 the will of an uncle, and he has his share in his 
 father's estate, which is not small. Would you 
 like to meet him ? " 
 
 " Very much mdeed." 
 
 " He will dine with me to-night here at six, and 
 if you will join us in this room at that hour I will 
 be pleased to have you." 
 
 Accepting the invitation gladly, the two young 
 men parted at the door of the restaurant. 
 
 " Fortune favors me," muttered Dorison to him- 
 self. " The opportunity to observe the young man 
 Cathcart desired is made for him. I must find 
 him and give him notice." 
 
 The work of finding the old detective was not 
 so easy, and the greater part of the day was con- 
 sumed in the search. Indeed, when he was found, 
 there was barely time left Dorison in which to pre- 
 pare for dinner and meet his engagement.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 TALL, SLIM, WITH BROWN HAIR. 
 
 pATHCART had said he would be present at 
 vy the Hoffman cafe at the time of the dinner. 
 
 Consequently, when the three gathered about a 
 round table in the middle of the room on the cor- 
 ner of Broadway and Twenty-fifth Street, Dorison 
 looked about for the old detective. He was not 
 present as yet. Noting his absence, but believing 
 he would soon appear, he gave himself up to the 
 enjoyment of the dinner. 
 
 It progressed with a good deal of light, humor- 
 ous talk, much of it devoted to the long sojourn of 
 Eustace abroad and his experience there. If Dori- 
 son had been attracted by Eustace's appearance, 
 he was doubly so when brought into close personal 
 contact. Modest, light-hearted, gay, brimming with 
 intelligence and overflowing with humor, Dorison 
 thought he was the most engaging person he had 
 ever met, and recollection of the tragedy in which 
 he was supposed to have borne so horrible a part 
 passed away under the influence of the hour. The 
 doubt thrown by Cathcart upon the accuracy of 
 his own conclusions, contributed not a little to this 
 result. 
 
 .Dorison and Eustace were manifestly drawn 
 no
 
 TALL, SLIM, WITH BROWN HAIR. HI 
 
 toward each other ; it was plain to Bushnell that 
 they had discovered a great liking for each other 
 almost at first sight, and they did not part for the 
 evening until they had made plans for an early 
 meeting. 
 
 In the mean time, however, Dorison wondered 
 why Cathcart did not come. He was anxious to 
 have him do so, for he desired the old detective 
 should see he had made no mistake. Further, he 
 desired to tell the old man what he had learned 
 earlier in the day that Eustace had studied 
 surgery a fact he had suppressed until after the 
 detective had confirmed the accuracy of his own 
 observations. The dinner was drawing to a close, 
 and still the old detective had not put in an 
 appearance, to his great disappointment. 
 
 Finally Eustace and Bushnell rose, bent upon an 
 engagement they had previously made. As they 
 donned their overcoats, a man with black bushy 
 beard and hair, who had been sitting at an adjoin- 
 ing table, rose also, and passed close to Dorison on 
 his way out. The latter felt a slip of paper thrust 
 between his fingers. 
 
 So soon as he could he looked at the slip. It 
 was a bit torn from the margin of a newspaper, and 
 on it was penciled these words : " Wait for me in 
 the office of the hotel." 
 
 Wondering who the stranger could be, and what 
 business he could have with him, and speculating 
 as to what the message so strangely communicated 
 could portend, Dorison lit a cigar and wandered
 
 112 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 into the office. Pacing up and down the long cor- 
 ridor he thought upon the singularity of events 
 which had crowded upon him during the previous 
 forty-eight hours. He marveled to note how each 
 seemed in some manner to hinge upon the others. 
 While all this aroused a deep interest within him, 
 it also caused a feeling of unrest, of feverish excite- 
 ment Yet this had the compensating effect of tak- 
 ing him out of that condition of despondency and 
 melancholy which had- become almost a part of his 
 nature. While he was speculating upon the possi- 
 ble outcome of these events, Cathcart suddenly 
 appeared before him. 
 
 " You were wholly right," he said quietly, before 
 Dorison could remark upon his failure to appear 
 in time. " It is the hand and the glove as well. I 
 observed the gloves as he put them on." 
 
 Dorison stared at him in astonishment. A light 
 broke, upon him. 
 
 " You were the man with black hair and beard," 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes ; didn't you know me ? " 
 
 " Know you. I did not dream it was you. You 
 were completely disguised." 
 
 " You did your work excellently well," said Cath- 
 cart, ignoring the compliment, as if disguises were 
 matters of hourly occurrence. " But I was never 
 more puzzled than I am now. If one could only 
 trust to appearances. If I were to do so in this 
 case I would dismiss all idea of young Eustace 
 being implicated in that murder as preposterous.
 
 TALL, SLIM, WITH BROWN HAIR. 113 
 
 I had my lesson, however, twenty years ago. I 
 was given the work of tracing the murder of a whole 
 family in a town in Illinois. Indications pointed 
 to a young girl living in the family. When I saw 
 her sweet, soft, innocent eyes, her face almost 
 angelic in its expressions, and her pretty coaxing 
 manners, I dismissed suspicion of her and went off 
 on a theory which led to nothing. She moved away, 
 and two years after was caught in the very act of 
 crime. Having been convicted, she confessed these 
 murders, and an examination into her life showed 
 her to be a monster of depravity. It was incon- 
 ceivable that one so young and tender could be so 
 black." 
 
 " You have returned to the theory then that 
 Eustace is the man you want," commented Dori- 
 son, disappointment and regret plainly visible. 
 
 " I have neither returned to nor abandoned that 
 theory," replied Cathcart. " I hold everything in 
 abeyance pending further inquiry. Our puzzle 
 does not fit the pieces do not match. We sup- 
 posed that the wearer of that glove was tall and 
 slim with brown hair. In other words, that the 
 wearer of the glove, the tall, slim man, and the 
 walker in Union Square were one and the same 
 man. What we have discovered is, that the wearer 
 of the glove is one person. Whether the tall, slim 
 man and the exquisite of Union Square are one or 
 two persons, has yet to be determined. My theory 
 has gone astray just so far. What was it we learned 
 in school ? Falsus in uno falsus in omnibus. If I
 
 H4 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 am wrong in one particular I may be wrong in 
 all." 
 
 " Eustace could not have been either the caller 
 at stated intervals nor the exquisite of Union 
 Square, exquisite though he is." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because he has been continuously absent from 
 the country for six years, until four months ago." 
 
 " Another complexity. Why should he return 
 home after so long an absence to murder two inof- 
 fensive women ?" 
 
 " He is a surgical student, having studied here 
 and abroad," said Dorison. 
 
 " The devil ! " said Cathcart. " The proofs ac- 
 cumulate against him. You know that to be true ? " 
 
 "His friend Bushnell told me so." 
 
 " The case presents more perplexities than any I 
 ever was engaged in." 
 
 "Those gloves were not made in this country," 
 said Dorison irrelevantly, though thoughtfully. 
 
 " Just what I have been thinking since you told me 
 he has but recently returned from Europe. Well," 
 continued the old detective, " there has been sub- 
 stantial gain. We have discovered the owner of the 
 glove, and at the proper time we can compel him to 
 explain its close proximity to the body of the mur- 
 dered woman. He must have had some relation 
 to the woman, and if not guilty of the murder, 
 must be possessed of knowledge concerning them. 
 You must gain his confidence. You are in a fair 
 way to do it."
 
 TALL, SLIM, WITH BROWN HAIR. US 
 
 " I never entered upon an enterprise with greater 
 reluctance or loathing," replied Dorison. " I freely 
 confess I have an extraordinary liking for the 
 young fellow. It seems like treachery to seek his 
 friendship to his own undoing." 
 
 " That does not necessarily follow," sharply re- 
 plied Cathcart. " But you must put aside all such 
 notions, if you propose to succeed in your search. 
 Recollect the interest you have at stake the 
 rehabilitation of your own good name." 
 
 " I know, I know," hastily responded Dorison. 
 " Nothing shall swerve me from that. But even 
 with this before me I cannot repress a feeling 
 of regret for that proud father and tender sister 
 when disaster shall overtake the son and brother, 
 nor the remorse I feel in anticipation that I shall 
 be an instrument of its precipitation." 
 
 " Better curb that imagination of yours until you 
 see that you have precipitated disaster upon them," 
 said Cathcart contemptuously, evidently annoyed 
 at what he thought was a lack of proper spirit. 
 
 A moment later, his mind having reverted to the 
 practical bearings of the matter, he said : 
 
 " Cultivate an intimacy ; become a visitor to his 
 family ; impress yourself upon the father, and get 
 him to talk of your own father if possible." 
 
 Nettled, stung indeed, by the way the old man 
 had treated his sentimental outburst, Dorison steeled 
 himself and replied curtly : 
 
 " Give me your instructions. They shall be 
 obeyed to the best of my ability."
 
 Ii6 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 The old man fixed his keen eyes upon the younger 
 one for a moment, and turned as if to leave him. 
 As he did so, Dorison hastily placed his hand on 
 the detective's arm, detaining him and whispering : 
 
 " Do you see that man who has just entered 
 alone ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " That is the one who crossed my path three 
 times yesterday first, when I rescued Miss Eustace ; 
 second, when I saw him have that mysterious meet- 
 ing at Twenty-ninth Street and Third Avenue, and 
 lastly when he attempted to speak with Eustace and 
 was rebuffed." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Cathcart, as he closely watched the 
 young man walk up the long corridor. 
 
 " Tall, slim, and brown haired," he muttered. 
 
 Dorison started with surprise. 
 
 " Dressed in clothes of extreme fashion," added 
 Cathcart. 
 
 Dorison felt his heart bound. 
 
 " Dissipated and fast in appearance." 
 
 Dorison saw the resemblance and the pertinency 
 of the old detective's words. 
 
 " He answers to the description of both," con- 
 tinued Cathcart. " Stay where you are and keep 
 yourself out of sight." 
 
 Cathcart sauntered after the young man, who 
 had disappeared in the direction of the art gal- 
 lery. 
 
 Dorison retired behind the pile of trunks which 
 encumbered a part of the corridor. The old detec-
 
 TALL, SLIM, WITH BROWN HAIR. 1 17 
 
 live was not gone long. When he returned it was 
 with a letter. 
 
 " There is a letter to Captain Lawton," he said. 
 "Jump into a cab and promise the driver three 
 times the amount of his fare to get you quick to 
 Headquarters. That letter asks for a discreet and 
 intelligent shadow. Bring him back with you in 
 the cab. I will wait for you here, unless the man 
 goes out, when I will follow him. In that event let 
 the shadow go to my rooms and await me there." 
 
 Dorison without question did as he was bid. As 
 he rode speedily through the streets, his spirits and 
 excitement rose. This appeared to be real work, 
 real activity ; not aimless dawdling ; something the 
 reason of which he could see. Progress was being 
 really made. He experienced an energy and exhila- 
 ration he had not felt before. Moreover, he hailed 
 the sudden concentration of attention upon the 
 part of Cathcart upon the new person, as removing, 
 or at least diverting, suspicion from Eustace. 
 This made him glad. He made no doubt but that 
 in the brief interval of the absence of the old detec- 
 tive something significant had occurred, which 
 had justified this sudden energy. Reaching Head- 
 quarters he delivered his letter, and a moment later 
 was leading the way to his cab, followed by the man 
 hastily summoned, and was soon driving back as 
 rapidly. 
 
 Entering the hotel, Cathcart met them. 
 
 " He is still here," he said to Dorison. " Stay 
 where you are. I will rejoin you in a moment."
 
 Il8 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 To the shadow he said : 
 
 " I will in a moment point out a man to you. I 
 want to know his name, his business, his associa- 
 tions, his habits, in fact all you can learn about 
 him. Report to me at any hour of the day or 
 night you may happen to have information. 
 Here's my address. Now follow me." 
 
 He went directly into the art gallery and pointed 
 out the man sitting at a table near the door, which 
 the young man was watching, without being 
 observed by the object of their attention. 
 
 "That is your man," said Cathcart. "Find 
 out especially where he lives and what places he 
 haunts." 
 
 Cathcart returned to Dorison, who was awaiting 
 his return with impatience. 
 
 " What has occurred ? " he asked anxiously. 
 
 " Nothing," replied the old detective curtly. "I 
 shall go to bed now. I am tired. You have done 
 a good day's work to-day." 
 
 What further might have passed between them 
 was prevented by the appearance of the young man 
 on his way out of the hotel. 
 
 The shadow was behind him. 
 
 " Good-night," said Cathcart, as he too moved 
 off. 
 
 Dorison had already learned not to question 
 him, and so he did not seek to detain the old man. 
 
 He too went out in the night air to cool his 
 burning excitement.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 
 
 THE days immediately following the exciting 
 events which have been detailed in the previ- 
 ous chapters were uneventful. 
 
 Dorison had fallen again into what he called 
 aimless dawdling. The high hopes of rapid pro- 
 gress he had begun to entertain died within him, 
 and despair took possession. 
 
 The shadow had faithfully followed his man and 
 had reported to Cathcart. 
 
 " The name of the man was Harry Langdon ; he 
 had come from Chicago three years previously, and 
 was supposed to be a man of independent means 
 since he had no occupation ; lived generally a fast 
 life ; associated to some extent with professional 
 gamblers ; seemed to know a good many loose 
 characters and 'crooked ' men without associating 
 with any of them ; visited a woman who claimed 
 to be his wife, in Twenty-sixth Street near Third 
 Avenue, but yet had separate apartments at No. 
 Twenty-eighth Street, between Third and Lexing- 
 ton avenues ; was intimate with a Dr. Fassett, a 
 physician of repute, who called upon him every 
 morning either at Twenty-eighth Street or Twenty- 
 ninth Street, always seeming to be well informed as 
 119
 
 120 THE MAN' WITH A THUMB. 
 
 to which place he was at ; after this call Langdon 
 walked up Twenty-eighth or Twenty-ninth Street, 
 as the case might be, to Madison Avenue, thence to 
 Madison Square, crossing diagonally to the corner 
 of Twenty-third Street, thence to Sixth Avenue, to 
 a restaurant, where he breakfasted and where he 
 read the papers for an hour or two, and met one or 
 two of a half dozen who came to see him there ; 
 from thence he went whither chance or fancy led 
 him ; he had the entree to all the gambling saloons, 
 where he played frequently but irregularly, and 
 always faro ; his haunts were places of fashionable 
 resort, and he was a frequent attendant upon the 
 theaters." 
 
 In telling Dorison of this report, Cathcart said it 
 was the best shadow work that had ever been done 
 for him. 
 
 While these days were passing, the acquaintance 
 between Dorison and yo'ung Eustace was fast ripen- 
 ing into intimacy. The two young men saw much 
 of each other's apartments, and frequented the 
 theaters together. Of the two, Eustace seemed to 
 be the more anxious to cultivate the intimacy. 
 There were times in these days, indeed, when 
 Dorison shrank from this growing friendship, in 
 which he felt he was playing a traitorous part, and 
 could only key himself up to its continuance by 
 constant recurrence to the thought he was thus 
 performing a sacred duty he owed himself. 
 
 Carried by his friend to the Eustace residence, he 
 had been received with great civility and with every
 
 NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 121 
 
 apparent disposition to treat him as a friend of the 
 young gentleman of the house. He had been pre- 
 sented to the ladies of the family and had been 
 received cordially, and especially by the one he had 
 rescued, with all the warmth his service deserved, 
 and all the reserve modesty demanded. 
 
 Charmed with the household, he forgot the part 
 he was playing while within it. 
 
 In time, he was invited to a formal dinner and 
 gladly accepted the invitation as determining his 
 status as a friend of the family. 
 
 On this occasion, after the ladies had retired 
 from the table, the elder Mr. Eustace, moving to a 
 seat beside Dorison, again referred to the extraor- 
 dinary resemblance the latter bore to his father. In 
 an endeavor to avoid denying a relationship, Dori- 
 son tried to divert the conversation. Mr. Eustace, 
 however, was politely persistent, seeking to inquire 
 into the antecedents of his guest, with a view to 
 finding if he could not establish a blood connec- 
 tion. Dorison was not adroit in his fence, and 
 contented himself with simply saying that he was 
 from Dubuque, and therefore could not be supposed 
 to bear any relation to so old a New York family. 
 Indeed, his effort to escape a. discussion of the sub- 
 ject was so marked, that Mr. Eustace forebore fur- 
 ther questioning. Dorison saw at once that he had 
 committed a blunder, for the old gentleman froze to 
 him immediately. Too scrupulously polite to offer 
 indignity to a guest whom he had deliberately 
 invited to his table, nevertheless Mr. Eustace made
 
 122 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 Dorison feel uncomfortable, so uncomfortable 
 indeed that he seized the first opportunity to 
 steal away. 
 
 The episode greatly annoyed Dorison, first, 
 because it foreshadowed an interruption in the 
 relations he had but just established with the Eus- 
 tace household, and, secondly, because he had stu- 
 pidly evaded the very opportunity to induce Mr. 
 Eustace to talk about his own relations to the elder 
 Dorison, Cathcart had so earnestly desired him to 
 make. 
 
 That he could not falsify about himself in that 
 house, above any other, was the excuse he offered 
 to himself. Had he undertaken to present the 
 same excuse to Cathcart, it is to be very much 
 feared that that eminently practical and extremely 
 logical gentleman would have bluntly said, he had 
 already falsified in permitting himself to be intro- 
 duced as Dudley, and that a little more falsifica- 
 tion, in view of the end to be gained, would have 
 done no more harm. As it was, he went to bed 
 thoroughly disgusted with himself, and wholly dis- 
 satisfied with the life he was leading. 
 
 Quite early, that is to say early for the habits he 
 had fallen into, he was aroused by a message from 
 Cathcart, brought him by the officer who had 
 shadowed Langdon, and who seemed permanently 
 attached to the old detective. The message bade 
 him go as soon as he could to No. East Twen- 
 tieth Street. 
 
 Dorison had now been long enough in asso-
 
 NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 1^3 
 
 ciation with the old man, not to be surprised at 
 any message. He therefore hastened to comply, 
 but yet wondering what it could portend, and 
 what the house was to which he was called. 
 Arriving at the address, his wonder was increased 
 when he found it to be a brownstone front of the 
 first class. Nor was his wonder lessened, on being 
 admitted without question by the servant in attend- 
 ance, and in a manner which indicated his coming 
 was expected. A rapid glance assured him that 
 he was in the interior of a private residence, and 
 one, also, which presented the evidences of wealth 
 and refinement. His wonder grew with each 
 moment, and he felt as if he was entering upon an 
 adventure of interest. 
 
 Without a word upon the part of the servant he 
 was ushered into a richly furnished apartment 
 upon the right of the hall. At first his eyes, not 
 yet accustomed to the darkened room, could but 
 dimly distinguish three figures, but he soon real- 
 ized he was in the presence of an old lady, an 
 elderly, clerical looking gentleman, and Cathcart. 
 
 " This is the young gentleman," said Cathcart, 
 rising as he entered. 
 
 " Mrs. Belknap, I introduce to you Mr. Dudley ; 
 Mr. Carman, Mr. Dudley, the Rev. Mr. Car- 
 man." 
 
 Motioning to Dorison to be seated, as if he were 
 dispensing the hospitality of the house, in that 
 masterful manner which seemed to make him the 
 leader wherever he was placed, the old detective
 
 1 24 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 continued the remarks the entrance of Dorison 
 had evidently interrupted. 
 
 " I regard this step," he said, " as most essential 
 to my search, or I would not have asked so great 
 a favor. And neither would I have presumed to 
 ask it were I not certain I had convinced the Rev. 
 Mr. Carman of its importance. His presence here 
 is a guarantee of my good faith." 
 
 Dorison, who had taken his seat, did not make 
 any remark, principally, perhaps, because none 
 was addressed to him, and perhaps, for the other, 
 that he did not know in what character he was 
 presented to these people, and therefore waited for 
 some cue from Cathcart. 
 
 The old detective now turned abruptly to Dori- 
 son and said : 
 
 " Mr. Dudley, that man Langdon, in whose iden- 
 tity you have an interest for your own case, as I 
 have with reference to his possible relations to 
 the Parishes, enters Madison Square every morn- 
 ing and crosses to Twenty-third Street. Through 
 my urgency Miss Belknap has consented to accom- 
 pany you to the Square to see if she can recognize 
 the man you will point out to her. I will be in the 
 Square at the same time." 
 
 Before Dorison could seek further information, 
 a young lady, attired for the street, entered. Dori- 
 son thought that an expression upon her face indi- 
 cated she was not well pleased with the mission she 
 was about to enter upon, but also thought he rec- 
 ognized, with some self-flattery, that when he was
 
 NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 125 
 
 presented, the expression changed to one of satis- 
 faction. At all events, she accepted him graciously. 
 
 "Now, you cannot get there any too quickly," 
 said Cathcart, with his energetic manner, hurrying 
 them off. 
 
 In a moment more they were upon the street 
 and walking in the direction of Fourth Avenue. 
 
 Both were evidently under some constraint, feel- 
 ing, as Dorison put it afterwards, as if they had been 
 pitchforked together. 
 
 "Perhaps, Miss Belknap," he said, "you will do 
 me the favor of explaining the purpose and object 
 of this expedition." 
 
 The lady cast an upward glance of incredulity as 
 she asked: 
 
 "Do you not know?" 
 
 "Beyond the fact that I have been imperatively 
 summoned from my slumbers at an unconscionably 
 early hour, and that I am to point out a man whom 
 you are to say whether or not you recognize. I 
 know absolutely nothing." 
 
 "Really," replied the young lady, as fun and 
 mischief twinkled in her eyes, causing Dorison to 
 reflect that those organs were very pretty and attrac- 
 tive, "really, our adventure is beginning to take on 
 an air of mystery. Are you always so amiable that 
 you obey summons without knowing the reason of 
 them?" 
 
 Dorison perceived she did not believe his asser- 
 tion, and was desiring him to understand she 
 thought he was mildly chaffing her.
 
 t2<5 Tti MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "I assure you what I say is true," he returned 
 earnestly. "You have no idea what an inexorable 
 master you engage when you employ Mr. Cathcart. 
 He has reduced me to such a state of submission 
 that I run, fetch and carry at the least nod of his 
 imperious head, or the least crook of his potent 
 fingers." 
 
 "Do you mean to say," she asked, her eyes danc- 
 ing with merriment, "that he has not confided to 
 you his purpose in sending us out." 
 
 "He has not confided anything tome. He rarely 
 does," replied Dorison lugubriously. "When my 
 curiosity is excited slightly, he sits down on me 
 crushingly with the remark that he confides his plans 
 to no one, and I remain silent with fear and tremb- 
 ling." 
 
 The little lady laughed outright at the mock con- 
 fession of submission, and inquired : 
 
 "Is not this connected with the search for the 
 murderer of Mrs. Parish and poor Anne? And 
 are you not interested in those poor creatares?" 
 
 "As you, or any one else, reading an account of 
 their shocking murder, might be," he replied. 
 "But I never even heard of them until after they 
 were dead," following what he supposed to be the 
 clue given him by the old detective in his introduc- 
 tion. 
 
 "I cannot understand it," said the young lady. 
 "What relation do you bear to Mr. Cathcart's 
 search for the murderer?" 
 
 "None."
 
 A'AXA'Oll'JXG THE CIRCLE. 127 
 
 "Why does he call upon you for that service 
 you so much lament then?" she persisted. 
 
 "Mr. Cathcart is conducting an inquiry in a 
 matter which closely concerns and affects me an 
 inquiry which he has undertaken at my desire." 
 
 "Oh," she cried merrily, "You have engaged a 
 servant and found a master. But how does it touch 
 the Farish murder." 
 
 Not knowing just what Cathcart had said before 
 his arrival, he hardly knew how to reply. After a 
 brief moment he said: 
 
 "That I don't know. Mr. Cathcart evidently 
 thinks this Mr. Langdon has some relation to my 
 affair. Does he also think he has relation to the 
 Farish murder?" 
 
 The young lady thawed somewhat on this remark. 
 Why, Dorison could not imagine, and he could not 
 take the time to consider. She replied, however: 
 
 "I will enlighten you to the best of my ability. 
 The day after the murder, Mr. Cathcart came to 
 our house, sent there by our minister, Mr. Carman, 
 in an endeavor to discover something about Mrs. 
 Farish. You see, mother is one of the oldest mem- 
 bers of our church and has always been very active 
 in it. It was little, to be sure, that she could give 
 him, but when talking of the reserved and lonely 
 life the two lived, I recollected having seen Anne 
 Farish, on three different occasions, walking in 
 Union Square with a young man of dissipated 
 appearance, but dressed in extreme fashion. This 
 was noticeable, for, upon each occasion she seemed
 
 128 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 to be in deep distress, and the young man moody and 
 menacing in manner. Then again, it was the only 
 instance ever known, when Anne Parish was seen 
 in company with a young gentleman." 
 
 Long before she had concluded, Dorison had 
 grasped a sense of the meaning of their enterprise. 
 Probably it was very stupid of him that he had for- 
 gotten this episode, which Cathcart had made a 
 strong connecting link in his chain of reasoning, but 
 now it came back to him with great force and he 
 perceived the importance a recognition would 
 have. 
 
 By this time they had reached the corner of 
 Twenty-third Street and Broadway, and he sug- 
 gested they should cross into the park. As they 
 did so she concluded her statement.' 
 
 "Therefore, a certain Mr. Langdon, with whose 
 personal appearance you are familiar, has fallen 
 under Mr. Cathcart's suspicions, and we are bent on 
 an errand of discovery to see whether this Mr. 
 Langdon is the one whom I saw walking with Anne 
 Parish." 
 
 "And are we to keep on walking until we meet 
 this man," asked Dorison lightly. 
 
 "I presume so," replied the young lady, "since 
 we have fallen under the power of this man who 
 you say is so inexorable a tyrant." 
 
 "The edelweis blooms amid snow and ice," replied 
 Dorison, "so out of the hard task he sets has come 
 the charm of this association." 
 
 The young lady did not reply to this finely drawn
 
 NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 129 
 
 and clumsy compliment, but asked with some anim- 
 ation: 
 
 "How do you like playing detective, Mr. 
 Dudley?" 
 
 The question was put so suddenly, that at first 
 Dorison thought it was a trap laid for him that 
 she had penetrated the part he was playing. Her 
 next remark, however, dispelled the suspicion. She 
 said: 
 
 "I enjoy it, it gives me an excitement I do not 
 often have." 
 
 Dorison did not a second time give expression to 
 the gallant remark that leaped to his lips; nor indeed 
 did he have time, for the young lady put another 
 question immediately: 
 
 "Do you suppose Mr. Cathcart's suspicions rest 
 upon this man as the murderer?" 
 
 "It is difficult to follow Mr. Cathcart's mind," 
 he answered soberly. "He may be the very man 
 he has under suspicion, or to identify him may be 
 only a step in the maze he is following. Few will 
 ever know until the end, just what his thoughts are. 
 He is very skillful and wonderfully able. His 
 sagacity, acuteness, and reasoning powers are 
 marvelous to me." 
 
 "If," said Miss Belknap, whose quick eyes had 
 perceived Cathcart in an adjoining path, "if he 
 imposes onerous and unwelcome duties upon others, 
 he does not shrink from them himself. See! There 
 he is, also attending a 'ladye faire.' ' 
 
 "The plot thickens, " remarked Dorison. "Who
 
 13 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 can she be? And what does he propose to do with 
 her? Evidently she is a servant." 
 
 "He does not appear to be an attentive cavalier, 
 with his chin upon his breast and his hands in his 
 vest-pockets," commented Miss Belknap. 
 
 "He is profoundly thinking. When he carries 
 his hands so, he is. And he is utterly unconscious 
 of his habit." 
 
 They walked on, chatting easily. As they neared 
 the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Madison 
 Avenue, Dorison saw the person they had come to 
 observe approaching. He was passing in front of 
 the Garden building. 
 
 "Cathcart has timed our walk well," he said, 
 "There comes our man Langdon." 
 
 "Oh, indeed. Where?" 
 
 "Immediately in front of the Garden doors." 
 
 "Are we to turn back?" 
 
 "Better go forward and'pass him slowly." 
 
 "Should we not indicate to Mr. Cathcart that the 
 man is coming?" 
 
 "By no means. He would not thank us for that. 
 Do not fear he will miss the man he has routed us 
 out so early to see." 
 
 By this time they had reached the crossing of 
 Madison Avenue and Langdon had already stepped 
 down on it from the other side. As he approached 
 he fixed his eyes upon Dorison, scowling as he did 
 so, thus enabling Miss Belknap to take a fair look 
 at him without being observed. As soon as he had 
 passed out of hearing she said :
 
 NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 13 * 
 
 "That is the man. It is he without a question." 
 
 This with a tone admitting of no doubt. 
 
 "He recognized yoii, and does not regard you 
 with favor," she added. 
 
 Dorison told the young lady his encounter with 
 him at the time of his rescue of Miss Eustace, con- 
 cluding his tale with these words: 
 
 "I presume no man can philosophically receive 
 such humiliation from a lady, before other men, 
 especially after he has boasted of a friendship be- 
 tween them." 
 
 They had walked up Madison Avenue as he 
 talked, but now Miss Belknap said : 
 
 "Our task is done. I must return home." 
 
 "I hope I am not to take your remark as a dis- 
 missal, but shall be permitted to accompany you to 
 your door?" 
 
 "Thank you," said the lady, thus giving her con- 
 sent. Arriving, they found Cathcart at the door 
 viewing with high displeasure their slow approach. 
 
 "I have been waiting for you at least ten min- 
 utes," he said sharply. 
 
 The young lady resented his tone and replied: 
 
 "That is to be regretted by you." 
 
 But, impervious to the sarcasm, Cathcart said: 
 
 "Well, is it the man?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It was the same man?" His face lighted up. 
 
 "Unquestionably. I would have known him 
 among a hundred. He is noticeable enough." 
 
 Cathcart was evidently greatly pleased.
 
 I3 2 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "Come," he cried, "we are getting on famously." 
 
 "Did you learn anything?" asked the young 
 lady. 
 
 "Much," was the answer in a tone which did not 
 encourage further questioning. 
 
 Before the young lady, if she had desired, could 
 inquire further, Cathcart said : 
 
 "Now, Mr. Dudley, I must see you. Come with 
 me." 
 
 Dorison lingered only to take polite leave of the 
 lady, and followed the old detective down the steps.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 
 
 " \I 7E have a good basis now," exclaimed Cath- 
 VV cart in high glee, as they walked to Fourth 
 Avenue. "We know the owner of the glove; we 
 know the walker in Union Square; and we know 
 the caller at stated intervals. At first I supposed 
 the three to be one. This, however, turns out not 
 to be the case. But if the owner of the glove is one 
 man, the other two prove to be the same person. 
 The work ought to go straight now. I have some- 
 thing to show you." 
 
 Taking from his pocket a small package carefully 
 wrapped in paper, he handed it to 'Dorison. It 
 proved to be a lancet such as surgeons use, the han- 
 dle of which was of tortoise-shell. 
 
 "Examine that carefully, " he said, "burn it into 
 your memory." 
 
 Dorison did as he was bid, even carefully not- 
 ing the marks cut into the steel. 
 
 "Well," he said as he returned it 
 
 "That is what killed the two women. 
 
 "What," cried Dorison, startled and surprised. 
 
 "I have no doubt of it. That girl who was with 
 me in the park was the servant of Mrs. Parish at the 
 time she was killed. She gave me that lancet. She
 
 134 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 found it on the parlor floor under the door . She 
 did not find it until after the Captain and I had 
 concluded our search of the house, and did not pro- 
 duce it at the coroner's inquest because no one 
 spoke of it. Lately her conscience has troubled 
 her about it, and when I hunted her up, she gave 
 -it to me." 
 
 "What did you hunt her up for?" 
 
 "To see whether she could recognize in Langdon 
 the caller at stated intervals." 
 
 "Did she?" 
 
 "Perfectly. I did not even have to direct her 
 attention to him. As soon as she saw him she cried 
 out, 'That is the man.' ' 
 
 "Why do you want me to remember the lancet?" 
 
 Cathcart glanced at Dorison, who thought he 
 detected a fleeting expression of surprised con- 
 tempt. 
 
 "Young Eustace studied surgery, didn't he?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, I want to know if he has a case of instru- 
 ments of which this lancet may be one. Find out 
 if you can." 
 
 If the old detective saw the gesture of disgust and 
 impatience Dorison made, he ignored it. 
 
 "Now, one point more," he continued. "Get 
 Eustace to talk about Langdon upon the first oppor- 
 tunity you have. Find out what he knows about 
 him. There must be some reason for his haughty 
 treatment of the fellow. I want to know what it is. " 
 
 They had reached Broadway as they talked, and
 
 tfEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 135 
 
 continued as far as Twenty-third Street. On the 
 corner Cathcart stopped to say : 
 
 "What may be the outcome of the discoveries of 
 this morning, it is difficult to predict. Something 
 must come out of them. We are no longer groping 
 in the dark. Langdon bore some relation to the 
 Parish family, knew something about them, was asso- 
 ciated, it is fair to presume, with their troubles. 
 What he does know he must reveal." 
 
 "Do you mean to take him in hand immediately?" 
 
 "No, not until I know more about his surround- 
 ings and antecedents." 
 
 "Have you not already learned all you are likely 
 to?" 
 
 "I think not. Who is he? He came from Chi- 
 cago three years -ago. Notice this coincidence. 
 Mr. Carman says Mrs. Parish sought him in trouble 
 and distress three years ago." 
 
 "Yes, I see," said Dorison eagerly, "and Miss 
 Belknap saw this man with the daughter since that 
 time." 
 
 "Precisely, and these stated calls only began since 
 three years. There is another coincidence I want 
 you to note. Eight years ago Mrs. Parish suddenly, 
 giving no reason, dresses in mourning. Eight years 
 ago your father dies suddenly. Now another point. 
 One of the slips of paper in your possession, writ- 
 ten by your father, talks about the misdeeds of a 
 boy named Harold. This man Langdon is called 
 Harry by his associates. Do you see where we are 
 slowly getting to? Now suppose "
 
 136 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 The old man stopped short. Dorison, greatly 
 interested, looked up to see the cause. The old 
 man's eyes were fixed upon an object some distance 
 off. 
 
 Searching about for that object, Dorison saw it 
 was a man approaching from the park who engaged 
 the attention of Cathcart. 
 
 In a moment he recognized in the person the 
 alert, sharp-eyed man who had had the mysterious 
 exchange with Langdon, near the corner of Twenty- 
 ninth Street and Third Avenue. 
 
 The person approached directly on a line with 
 them. Cathcart, stepping back into the shadow of 
 an adjoining door, bade Dorison to stand in front 
 and conceal him as much as possible. 
 
 He did so, moving slightly, so that he could keep 
 himself between the old detective and the man 
 until he had passed on, going down Twenty-third 
 Street. 
 
 "Do you remember the story I told you of the 
 mysterious exchange between Langdon and another 
 on Twenty-ninth Street," asked Dorison, after the 
 man had passed by. 
 
 "Yes, and what then?" sharply asked Cathcart. 
 
 "That man was the other one." 
 
 Cathcart grasped Dorison's arm with such a grip 
 that the latter nearly cried out with pain. 
 
 "Are you sure? Man, man, are you sure?" 
 
 "Sure, yes." 
 
 The old man fairly dragged Dorison after him as 
 he hurriedly followed the man, who by this time had
 
 NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 137 
 
 crossed Fifth Avenue and was apparently lost in 
 the throng. 
 
 Hurrying along, they saw him standing in front 
 of a house, since transformed, where once another 
 celebrated murder was committed. 
 
 His head was bent to the ground, and he appeared 
 to be debating with himself whether he should go 
 on or turn back. 
 
 Cathcart, dodging behind Dorison, muttered: 
 
 "He saw me, and is trying to find out if I am 
 following him." 
 
 Whether the old man was right or not, the man 
 continued on his way, moving along at a rapid gait. 
 
 "He is going to meet Langdon," said Cathcart. 
 
 "Who is this man!" asked Dorison, as they 
 followed him. 
 
 "His name is Pittston, ' ' replied Cathcart. ' 'Some 
 four or five years ago I was on a bank robbery in 
 Chicago. I made up my mind it had been done 
 through connivance from the inside. Pittston was 
 a clerk in the bank. My suspicions fell on him. 
 The President, whose relative the clerk was, would 
 not have it, and was indignant at the idea, for Pitts- 
 ton lived with him. Persisting in my belief, I had 
 so many obstacles thrown in my way that I gave up 
 the job in disgust. They dismissed the clerk some 
 time after. He knew all about it, for he assaulted 
 me afterwards in the Palmer House, charging me 
 with attempting to ruin him. I must locate him, 
 for I have some facts that will make him open his 
 mouth wide."
 
 138 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 While he rapidly told this to Dorison, Sixth 
 Avenue had been reached, and Pittston turned to 
 go up it. 
 
 Cathcart stopped on the corner. 
 
 "You must do some shadow work now," he said. 
 "I am certain he is going to that restaurant to meet 
 Langdon. You must go there and see if he does 
 not meet him. Learn what you can. I will wait 
 for you at the Hoffman House. " 
 
 Dorison without reply went at once to the restau- 
 rant designated as the one daily visited by Langdon. 
 Entering, he sat himself at a table in the middle 
 of the room, from which point he thought he could 
 command a view of the room. It was an eating- 
 saloon of the third or fourth class, though well kept 
 and cleanly. A waiter bustled up and received an 
 order for a substantial breakfast. 
 
 As he looked about, Dorison could see neither 
 Langdon nor Pittston, and feared that he had gone 
 into the wrong place. Examination of the room, 
 however, showed him an opening in the side wall 
 a passage way, making the adjoining room a part 
 of the eating saloon. 
 
 He rose from his chair to investigate, and walk- 
 ing down the room, saw that the cashier's desk was 
 so placed as to command both rooms. On this desk 
 was a mirror tilted forward so that the cashier could, 
 with a slight turn of his head, observe each of 
 the two rooms. Dorison also found that by tak- 
 ing a seat at a table next the opening, he could see 
 each occupant of the front part of the next room.
 
 NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 1^9 
 
 He therefore changed to this table and immedi- 
 atley discovered the pair he was in search of. Sitting 
 at a table situated relatively as the one he was seated 
 at, with only the wall between the two, Langdon 
 and Pittston were deeply engaged in conversation. 
 
 Pittston was telling a tale which evidently gave 
 great annoyance to his companion. Langdon 
 frowned, and his manner indicated a considerable 
 degree of alarm. He listened intently until Pittston 
 had finished, and fell into a profound study, from 
 which from time to time he emerged to ask a ques- 
 tion, when, being answered, he relapsed again into 
 thought. 
 
 In the meantime Dorison's breakfast was served 
 and eaten. He had not heard a word of the conver- 
 sation of the two he had come to watch, nor did there 
 seem to be any likelihood that he would be able to 
 hear any of it. He had, however, established two 
 facts. Pittston had sought Langdon as Cathcart 
 had foreseen, and confidential relations existed 
 between them. Believing he could do no more, 
 "he was about to depart, when the street door of 
 the room he was in opened and the officer the old 
 detective used as a shadow, entered. 
 
 Dorison beckoned to him. 
 
 "Do you want to see me," he asked, as the officer 
 came to him. 
 
 "The old man wants me to follow and report a 
 man he thinks is here with Langdon," was the 
 whispered reply. 
 
 Dorison pointed to the mirror.
 
 14 THE MAN IVITIT A Til U Ml*. 
 
 "Is that the man?" asked the officer. 
 
 "Yes the one talking to Langdon. Now get 
 away so they will not see you talking to me." 
 
 The officer was not a moment too soon in leaving, 
 for the pair in the other room rose from their table 
 and went to the cashier's desk. 
 
 Turning indifferently as he leaned on the desk, 
 Langdon saw Dorison and started with surprise, 
 scowling at him meanwhile. Dorison maintained 
 his composure, conducting himself as if he did not 
 recognize him as the man he had met that morn- 
 ing.. 
 
 Calling the waiter, Dorison gave him something 
 more than the amount of his check, and without 
 waiting for the change, donned 'his top-coat and 
 went out, conscious that Langdon had directed the 
 attention of his companion to him, Dorison. 
 
 As the door closed on Dorison, Pittston said: 
 
 "Hanged if I don't think that very man stood 
 close to the one I was telling you of." 
 
 "Who, Cathcart?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you were followed." 
 
 "Nonsense! He was not talking to Cathcart, 
 only standing near him. I tell you I was not fol- 
 lowed; I stopped to see." 
 
 "What else but to follow you brought such a swell 
 as that here a man who either breakfasts at 'Dcl's' 
 or the Hoffman every morning." 
 
 This had been said within the hearing of the 
 cashier, who asked :
 
 NEW DISAPP01XTMF.XTS. 14! 
 
 "Talking about the man who has just gone out, 
 Harry?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He changed his seat," said the cashier, "from 
 the middle of the room, and seemed to be watching 
 you by that mirror." 
 
 "The devil!" cried Pittston. "Could he do 
 that?" 
 
 "Try it!" laughed the cashier. 
 
 The two quickly satisfied themselves that, sitting 
 where Dorison did, watching them at their table was 
 an easy matter. 
 
 "A curious thing occurred," continued the 
 cashier, when they returned to his desk. "A man 
 came in whom your man recognized right away, and 
 beckoned to him. They whispered, together, and 
 then your man pointed to the mirror. The other 
 man went out right away." 
 
 "By " cried Langdon, with an oath, ''you were 
 followed." 
 
 "I am afraid so," replied Pittston gloomily. 
 
 The two walked to the street door, where Lang- 
 don halted to say: 
 
 "There are two things to do. You must walk as 
 straight as a die and do no business, go nowhere 
 you are afraid any one should see you, and keep 
 away from me. That's the first thing. Next, when 
 you go from here, I will watch to see if you are fol- 
 lowed by anybody. I suspect that to be the game. 
 If you are I will let you know. Not hearing from 
 me means you were not followed."
 
 142 TffE MAN' WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "Who is this fellow anyhow," asked Pittston. 
 
 "I don't know, except that his name is Dudley. 
 He's a howling swell and goes with the best. 
 The first time I saw him he saved a young lady of 
 my acquaintance from being run over. She didn't 
 know him then, but now he's as thick as peas with 
 her brother, and he goes to the house often. This 
 very morning I met him in Madison Square walk- 
 ing with a stunning-looking girl. I hate him and 
 would like to dose him, especially since I find him 
 interfering in my affairs." 
 
 "Mine, I should say," said Pittston with a laugh. 
 
 "No, mine," persisted Langdon. 
 
 "I don't see it. If he followed any one he fol- 
 lowed me." 
 
 "That may be," said Landgon impatiently. 
 "But it all comes back on me. I have good reason 
 for saying so, since I know he is such a great friend 
 of young Eustace. That is what makes me so 
 uneasy this following of you." 
 
 "I don't see the connection." 
 
 "See here. Cathcart can't be following you for 
 the Chicago affair, can he? That affair is closed 
 up, and you have told me you were protected in it 
 by your uncle for the sake of the family." 
 
 "Yes; that's so." 
 
 "Well, if you were not followed for that, you 
 were for something, weren't you?" 
 
 "Yes, there was some reason of course." 
 
 "Now, here it is. They're after me, and because 
 they followed you I am afraid they have gpt onto
 
 NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 143 
 
 the business we have together, and want to strike 
 at me through that. Do you tumble now?" 
 
 " I see. It is serious." Pittston was thoughtful. 
 " Drop the whole business for a while." 
 
 " By ," cried Langdon with another oath. 
 
 " Its dropped for us. My man is kicking, and 
 refuses to go any further in it. I was going to put 
 the screws on him to find out what is the meaning 
 of his sudden independence. But this thing comes 
 up and it won't do. I don't know but what he's 
 been giving the snap away." 
 
 " I thought you had him so tight that he had to 
 do what you told him ? " 
 
 " So would any one think who knew what I have 
 got on him," replied Langdon, angrily. " But now 
 he is doing the high and mighty, and swears 
 if I push him any further he'll kick the whole 
 bucket over and land me in jail for life, even if it 
 ruins him. He says he'd rather die than be the 
 slave he has been to me for the last three years." 
 
 " But can he ? " asked Pittston. 
 
 " He can, if he knows something I did some 
 years ago. But, by Heaven! I'm certain he don't 
 he can't. The people who knew about it are all 
 dead. I'm playing him to know what card he's got 
 up his sleeve. While I'm playing him we must 
 drop the business. Give the word that way." 
 
 They went into the street, Langdon remaining at 
 the door. Pittston first walked to the corner of 
 Twenty-third Street, and turning came back and 
 went in the direction of Twenty-fourth Street,
 
 144 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 As he disappeared, Langdon muttered : 
 
 " The chase ended when they ran him down to 
 me. He is not followed." 
 
 At that very moment the officer was close on the 
 heels of Pittston as he walked up Twenty-fourth 
 Street to Broadway. 
 
 Dorison had gone to the Hoffman House, where 
 he met Cathcart, to whom he related what had 
 occurred. 
 
 " I am more than satisfied that Pittston recog- 
 nized me," said Cathcart. " But that is a matter 
 easily overcome. If he recognized me, he saw you. 
 Thai is not so easily overcome. Hereafter we must 
 not meet openly. We are getting to the end 
 pretty fast. 
 
 " I hope so," rejoined Dorison doubtfully, " but 
 I frankly confess the end seems as far off as ever 
 it did." 
 
 " Possibly it does to you. Nevertheless the lines 
 are coming together with tolerable rapidity. One 
 day, when you least expect it, I will call upon you 
 to witness the falling of the blow."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 LOWERING SKIES. 
 
 events of the morning gave Dorison food 
 JL for thought. After Cathcart had departed he 
 dawdled about the hotel as he endeavored to extract 
 some intelligence from these events, serving to jus- 
 tify the confidence displayed by the old detective 
 that the end was in sight. 
 
 He reviewed his life during the six weeks elaps- 
 ing since his return to the city of his birth, and 
 carefully went over the events connected with the 
 search with which he was identified. The result 
 was not satisfactory. Everything was fragmentary. 
 There was a bit here and a bit there which, con- 
 sidered by themselves, seemed important and signifi- 
 cant, but when he attempted to put them together 
 they appeared disconnected and inconsistent, even 
 contradictory. 
 
 "Whether this is due," he said aloud, as he sat 
 and pondered, "to the miserly and fragmentary 
 manner in which Cathcart deals out his information, 
 or, whether it is the exact condition of the case, I 
 am utterly at a loss to determine. I know, however, 
 it is utterly unsatisfactory, and unless something 
 more positive turns up within the next fortnight I 
 will throw up my commission. So far as I am able 
 145
 
 1 46 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 to see not one step has been made, nor one single 
 fact gathered that brings us nearer to the end, the 
 accomplishment of which is the only justification 
 for my being involved in it at all." 
 
 He got up and. walked into the street. As he 
 went up Broadway he said : 
 
 "What I will do, will be to see Mr. Nettleman 
 and have a talk with him. That much is due him 
 and I have not seen him for two weeks. I'll do it 
 this very afternoon. The life I am leading is un- 
 bearable. " 
 
 He did not go that afternoon, however, for on 
 reaching his rooms he found his friend Eustace in 
 possession. 
 
 "I have been waiting so long for you," he cried, 
 "that I have come to believe these apartments are 
 mine. Do you know, I like them better than my 
 own." 
 
 "Then perhaps you may obtain them," said Dori- 
 son. 
 
 "Why? What does that mean?" 
 
 "It means, Eustace, that you see a disgusted and 
 contemptible creature before you. I am half per- 
 suaded to cut this life and go back to Dubuque." 
 
 "Something has gone wrong, ma chtre. The 
 blues, eh? I have them sometimes myself." 
 
 "My trouble is far greater than the blues," said 
 Dorison, throwing himself at full length upon the 
 lounge, and looked at Eustace fixedly for some time. 
 
 "I wonder, Charley," he said at length, "if there 
 will be a time when you will regard me with bitter-
 
 LOWERING SKIES. 147 
 
 ness and contempt when you will never be able to 
 think of me without loathing and horror." 
 
 "What condition of mind are you in to-day?" 
 "The confessional, although I shall make no con- 
 fession. Perhaps all these dark and gloomy vapors 
 will pass away and the bright sunbeams play over 
 us both. Whether any sunlight, however, will ever 
 irradiate my life again, I greatly doubt. Charley 
 my boy, I am a monomaniac. I have but one pur- 
 pose in life and to that I am bending everything, 
 sacrificing everything- -home, comfort, honor and 
 friends. Beware of me! I am not what I seem on 
 the surface. During my life I have never met any- 
 one of either sex to whom I have been so much 
 attracted as I have been to you no one of whom I 
 have been so fond. Yet, my boy, heed me. If 
 you should run counter to this life purpose of mine, 
 so completely have I become its slave, I believe I 
 would sacrifice you. I say again, beware of me. 
 Hold me off at arm's length. Do not give me a 
 single advantage. God knows that when I am in 
 the mood I am now, I pray fervently that the friend- 
 ship we have formed within the past few weeks may 
 ripen with our days, strengthen with our years, and 
 be still hale when our heads are gray. But I tell 
 you, old man," and he rose from the lounge in his 
 earnestness, "the day is coming when that friend- 
 ship will be put to as severe a test as friendship ever 
 was." 
 
 Eustace, who had regarded Dorison seriously, 
 said:
 
 148 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "I think you are in a frame of mind which either 
 is the result of a serious physical derangement, or 
 great mental tribulation. If it is the latter, and I 
 apprehend it is, I advise you to take immediate 
 steps toward remedy. And in such cases, I take 
 it, the best remedy is to pour out your confidences 
 to some friend you can trust." 
 
 "There are some things that must be borne 
 alone, " replied Dorison with a sigh. ' 'Mine is one. 
 For eight years I have borne them " 
 
 "And alone, nursing them," interrupted Eus- 
 tace. "That is just it." 
 
 "Borne, they must be, alone to the end," replied 
 Dorison. "Did you ever have a serious secret 
 influencing your life and nature, which you would 
 not reveal lest it brought you the contempt and hor- 
 ror of your friends those you thought the most of?' ' 
 
 Eustace's face flushed red. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, falteringly, "which, if I 
 thought it would become public I would kill myself 
 from shame and disgrace." 
 
 Dorison heard these words with his heart bound- 
 ing against his ribs. 
 
 "Is this tantamount to a confession?" he asked 
 himself. 
 
 Shaken and agitated, he walked to the window 
 and looked out. Then, turning impulsively to Eus- 
 tace, he cried out : 
 
 "Away with these thougths! I'll have none of 
 them. What brought you here to put me into this 
 condition?"
 
 LOWERING SKIES. 149 
 
 "I did not come here to put you into any condi- 
 tion, nor did I, for you were in your present mood 
 when you entered. What I did come here for was 
 to ask you what occurred between you and the pater 
 last evening," replied Eustace. 
 
 "I think your father's treatment Jast night has 
 something to do with my present frame of mind. 
 You see," he laughed bitterly. "I am bound to 
 put it on some one of your family. To answer 
 your question, I don't know. Your father was 
 agreeable and pleasant to me as one could wish dur- 
 ing the early part of the dinner. He has discovered 
 in me some strong resemblance to an old friend, and 
 attempted to supply me with a new set of relatives. 
 The attempt involved an inquiry into my family 
 relations. I am not always a master of my own 
 moods, and I took the caprice to object to talking 
 about them before strangers. Probably I was not 
 as sensible of the honor done me by a gentleman 
 of the distinction of your father, in manifesting an 
 interest in my surroundings, as I should have been, 
 and gave offense by my evasion of the inquiry. If 
 it be not that, I know not what it is. At all events 
 he froze to me." 
 
 " Yes, I noticed he did," replied Eustace. 
 " However, if that is all, the matter will be soon 
 righted. Now my next reason for calling. I am 
 thinking of giving a small theater party next Mon- 
 day night, with a snack afterwards at Del's. Will 
 you be one ? " 
 
 " With pleasure."
 
 15 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " Will you escort my sister Evelyn, you know ? " 
 
 " I am honored." 
 
 " And not frighten her with a gloomy outburst 
 and warn her to beware of you ? " 
 
 Dorison blushed and smiled. 
 
 " I will epdeavor to justify her brother's con- 
 fidence." 
 
 For a little time there was silence between them, 
 when Dorison suddenly said : 
 
 " Eustace, the first night I ever saw you, a man 
 named Langdon approached you. You treated him 
 with considerable hauteur. Who is the fellow ? " 
 
 The young man turned a sharp, inquiring look 
 upon Dorison ; his face flushed, and a vexed 
 expression came into his eyes. 
 
 " Why do you ask ? He cannot be a friend of 
 yours ? " 
 
 " No, not even an acquaintance, but I have rea- 
 son for knowing more about him than I do." 
 
 " The fellow was somewhat offensive to my sister 
 Evelyn, the day you saved her from being run over, 
 I think." 
 
 " It did not appear to me that Miss Eustace 
 relished his assumption of friendship." 
 
 " I should think not," replied Eustace, indig- 
 nantly. He looked out of the window for a few 
 moments, Dorison waiting for him to continue. 
 After a while he said : 
 
 " I don't know much about the fellow, Dudley. 
 To begin at the beginning, this is all I know. 
 Something more than a year ago my younger sister,
 
 LOWERING SKIES. 15 T 
 
 then about fifteen, was taken seriously ill and our 
 regular family physician was unable to do anything 
 for her, a fact he acknowledged himself, and sug- 
 gested the calling in of other physicians. That 
 was done, but she continued to decline, and both 
 mother and father were nearly frantic. When she 
 was at her worst, and when the physicians were 
 despairing, some one called father's attention to a 
 young physician named Fassett, who was making 
 marvelous cures. Our own physicians, having 
 admitted their inability to cope with the strange 
 difficulty, could not object to his being called. He 
 was, and declared the difficulty to be principally a 
 nervous one, and began a treatment diametrically 
 opposed to that she had been under. Notwith- 
 standing the protests of her other physicians 
 against the treatment, she improved steadily. In 
 the course of a few months she was completely 
 restored to health. Of course you can understand 
 that under the circumstances our people were 
 grateful to Dr. Fassett, and though father said 
 that from the first he appreciated that Dr. Fassett 
 was far from being a gentleman, he was loaded 
 with attention ty our people ; he had saved the pet 
 of the household when she was given up to die. 
 Then mother fell sick and Evelyn, and they were 
 both brought triumphantly through by Dr. Fassett, 
 who is undeniably a skillful physician, but as well 
 a course, vulgar man. No one can get upon more 
 familiar terms with a family than its physician, 
 and one day, without asking consent or permission,
 
 152 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 he introduced into the family this fellow Langdon 
 an insufferable cad, vulgar, ill-bred, dissipated and 
 coarse. Without request the fellow began to call, 
 until finally orders were given the servantis to say 
 no one was at home when he called. Father tells 
 me he had quite a scene with Dr. Fassett over this, 
 and was obliged to tell him that his position as 
 medical adviser to the family put him, father, under 
 no social obligations, and that if, in addition to the 
 fees he exacted, he demanded social recognition for 
 all of his friends, much as it was to be regretted, 
 the relations between them must cease." 
 
 " But that did not end the persecutions. Lang- 
 don seemed to have secret sources of informa- 
 tion, and turned up at the theaters and other public 
 places where our folks went, and forced himself 
 upon them ; more than that, waylaid my sisters on 
 the street. This was going on when I returned 
 from Europe and was told of it. So, the first time 
 it occurred when I was near, I took Langdon aside 
 and forbade him to speak to my sisters or mother 
 again, promising him a jolly good thrashing if he 
 ever presumed to do so. Hang the cad, if he had 
 shown fight then, or had not subsequently 
 attempted to ingratiate himself with me, I would 
 have had some respect for him." 
 
 Eustace hesitated, as if he had something more 
 to say, and Dorison waited for him to continue. 
 
 " Hang it all, Dudley, I think I'll tell you the 
 whole story. I could not to one I regarded less as 
 a friend than I do you. The annoying thing about
 
 LOWERING SKIES. 153 
 
 it all is yet to come, and is to a certain degree 
 humiliating. The only excuse lies in the extreme 
 youth of my sister Dorothy, who is but sixteen 
 now. Of course she was grateful to Dr. Fassett, 
 and he has naturally obtained a considerable influ- 
 ence over her. She began first with taking up his 
 quarrel against the family and espousing the cause 
 of this fellow Langdon. I am quite certain that 
 Fassett has been endeavoring to make interest with 
 Dorothy for Langdon. At all events, I found out 
 that Langdon was managing to see her alone, and 
 she foolish and romantic creature began to be 
 interested in him. He was bent on mischief. 
 His desire was, of course, to win and marry her, 
 and force himself on the family. This is our 
 secret, and the proof of my friendship for you is 
 that I give it to you." 
 
 " Thank you," said Dorison simply. 
 
 " We have taken steps to prevent this thing. 
 Hard as it is, we have had to keep a strict surveil- 
 lance upon Dorothy for some time now, and in the 
 spring the family will go to Europe to escape the 
 fellow. But this is not my way of dealing with 
 him or with Fassett. The latter I would deny the 
 house, and the former I would deal with vigorously, 
 but everything is bended to prevent a scandal. 
 Who the fellow is, or what he is, I don't know. He 
 has a wonderful influence over Fassett, and, in my 
 judgment, it is not through superior intellect or 
 force of character, for he is in both deficient, but 
 through the possession of some secret in Fassett's
 
 54 THE MAX //77'// ../ THUMB. 
 
 life. Of course that is mere supposition, and I 
 base it wholly on the manner in which he treats 
 Fassett and the latter's subserviency, so foreign to 
 his nature. Fassett says he has known him for 
 years, and that he was a fellow student of his at a 
 western medical college, where he failed to take 
 his degree by withdrawing just before the close of 
 his term. I've told you all I know about the fel- 
 low, except that his associates here in town seem 
 to be thoroughly disreputable." 
 
 "I have no knowledge of him," said Dorison, 
 "except that he touches an affair in which I have 
 some interest, and was therefore desirous of knowing 
 more an affair, let me say, lest I be charged with 
 not giving confidence for confidence, which really 
 belongs to another person and of which I have no 
 right to speak without his permission. By the way, 
 did not Bushnell tell me that you were a medical 
 student?" 
 
 "Student," repeated Eustace, in mock indigna- 
 tion, "Behold an M.D. Dr. Eustace, at your serv- 
 ice I have my degree. Yes I am an Esculapian. 
 I devoted myself to the surgical branch, but I have 
 never practiced. Long before I attained my degree 
 I abandoned all idea of it. 1 threw my parchment 
 aside with my books never assumed my title. 
 Why, I never bought an instrument, never even 
 owned one." 
 
 He had answered the very question Dorison was 
 leading up to, before it was asked. 
 
 Shortly after he went away, and Dorison, re-
 
 LOWERING SKIES. ^55 
 
 clining in his easy arm-chair, said, talking to him- 
 self: 
 
 "Cathcart's theory was that these murders were 
 committed by a tall, slim man with brown hair, whose 
 hands were large, knuckles and joints prominent 
 and thumb disproportionately long and large, who 
 was a dandy in dress and who possessed a certain 
 degree of surgical skill. He suspects Charley Eus- 
 tace and Harry Langdon. The latter is tall, slim, 
 with brown hair, small and well-shaped hand, a 
 dandy, a caddish dandy in dress, and has a certain 
 degree of surgical skill; the former is short, stout, 
 and light haired; has large hands, prominent joints 
 and knuckles, a disproportionately large thumb, is 
 a dandy, -a gentlemanlike dandy in dress, and has 
 a certain degree of surgical skill, though he never 
 owned a surgical instrument. Bah! Take your 
 choice. Detective skill is a humbug. Cathcart is 
 a fraud, and you, Dorison, are a fool for submitting 
 longer to his tomfoolery. Chase it as long as you 
 will, the rehabilitation of your name is the ignis 
 fatuus of your life. And poor, fluttering fool that 
 you are, you will continue to pursue it until death 
 gives you the only relief you will ever have." 
 
 He picked up a book and fell asleep over it.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CRUSHING A REBELLION. 
 
 IN no better frame of mind, Dorison awoke. Yet 
 he remembered the old detective's instructions 
 to report as soon as he had anything to tell. So he 
 set out, and in time found Cathcart in his rooms in 
 Bond Street, busy with papers he pushed aside to 
 listen to his visitor. 
 
 When the tale was finished, the old man made 
 no comment, but paced up and down his room with 
 his hands in his vest-pockets, the young man in the 
 meantime sitting by with clouded brow, twirling his 
 hat in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees. 
 Finally, straightening up, he said: 
 
 "Don't you think tomfoolery ought to end and 
 real work begin?" 
 
 Had the old detective been struck in the face 
 unexpectedly, he could not have given a greater 
 start. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he demanded savagely. 
 
 "I mean I am tired of this humbug and mystery. 
 More than two months ago we began a search with 
 two objects in view. One, to discover the murderer 
 of Mrs. Farish and. her daughter, the other to dis- 
 cover the mystery of my father's unfinished letter. 
 You readily enough builded a theory, and it amounts 
 to practically nothing. You set out upon the idea 
 
 156
 
 CRUS1IIXG A REBELLION. 157 
 
 that a tall, slim dandy with brown hair and a peculiar 
 hand and thumb, who possessed surgical skill, was 
 the murderer. Search has determined two men who 
 divided these characteristics between them. One 
 is a tall, slim dandy with brown hair, who has surgi- 
 cal skill with small well-shaped hands. The other 
 has the peculiarity of hands and thumbs but is a 
 short, stout, fair dandy, with surgical skill." 
 
 "Well?" said Cathcart sternly. 
 
 "I am tired of balancing one against the other; 
 I am tired of this mystery; I am tired of the way 
 you keep me in the dark, doling meagre glimpses of 
 the case. So far as I am able to see, not a fact has 
 been gained, not a step has been made toward the 
 end I have in view and which is the only justifica- 
 tion for my being in the case. I have become a 
 mere puppet in your hands and am living a life of 
 hypocrisy and falsehood, the very reverse of every- 
 thing honorable, without results, except to an end in 
 which I have no special or personal interest." 
 
 "I believe you take my money for the work you 
 do. Have I complained?" sarcastically observed 
 Cathcart. 
 
 "To earn the money I receive is not the object 
 of my putting myself subject to your orders. All 
 I do receive is expended in this business as you 
 direct. The chief, and I may say the only, pay I 
 look to is the explanation of my father's letter. 
 But for that I would be out of this business in a 
 moment. The employment is foreign to my habits, 
 my nature, and my tastes."
 
 15 TJJL MA. V WITH A THUMB. 
 
 Cathcart looked darkly at Dorison for a long time 
 while busy with his thoughts. 
 
 "I have been considered for many years a master 
 of my art," he said at length. "It is a very long 
 time since I permitted any one, either to complain 
 or to criticise, as you have done. The reason why 
 I have done so in your case must chiefly be because 
 I have taken a genuine liking to you, and because 
 I have had a real sympathy for your extraordinary 
 case. If I don't throw you over now and devote 
 myself wholly to the murder case, it must be because 
 I see that you are morbid over your own wrongs and 
 have a better excuse for impatience and despon- 
 dency than most men who have attempted to 
 complain and criticise to me. My own personal 
 concern in this matter is wholly a matter of pride. 
 I desire to round off a career of prominence and 
 distinction in the West, with a triumph in the East. 
 This is probably the last inquiry I shall ever be 
 engaged in, and I desire to win the glory of succeed- 
 ing where the Eastern detectives have failed. 
 
 "Now, so much by way of preface. My own 
 belief is that I could have yesterday brought the 
 murder question to an issue, were it not for the fact 
 that your own matter was not advanced to a stage 
 I desired. I believe the germs of that unfinished 
 letter and the murders are to be found in the one 
 condition of affairs. 
 
 "Listen to me and be ashamed. I have done 
 little in the murder case but direct your move- 
 ments. You have put into my hands the material
 
 CRUSHING A REBELLION. 159 
 
 by which I am certain that within the next twenty- 
 four hours I could put into custody the murderer, 
 were I to devote myself to the effort. For the past 
 two months I have labored hard, as hard as I ever 
 did in any two months of my life, and " he 
 paused to give the effect to his words, "nine-tenths 
 of that time has been devoted to your affair. You 
 think no fact has been gained. I know more at this 
 moment of your father's life and business than you 
 ever did. I have made the friendship of your 
 father's executor. I have won him as your friend, 
 instead of your enemy, as he has been for eight years. 
 I have persuaded him to go to work with a belief in 
 your innocence. He is a conscientious man and is 
 enthusiastic in his effort to repair .the wrong he has 
 done you. I have examined the old books of 
 the firm of which your father was so long the head, 
 and have run down every item of personal expendi- 
 ture I suspected might possibly have a bearing on 
 your affair. I have turned over every scrap of 
 paper in the possession of your father's executor, and 
 I have conversed with nearly every man yet alive 
 with whom your father did business. I have found, 
 and to a great extent know, the cause of the dissipa- 
 tion of your father's great property. The work is 
 not completed. When you came in, I was examining 
 reports the mail brought me, which advance me 
 another long step on the way. And this moment I 
 can account for nearly every cent, except one block 
 of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This 
 money was not lost in speculations or bad invest-
 
 160 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 ments. It was actually spent, deliberately expended 
 in pursuance of a deliberate intention, after having 
 been raised by hypothecation of stock and securities. 
 What was that purpose or intention? And why so 
 deliberately and persistently pursued? I have only 
 within the hour gotten to a point where I could 
 pursue that part of the inquiry with any degree of 
 intelligent effort or with hopes of success. 
 
 "I hold that one reason of the great success I 
 have had in my business, has been largely due to 
 two qualities I have possessed. First, the ability 
 to keep my plans to myself, and, secondly, the 
 ability with which I could command loyal assistance 
 without the assistants knowing more of their work 
 than I desired them to know. The information I 
 possess has come to me in fragments, and here in 
 this chamber I have pieced them together. 
 
 "Now then, having said this much, I shall say no 
 more until I am ready. If you are not satisfied you 
 are at liberty to retire from the case. I shall not 
 conceal from you, that if you do, it will be at a time 
 when you can be of the most use to me, and that 
 your retirement will be the source of great delay 
 and embarassment. But I shall not ask you to 
 remain; you shall be absolutely free to choose." 
 
 Dorison had been intently listening to the old 
 man, and with no little shame. He was confounded 
 to hear that the old man had been devoting so much 
 time to his own affair and had learned so much. 
 He was also greatly impressed with the masterful- 
 ness of the old detective and felt that he himself
 
 CRUSHING A REBELLION. 161 
 
 appeared as a fretful, impatient, unintelligent school 
 boy. So he said quite humbly: 
 
 "I shall not retire." 
 
 "Very well. But you must understand that I 
 must have unquestioning obedience." 
 
 "You shall have it." 
 
 "Very good. Now, I may say to you. I never 
 was engaged in a case where the lines cross each 
 other in so confusing a manner, nor did I ever have 
 two cases I was working together wherein the per- 
 sons in each case have such strange relations to each 
 other without bringing the critical point of each 
 case together. Here is an instance. We have 
 young Eustace under suspicion of being in some- 
 way connected with that murder; I believe your 
 father, dead as he is, is in some way connected with 
 it ; I have reason to believe that the older Eustace 
 was at one period of his life intimately connected 
 with your father's affairs; I am certain the elder 
 Eustace in no way touches the Parish murder. You 
 perceive how necessary it is to maintain a clear 
 hand and move slowly in this almost inextricable 
 tangle of the two cases. Here are my instructions 
 for your movements. I want you to engage the 
 elder Eustace in a conversation as to your father. 
 The way is open. You told me he had discovered 
 a great resemblance between your father and your- 
 self." 
 
 "A coolness has sprung up between the elder 
 Eustace and myself," said Dorison. 
 
 ' ' Indeed, how ? ' '
 
 162 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "Over that very resemblance." 
 
 The old man evinced increased interest, and 
 demanded to know everything, the very smallest 
 point. Thus urged, Dorison gave him a minute 
 and careful history of the incident. 
 
 When the recital was finished the old detective 
 thrust his hands into his vest-pockets, and dropping 
 his chin upon his breast, closed his eyes in thought 
 for a long time. When he spoke it was rather as if 
 he were thinking aloud than addressing Dorison. 
 
 "When Eustace was comparatively a young man," 
 he said, "he endangered his fortune by extrava- 
 gance and bad management. Your father came to 
 his aid, took charge of his estate, gave him financial 
 aid, lent him the great power of his credit, and hav- 
 ing straightened out his affairs obtained a diplo- 
 matic appointment abroad for him, so that the 
 ravages in his fortune might be repaired ; in other 
 words, saved him from ruin. In return, Eustace 
 did some great service for Dorison. What its 
 nature was I cannot determine. Nor will Eustace 
 tell as intimate a friend as he has. Perhaps he may 
 think idle curiosity prompted the question that 
 he would tell if sufficient reasons were given him. 
 At all events the career Dorison set him on has 
 resulted in his living abroad many more years than 
 here, since that time. Can it be can that be the 
 line to follow? If it should be that, that but no, he 
 was abroad when Dorison died had been for sev- 
 eral years. But would that have been any reason 
 why it should not be so."
 
 CRUSHIXG A REBELLION. 163 
 
 He relapsed again into a brown study, from which 
 Dorison waited for him to emerge, confused and 
 perplexed by the maze in which he found himself, 
 and unable to perceive even a glimmer of light. 
 
 "I regret," said Cathcart rousing up, "that this 
 misunderstanding has arisen. It would have been 
 avoided if you had followed my instructions obedi- 
 ently. You did not play the part you yourself 
 deliberately chose, before we came into contact. 
 If you assume a role you must play the whole of it, 
 or necessarily fail. You choose to pretend to be 
 some one else, yet the first time you are seriously 
 questioned you refuse to carry out your assumption. 
 That was foolish. Your lie would not have been 
 any greater in denying your paternity in words, than 
 it was when you permitted yourself to be introduced 
 under a name intended to deny that paternity. 
 How can you repair the blunder? Have you quar- 
 reled with young Eustace?" 
 
 "No," replied Dorison. "He asked me this 
 afternoon to a theater party next Monday and to 
 escort his sister." 
 
 "Um. This is Thursday. Well, seek an inter- 
 view with the elder Eustace as soon as you can, to 
 repair the blunder."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS. 
 
 D ORISON saw nothing of Cathcart for several 
 days. In the mean time no opportunity was 
 presented him to have an interview with the elder 
 Mr. Eustace, so that he might clear up the mis- 
 understanding. 
 
 Monday came, and in pursuance of his engage- 
 ment he went to the Eustace residence to escort 
 Evelyn to the theater. He was distinctly conscious, 
 on arriving, of an air of constraint in his reception, 
 though so far as the young lady herself was con-, 
 cerned, he could see no difference in the gracious- 
 ness of her manner. 
 
 At first, he was disposed to attribute everything to 
 his imagination, until he found that Mr. Eustace 
 was in an adjoining room, the doors of which were 
 open, and did not come forward to meet him. 
 
 "I shall be very frank with you, Mr. Dudley," 
 said Miss Eustace, as they drove from the door. 
 "You have offended father in some way." 
 
 "I wish you would carry your frankness further," 
 said Dorison in return, "and tell me in what way. 
 I am conscious of his change of demeanor, without 
 being certain as to its cause." 
 
 "The strange thing is that while he shows his 
 164
 
 BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA YS. 165 
 
 displeasure he refrains from telling why, though 
 Charley urged him to do so." 
 
 "I can give no other reason than the one I gave 
 your brother." 
 
 "I know, Charley told me. But it is not that. 
 Charley urged that to father, but he dismissed it 
 with a wave of his hand, as not being of the slightest 
 importance. Of course he could not find anything 
 in that for displeasure, and if he did, would not 
 refrain from telling if it were so. There is some- 
 thing else." 
 
 " Then I am utterly at a loss. Believe me, Miss 
 Eustace, I am too fond of your brother's friendship 
 and too sensible of the kindness shown me within 
 your household, not to quickly seek, with an 
 apology, to repair any offense I may have given, if 
 I knew wherein it lay. I really hoped that before 
 this it would have been apparent, that I should 
 have been enlightened either by you or your 
 brother." 
 
 " It is something serious, Mr. Dudley, and at 
 one time Charley thought his invitations would 
 have to be recalled." 
 
 " So serious as that," said Dudley, thoroughly 
 understanding that in this tactical way Miss Eustace 
 had made him understand her father had opposed 
 further reception of himself at the house, and had 
 yielded his position only upon being convinced that 
 persistence on his part would result in embarass- 
 ment to his son. 
 
 " He has come to believe I am John Dorison
 
 166 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 figuring under an assumed name the disgraced 
 son," he said to himself, "and not being certain 
 does not wish to give it as a reason." 
 
 The thought troubled him, and he was not con- 
 soled by the other one occurring to him, that he 
 had had, in the family difference, the active par- 
 tisanship of Evelyn and Charley. The affair 
 sobered him so that it Was with difficulty that he 
 could shake off his despondency. 
 
 He made the effort with these words : 
 
 " I will make a serious effort to discover the 
 cause, Miss Eustace, and shall do all that is proper 
 for a man to do under the circumstances." 
 
 He was certain that this assurance gave the 
 young lady much satisfaction, and she became quite 
 gay during the rest of the short drive. 
 
 At theater they found the rest of the party, and 
 in tbe pleasure of the moment Dorison forgot the 
 unpleasant impression that had been put upon him. 
 He found the young lady a delightful companion, 
 and thought she carried about her the same charm 
 of personality possessed by her brother. She was 
 endowed with that quality, rarely possessed by a 
 woman a keen appreciation of humor, and he 
 himself, for that evening, was subject to one of those 
 alternations men of a melancholy and despondent 
 nature are at times. His gayety swept up to high 
 spirits, dangerously near to boisterousness, and he 
 was conscious of a marked endeavor to impress 
 himself favorably upon the lady who was his com- 
 panion.
 
 BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA YS. 167 
 
 He talked much at the supper after the enter- 
 tainment, which was not his wont, and what was 
 better, talked well, with a gay, capricious, and 
 whimsical fancy ; told humorous stories, showered 
 witticisms without stint, which were entirely unpre- 
 meditated, and carried all with him into his own 
 wild spirits. 
 
 " Upon my word, Dudley ! " cried young Eus- 
 tace, " I never knew you in such a mood before. 
 If I had not been watching your glass and noticed 
 your moderation, I would have supposed you were 
 obtaining your inspiration from wine." 
 
 " You forget that I promised you solemnly that 
 I would not frighten your sister with despondency. 
 What would you ? I have not a large assortment 
 of moods at my disposal. Either deep despond,- 
 ency or high gayety. To-morrow I will have a wet 
 towel around my heart while you have it around 
 your head." 
 
 " That is a base hint that I am indulging in too 
 much wine. I honestly believe the slur was thrown 
 out to prevent me from describing the awfully' 
 despondent mood he was in the last time I saw him. 
 Then he told me that he was insane, that he 
 proposed to immolate me upon the sacrificial 
 altar of a phantom he was pursuing, and in the 
 most tragic manner urged me to beware of him- 
 self." 
 
 Dorison blushed and was disconcerted, but look- 
 ing at Miss Eustace, his thoughts were diverted, 
 for he perceived an expression of dislike and
 
 1 68 THE MAN WITH A THUMB 
 
 annoyance flit across her face, and following her 
 eyes, saw that Langdon had entered the room and 
 was ostentatiously bowing to her. She did not re- 
 spond except with a haughty and well-bred stare, 
 though her brother made a gesture as if to rise from 
 his chair. . 
 
 Dorison laid his hand upon his knee : 
 
 " Do nothing, Charley ; you cannot resent the 
 affront without a scene, and the mere act of bow- 
 ing is not sufficient." 
 
 " You are right. What an insufferable bore it is 
 that we should be haunted by this fellow." 
 
 Langdon was accompanied by a young man, and 
 it was plain they were making the Eustace party 
 the subject of their conversation. The incident, 
 unimportant as it was, the meaning of which, how- 
 ever, was known but to Miss Eustace, her brother, 
 and Dorison, threw a damper upon the spirits of 
 those who had been the gayest, and soon all rose 
 from the table. As they crossed the room it was 
 "necessary to pass near the table at which Langdon 
 was seated with his companion. 
 
 Fearing that Langdon would attempt to secure 
 recognition, Dorison maneuvered to get young 
 Eustace in the lead of the party, intending to bring 
 up the rear himself. His purpose was to prevent a 
 scene if possible. 
 
 As he anticipated, Langdon rose as Miss Eustace 
 approached, with a smile, intended to be engaging, 
 ready to extend his hand. Dorison quickly changed 
 to the side of Miss Eustace other than that on
 
 BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA YS. 169 
 
 which he was walking, thus bringing himself 
 between her and Langdon. 
 
 It was the work of a moment, and stopping, he 
 said sternly and menacingly : 
 
 " It should be plain to you, sir, the lady does not 
 desire to be recognized by you." 
 
 A flush overspread Langdon's face, and his eyes 
 shot forth an angry glance as he said : 
 
 " My pretty fellow, you are making debts for me 
 to pay. You will have to answer for this insult. 
 Who made you the protector of the lady ? " 
 
 "Common decency, when a loafer insults her," 
 replied Dorison, moving on quietly, before Lang- 
 don could say anything further. Miss Eustace, 
 having penetrated his purpose, had walked on 
 rapidly. 
 
 " Did that scoundrel attempt to speak to you, 
 Evelyn," Dorison heard young Eustace ask, as he 
 joined the party in the vestibule. 
 
 "Yes," replied his sister, "but was prevented by 
 Mr. Dudley." 
 
 " You are putting my sister and our people in 
 your debt rapidly, Dudley," said Eustace warmly. 
 
 " That he is indeed," echoed Evelyn, glancing 
 gratefully at Dorison, in a manner which brought 
 to his mind vividly the scene in the drug-store on 
 the day he first met her. 
 
 " Strange," he said lightly. " But do you know 
 that Langdon said something of the kind also." 
 
 Evelyn looked at him quickly in alarm, and 
 exclaimed :
 
 17 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "I hope you will get into no trouble by it." 
 
 "No fear," replied Dorison hastily. "I shall 
 really be obliged to him, if he will be the cause of 
 such interest in my well-being." 
 
 All this had passed rapidly as the carriages were 
 being called, and in a moment more he was on his 
 way with the young lady, endeavoring to make her 
 forget the disagreeable contretemps by his gay 
 talk. 
 
 After leaving her at her house he went straightway 
 to his own rooms, to dream of violet eyes and golden 
 hair, no matter how unattainable they seemed to be 
 to him. 
 
 The following morning, on arising, he was handed 
 a note, written hastily in pencil : 
 
 "Will Mr. Dudley meet the lady he saved from 
 being arrested, this morning, at eleven, at the corner 
 Lexington Avenue and 3oth Street sharp. It's for 
 his good. 
 
 "Gratefully his friend, 
 
 "BESS." 
 
 Not a little astonished, and at first deeming it to 
 be a foolish woman's effort to draw him into an 
 acquaintance, and moreover disgusted with it, he 
 determined to ignore it. But, on reflection, he 
 thought there was something significant in the fact 
 that she had learned his name, and' he further 
 remarked to himself, engaged as he was in such a 
 search, he had no right to cast aside any incident, 
 however slight or insignificant or improbable it 
 might appear.
 
 BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA VS. i?i 
 
 Hence he determined to meet her as requested. 
 As he had slept late, it was already near the hour, 
 and so doffing his lounging jacket, he prepared for 
 the street, and set out for the trysting place, as he 
 laughingly termed it. 
 
 The girl was already there, and approaching 
 him, said: 
 
 "Let us walk up Lexington Avenue. There is 
 less chance of my being seen. I'm takin' chances 
 doin' this. You've crossed my man some way, an' 
 he's down on you." 
 
 "Who is your man?" asked Dorison. 
 
 "His name is Langdon." 
 
 "Oh!" said Dorison, surprised. "What is he to 
 you?" 
 
 "He's my husband," she said quickly. "Don't 
 you believe nothin' else. The priest didn't marry 
 us, but we were married all the same, though he does 
 try to act and say we weren't. But we was all the 
 same." 
 
 "Well, what have I done, and if he is down on 
 me, what can he do?" 
 
 "I dunno what you've done to him. But he's 
 been grumblin' for some time about a feller named 
 Dudley, before I know'd it was you the one what 
 saved me from arrest. The other day he came 
 home growlin' about you interfering in his affairs, 
 and last night when he came late, a fellow named 
 Pittston was waiting for him ; and he took him off 
 in another room to talk with him. Something you 
 did to him last night made him very mad, an' I
 
 I? 2 THE MAX 117777 A THUMB. 
 
 heard him say he'd git you dosed for it before many 
 hours." 
 
 Dorison laughed. 
 
 "I don't think there's much to be afraid of." 
 
 "Yes, there is," earnestly replied the girl. "If 
 there wasn't I wouldn't be takin' the chances I am. 
 Now sir. I'm grateful to you for what ye did for me, 
 and because after ye did it ye didn't insult me, as 
 most men do. So I said I'd give you a warnin'. 
 He doesn't treat me so well that I shouldn't do it, 
 any how. He's a bad one when he's roused, and 
 that feller Pittston, who I hate, and him, has got 
 some rough fellers that'll do anything they tell them. 
 You've got 'em both down on you. What they will 
 do or can do I don't know, but you want to look 
 out and be careful. I don't know just what they 
 mean by dosin' a man, but I do know that in 
 Chicago they talked about dosin' a man one night, 
 and after that he was found on the street nearly 
 dead." 
 
 "What does Langdon do for a living?" 
 
 "He don't do nothing. He's got money of his 
 own." 
 
 "Do you know that?" 
 
 "I know he aint never done nothin', aint never 
 done no work, and yet he has all the money he 
 wants. He don't stint me." 
 
 "Where did you marry him?" 
 
 "In Chicago. My folks were agin him. My 
 father is a policeman there, and said he was nothin' 
 but a gambler. He wasn't, though. I ran away
 
 BREA D FO UND A1>~1 'RR MA A" I " DA YS. 1 7 3 
 
 with him, and father thought I wasn't married to 
 him first, but afterwards he knew better, although 
 I came to know that his name wasn't always Lang- 
 don." 
 
 "What was it!" asked Dorison. 
 
 "I never heard," said the woman shortly. 
 
 "Is he as flush of money as he always was!" 
 asked Dorison. 
 
 "I aint seen no difference," replied the woman ; 
 "but don't you think I've done enough when I 
 warn you of danger, without askin' me to give him 
 away?" 
 
 Dorison answered laughing: 
 
 "Before I ask you to give him away I must know 
 there is something to give away. However, I am 
 much obliged for your kindness. I will be careful, 
 though I don't know what he can do. Do you 
 know what I've done to him?" 
 
 "Only he says you are interfering in his affairs. I 
 heard him say you followed Pittston into a restau- 
 rant, and did it because a Chicago detective named 
 Cathcart told you to. And he said that if you 
 wasn't a swell in town he'd think you was a de- 
 tective." 
 
 Dorison laughed at the idea, and further asked: . 
 
 "Do you know what I did to him last night that 
 made him angry?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I prevented him from speaking to a young lady 
 who didn't want to be noticed by him?" 
 
 "I know a Miss Eustace. I've heard him curse
 
 174 y '///: MAN //'//// .-/ TIIUMH. 
 
 the family and say he knew a way to pull 'em down 
 in time." 
 
 A malicious thought popped into Dorison's head. 
 
 "Do you know what he proposes to do?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I'm afraid you will get angry with me and make 
 a row." 
 
 "No, I wont," she said, with breathless interest. 
 
 "He wants to marry the youngest Miss Eustace, 
 and has tried to get her to run away with him." 
 
 Dorison was fairly frightened at the effect of his 
 words. 
 
 The black eyes of the woman flashed fire, and 
 her strong, handsome face became hideously con- 
 vulsed with an anger that seemed to be ungovern- 
 able. 
 
 "You are not lying to me," she hissed. 
 
 "Now becalm. You promised not to make a 
 row. I shall not say another word until you are 
 composed." 
 
 The girl made a desperate effort to regain con- 
 trol of herself, and while she was doing so they 
 walked some distance in silence. 
 
 "Tell me all you know," she said at length. "I 
 will be quiet." 
 
 "Who is Dr. Fassett?" he asked. 
 
 "He's a doctor that used to come to see Harry 
 every morning. I don't know anything about him, 
 except he used to have a close talk with him, but
 
 BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA VS. 175 
 
 about what I don't know. Harry's got some hold 
 on him. Why do you ask?" 
 
 "He is the family physician of the Eustace peo- 
 ple, and introduced Langdon there. He tried to 
 make the younger daughter like Langdon, and 
 arranged meetings alone with Langdon. The 
 brother, young Eustace, told me of this, and that 
 ever since they found it out they have kept so close 
 a watch on the younger daughter that she can't see 
 him at all. But he is still hanging around." 
 
 The girl's struggle with her passion was some- 
 thing pathetic. 
 
 "That's what he's tryin' to make people believe 
 I'm not his wife for, then," she gasped. 
 
 "Do you think so much of him?" he asked. 
 
 "Does any wife want to see her husband run after 
 another woman?" 
 
 "I presume not, but he'll never run away with 
 her?" 
 
 "No, he never will," said the girl, with frightful 
 emphasis. 
 
 "Who is Pittston?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know. He's a feller of good family in 
 Chicago. Harry knew him there. He's crooked, 
 I think. Hang it, sometimes I think Harry is, but 
 I don't know. They never tell me anything. Harry 
 
 laughed one day and said I was too d d honest 
 
 to- tell anything to. They've got some ugly fellers 
 about 'em, and you look out for 'em." 
 
 "I will look out. But what will you do? Tell 
 Harry what I've told you?"
 
 176 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. . 
 
 "I'll tell him nothing. Don't you fear. But he'll 
 never run away and marry anybody. I'll see this 
 girl and make her know I'm his wife. I must get 
 back now, or I'll be missed." 
 
 The woman slipped down the cross street, and 
 Dorison retraced his steps through Lexington Ave- 
 nue, deep in thought. After carefully reviewing 
 his talk with the girl he said : 
 
 "I presume the first thing to do is to see Cath- 
 cart and inform him.. The next thing, to see Eus- 
 tace and tell him. It strikes me that there is a 
 strong weapon in this to use with the young girl. 
 It ought to rid her of any sneaking notion she may 
 have for Langdon."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY. 
 
 WHILE Dorison was having the conversation 
 with the woman, as set forth in the previous 
 chapter, Cathcart was laboring over a mass of notes 
 in his own chamber in Bond Street. 
 
 "The story is made," he said, as he leaned back 
 in his chair, his hands thrust in his vest-pockets. 
 "Facts are connected by a little effort of the imagi- 
 nation. A little work in confirming the imaginary 
 parts, and if it does not go to pieces, that part of 
 the affair is concluded. If- it does, at all events 
 there will be triumph enough in the other part to 
 compensate for all the labor." 
 
 "Um," he muttered, as he reached forward, 
 taking up a memorandum. "The records show the 
 house to have been transferred April 22, 1854, by 
 Richard Basselin, for $11,500; a check is given to 
 Richard Basselin, April 22, 1854, a certified check, 
 and endorsed by Richard Basselin, is returned as a 
 voucher. Thus a clear connection is unmistakably 
 traced. Now to put that other conception of mine 
 to the test, and if it should prove to be a correct 
 one the road will be straight to the end." 
 
 He took up another pile of notes, and began the 
 work of arranging in accordance with some plan he 
 177
 
 1 78 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 carried in his head ; finishing which he transferred 
 the contents of each separate slip of paper to a 
 sheet, commenting as he did so in brief sentences: 
 "That fits like a glove." "That is somewhat con- 
 tradictory." "There is a straight connection." 
 "A screw loose there," and so on. 
 
 He was thus engaged when Dorison entered. 
 
 "Any new developments?" he asked curtly. 
 
 "I have had a rather singular adventure this 
 morning, which I have hastened to tell you." 
 
 The old man opened a newspaper lying beside 
 him and spread it over the papers lying on his 
 table. 
 
 Having done this to his satisfaction he swung his 
 chair around so that he faced Dorison, and said: 
 
 "Tell it to me in detail." 
 
 To do this it was necessary to again go back to 
 that evening when Dorison wandered to Twenty- 
 ninth Street and Third Avenue that evening so 
 fruitful of results. Dorison consumed half an hour 
 in the recital of his adventure, during which Cath- 
 cart listened intently, interposing neither word, mo- 
 tion, nor gesture, keeping his keen, bright eyes on 
 Dorison's face. 
 
 "You have told it well and clearly," he said as 
 Dorison concluded. "No necessity of going over it 
 again. What you tell is more important than you 
 suppose, I imagine. One part confirms a theory I 
 hardly dared to entertain. You must heed that 
 warning of the woman." 
 
 Dorison laughed in derision.
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY. 179 
 
 "I give it no importance," he said; "I told it 
 simply as showing why the woman wrote me." 
 
 "But you must give it importance, " said Cath- 
 cart earnestly. "Dosing is a Western term for 
 sandbagging a man. It means something." 
 
 "Threatened men live long," laughed Dorison. 
 
 The old detective glanced irritably at the young 
 man, saying: 
 
 "You are self-sufficient at times, and when you 
 are, you display your ignorance of the ways of the 
 world. ' ' 
 
 He took up a b6ok of telegraph blanks, and 
 rapidly scribbled a telegram, handing it to Dorison. 
 
 ' ' Will you do me the favor of sending that when 
 you leave here. You may read it." 
 
 Dorison did so with some interest. It was ad- 
 dressed to a private detective in Chicago: 
 
 "Find as soon as possible whether Harry Lang- 
 don was ever known by any other name." 
 
 Dorison inquired whether the person to whom 
 the dispatch was addressed would know who was 
 meant. 
 
 "Very well. I have had previous correspon- 
 dence on the matter. The officer on Pittston," he 
 continued abruptly, "has been able to find out very 
 little about him. So far as his life is concerned he 
 seems to be engaged in no business idling his time 
 innocently. It is explained, however .by the news 
 you bring me that I was recognized by him. They 
 have suspended whatever business they were up to, 
 until they find out what I'm up to. They evidently
 
 l8o THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 think I'm here on a visit only. One ntore question 
 and then you must go. Have you seen the elder 
 Eustace yet?" 
 
 "No; I have tried to without success." 
 
 "Don't do it for several days. Indeed don't 
 meet him at all; avoid him until you see me 
 again." 
 
 Wondering what was the reason of this sudden 
 change of policy, Dorison promised. 
 
 "I want you to be within call," said the detective. 
 "My impression is that you would do better to keep 
 to your rooms, so that if I want you I can find you 
 without delay." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 " Now get away. I've work to do." 
 
 As Dorison went out of the room, Cathcart called 
 on some one in an adjoining room. The officer 
 who had shadowed Langdon and Pittston appeared. 
 
 " Mr. Dudley is threatened with injury," he said, 
 " by Langdon and Pittston. They won't do it ; 
 some one whom they employ will, if it is done at all. 
 I want you to be on his track and see if he is fol- 
 lowed. He obstinately refuses to believe in it. I 
 think a disguise will be necessary." 
 
 " I can follow him home to-day without one. 
 After that I will ' fake ' up something." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 So soon as the officer had hurried out after Dori- 
 son, Cathcart gathered up his papers on the table 
 and placed them in a wooden box on the floor, 
 which he locked carefully. Donning his topcoat
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY. 181 
 
 and taking his hat, he went out, walking to the 
 Bowery. Here he sought a drug-store, and enter- 
 ing, asked permission to look at the directory. 
 Securing .the address he desired, he took an 
 upbound Fourth Avenue car. 
 
 Arriving at the corner of Fifty-sixth Street he 
 descended and walked in the direction of Fifth 
 Avenue. Near that thoroughfare of fashion and 
 wealth he stopped and ascended the steps of one of 
 the handsomest dwellings of the block. 
 
 It was the residence of Herbert Clavering 
 Eustace. 
 
 " This is my card," he said to the servant. " But 
 it will convey nothing to Mr. Eustace. Please tell 
 him my call is not a social one, but on business, 
 important business." 
 
 He was called into a rear room which Mr. Eustace 
 reserved a's his study. 
 
 " I have brought you here because we would be 
 free from interruption," said Mr. Eustace. " I am 
 at your service, sir." 
 
 Cathcart bent his head a moment as if thinking 
 how to begin his business. Mr. Eustace waited 
 patiently and courteously. 
 
 " I am here," said the old detective, " in pursu- 
 ance of an inquiry I am conducting, and recent 
 developments have suggested to me that you may 
 have much knowledge of the matter." 
 
 He lifted his head as he completed his sentence, 
 and regarded Mr. Eustace fixedly. 
 
 " Unless I am further informed," replied Mr.
 
 1 82 THE MAN 1VITII A THUMB. 
 
 Eustace, smiling, " I shall be unable to tell whether 
 I have the information you desire or not." 
 
 "On the i4th day of July, 1871," said Cathcart, 
 ignoring the remark, and proceeding as in continu- 
 ance of his beginning, " Reuben Dorison died. 
 When found, an unfinished letter was before him. 
 He had been stricken with death in the very act of 
 its composition. To whom it was intended to be 
 addressed never was known, is,, not known now, but 
 it did a great wrong. It charged some one with 
 the commission of many crimes, to cover which, 
 and to pay the damages of which, had wasted his 
 fortune. He was asking for assistance. By impli- 
 cation, indeed one may say by inference alone, these 
 crimes were charged against his only son, a young 
 man upon whom he had lavished his affection and 
 of whom he had apparently been very fond." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Eustace, deeply interested, " I 
 can confirm that." 
 
 " The executor and the immediate friends, how- 
 ever, insisted that the letter condemned the son, 
 and indeed employed the police to trace the crimes 
 charged, and the friends of the young man cut him 
 and snubbed him. He strove as frantically 
 to disprove the charges, as the police 'worked 
 industriously to trace them. Both failed utterly, 
 and the son, at last despairing and wholly miser- 
 able, abandoned further effort, left the city and 
 settled in the West. At this late day I am em- 
 ployed in an endeavor to solve the riddle. I am a 
 Western detective."
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY. 183 
 
 Mr. Eustace gave a great start, and a look of 
 blank amazement spread over his face. It was as 
 if he had said in words, " You a detective ! I never 
 would have believed it. You do not meet my pre- 
 conception of a detective at all." 
 
 " This movement instituted by the young man, 
 after the lapse of eight years, has no other purpose 
 than that of removing from his name the stigma 
 placed upon it by that unfinished letter. He seeks 
 no property, for his father's executors discovered 
 there was no property left." 
 
 " No property left ? " exclaimed Mr. Eustace. 
 " Why, he had a splendid property." 
 
 " Had, yes. But not when he died. Permit me 
 to show you a copy of that unfortunate letter." 
 
 He handed Mr. Eustace a sheet of paper which 
 he had taken from his pocket. After it was read 
 Mr. Eustace returned it, saying : 
 
 " I was abroad at the time of Mr. Dorison's 
 death, had been for several years, and for two years 
 after. At the exact time I was in the far East 
 upon a special diplomatic mission, and therefore 
 not until my return to Paris, many months after- 
 wards, did I hear of its occurrence. I presume by 
 that time interest in the events surrounding it had 
 subsided, and upon my return to this city was 
 almost all forgotten, and what was remembered 
 was perverted. All that I heard was that the 
 young man had behaved very badly, and had been 
 discarded by his father previous to the father's 
 death ; that he had disappeared. I thought it
 
 184 THE MAN IV I Til A THUMK. 
 
 strange, for the very last letter I had from Reu- 
 ben Dorison, written some weeks before his death, 
 but received by me many months after it, while 
 speaking of troubles complicating his old age, 
 referred in enthusiastic terms to the comfort and 
 pride he had in his only son." 
 
 "You maintained a close intimacy with Mr. 
 Dorison ? " asked Cathcart. 
 
 " Yes ; it could not be closer," replied Mr. Eus- 
 tace warmly. " At one period of our lives it was 
 sacredly confidential a confidence which doubt- 
 less would have made me familiar with every event 
 in his life, and him with that in mine, had not a 
 long separation, by which we could not meet, 
 except at the intervals of years, and then only 
 briefly, occurred. Upon my side there was abso- 
 lutely no reservation so long as it continued." 
 
 " He did you essential service at one time ? " 
 
 " He did indeed." 
 
 " Saved you from ruin by taking charge of your 
 estate, which you had endangered by extravagance 
 and recklessness of life, lending the aid of his 
 finances and credit ? " 
 
 The face of Mr. Eustace flushed deeply, and he 
 looked with no little anger upon the calm and 
 immobile face of the detective. 
 
 " It is true, sir," he replied with his stateliest 
 manner, "but how you came to know it I cannot tell." 
 
 " I have finally. won Mr. Dorison's executor to a 
 belief in the innocence of the son. He has given 
 me access to all of the papers of the estate."
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY. 185 
 
 "You are at no pains to make your words 
 gentle," said Mr. Eustace, with much dignity. 
 
 " I am a surgeon with a probe. I cannot expect 
 to escape inflicting pain. Justice, delayed eight 
 years, demands the truth at all cost. I have read 
 you very inaccurately if I am mistaken in assuming 
 you to be a man of strict honor, high regard for 
 justice, and a deep sense of the obligation a man 
 owes another in distress." 
 
 Mr. Eustace colored under the flattering estimate 
 of his character. 
 
 " I asked the question from no idle curiosity, 
 nor from a desire to inflict pain, but in order to 
 confirm a theory I had formed as to the relations 
 existing between you and Mr. Dorison. Such con- 
 fidence and reliance as you gave him begets a 
 return. It is knowledge of Mr. Dorison's life I 
 want, not of yours. Now, sir, up to this time you 
 have accepted me on the strength of my own state- 
 ment as to what I am. I am about to ask you 
 questions which you should not answer a stranger 
 or one having no reasonable right to ask them. 
 Do me the favor to examine my credentials." 
 
 He handed Mr. Eustace a package of papers he 
 drew from an inner pocket, and lay back in his 
 chair patiently awaiting their examination. 
 
 In time Mr. Eustace returned them. 
 
 " I am satisfied, sir ; some of them credit you 
 with great eminence in your profession." 
 
 " I have done some good work in my time,"
 
 1 86 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 replied Cathcart indifferently. " If you are satis- 
 fied as to my identity, we will proceed." 
 
 Mr. Eustace was evidently greatly impressed 
 with his visitor, and yielded to him as most men did. 
 
 "I apprehend," said Cathcart, "that we will 
 make greater progress if I submit my theory to you 
 and try to see whether we can erect it into a cer- 
 tainty. You will perceive in that unfinished letter 
 a direct reference is made to a son. The writer 
 seems to be borne down by the fact that all the 
 evils he has recited are to be attributed to an un- 
 grateful son. Now, inasmuch as he had but one 
 son, the superficial and perhaps natural supposition 
 would be that that son was referred to. But we 
 are immediately confronted with the fact that 
 nothing in the life of the young man can be found 
 to justify the charges. Upon the contrary, we find 
 abundant evidence that that son was treated with 
 confidence, pride, affection, and generosity, which 
 the son repaid with an affection and attention quite 
 as strong. This certainly is contradictory. But if 
 further evidence is wanted it is to be found in the 
 almost frantic endeavors of the young man himself 
 to disprove the charges endeavors ill-directed and 
 ill-advised, as might be expected in a boy only 
 twenty-three throwing himself open to the most 
 rigid examination, and, further, that after having 
 brooded on these troubles for eight years, he has 
 set the inquiry on foot again. Those who are 
 inclined to look leniently on the young man, say that 
 the elder Dorison must have been stricken with an
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY. 187 
 
 insanity which was a precursor of his death, or, 
 that if he had been permitted to finish the letter it 
 would have been found that he would have quali- 
 fied the charges. Others, and by far the majority, 
 including the long and clear-headed men of the 
 police, insist that the charges are direct and une- 
 quivocal. I disagree with all." 
 
 Mr. Eustace, who had been sitting in his easy- 
 chair, with his elbow resting upon the arm, sup- 
 porting his chin, straightened up and looked with 
 rising color upon the old detective. 
 
 " You will notice," continued Cathcart, taking 
 out the copy of the unfinished letter, "that in the 
 reference to this son he uses the term, 'an ungrate- 
 ful son,' not my ungrateful son, nor the ungrateful 
 son of my heart, or life, or old age, as men often 
 speak. He uses the indefinite article, 'an, " 
 
 " And you reason there was another son," inter- 
 rupted Mr. Eustace, excitedly. 
 
 " I do," replied Cathcart firmly, " an illegitimate 
 son. Therefore, believing that to be so, and know- 
 ing the relations existing between you and Mr. 
 Dorison, I am come to know whether you have any- 
 thing in your possession any knowledge which 
 justifies such a theory ? " ** 
 
 Mr. Eustace rose from 'his chair impulsively, and 
 rapidly walked up and down the apartment with 
 long strides, evidently much agitated. 
 
 "You are touching upon sacred confidences," 
 said Mr. Eustace finally, "I do not know " 
 
 " One moment," interrupted the old detective
 
 i88 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 hastily; " I am not without knowledge that the elder 
 Dorison had some relation with a woman, just 
 what it was I do not know, but his portrait, his seal 
 ring, and parts of letters written by him were found 
 in her apartments. But stronger than all is this : 
 For a number of years, that is to say for twenty-five 
 years, this woman occupied a house^down town, the 
 title to which was vested in her name. This property 
 was transferred to her April 22, 1854, by Richard 
 Basselin, the consideration being $11,500. I find 
 among the papers of the Dorison estate a voucher, 
 a check drawn on the Chemical Bank for $11,500, 
 in favor of Richard Basselin, dated April 22, 1854, 
 signed by Reuben Dorison, certified by the cashier 
 on that day, and endorsed by Richard Basselin. 
 Subsequently Richard Basselin removed to Buffalo, 
 where he died a little more than a year ago. You 
 perceive that a connection is "established. The 
 nature of that connection is what I now desire to 
 ascertain." 
 
 Mr. Eustace had stopped in front of Cathcart as 
 the latter talked. He asked suddenly : 
 
 " The name of that woman ? " 
 
 " I prefer to follow my own plan of inquiry and 
 endeavor to elicit information before disclosing it. 
 I have no objection to giving it and will do so before 
 I leave. The important thing is not to satisfy your 
 curiosity but to justify my theory." 
 
 Mr. Eustace turned an irritable glance upon the 
 old man, sitting so calm and imperturbable at his 
 fireside. He resumed his walk.
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY. i&9 
 
 " I have some information, no doubt, that will 
 assist you. What you are telling me is wholly new. 
 The question in my mind is whether I should tell 
 that which was given me under the solemn seal of 
 secrecy." 
 
 "Have you the right to obstruct the search of a 
 young man leading to the restoration of his good 
 name? I appeal to you as a man of justice. I 
 appeal also to your recollection of Reuben Dorison, 
 and ask if it were possible for him to appear here 
 for one moment, whether he would refuse you per- 
 mission to unlock your lips, when the doing of it 
 would tend to remove the disgrace from a son he 
 thought so much of, as you have yourself testified. 
 Finally, I say to you, not in the way of a threat, 
 but as a simple statement of fact, that there is 
 another phase of this case, that sooner or later the 
 officers of the law must take hold of, where you will 
 be summoned to tell all you know, unless you evade 
 it by telling me now." 
 
 All of this increased the agitation of Mr. Eustace, 
 and he said : . 
 
 "The strongest appeal is the one to my memory 
 of Reuben Dorison. I think you are right there." 
 
 He sat himself down in his easy-chair, and looked 
 into the fire burning brightly in the grate a long 
 time. 
 
 Cathcart sat silently by, but presenting a firm atti- 
 tude of irresistible pertinacity in his determination 
 to get the story. 
 
 "I have a strang tale to tell," finally began Mr.
 
 1QO THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 Eustace, "and yet only the outlines of it. When 
 Reuben Dorison was a young man, subsequent to 
 his father's death, perhaps then twenty-two or three 
 years old, before he was married to Mary Claver- 
 ing, a distant relative of mine, he met and fell in 
 love with a beautiful young girl, in a rank of life 
 much lower than his own. Where he met her or 
 how, I never learned, but her father was a cos- 
 turner to one of the theaters of that day, and had a 
 shop in Chatham Street. She returned that love 
 and -they desired to marry. Her father, however, 
 for reasons he would not give, refused his consent, 
 grew violent when it was talked of, and finally put 
 her away so effectually that Dorison could learn 
 nothing of her. When next he heard of her, she 
 was married, and to a man at the command of her 
 father. This story L had from his lips. I cannot 
 recollect that I ever heard her last name, or that of 
 the man she married. In speaking to her he called 
 her Emma. Dorison's mother was bent on his 
 marrying Mary Clavering, and in time brought 
 about the match. Dorison must have become rec- 
 onciled to it," continued Mr. Eustace, musingly, 
 more to himself than to Cathcart, "for in those days 
 he seemed very happy, and his home in Bleecker 
 Street was as pleasant and gay as any in the city. 
 He was exceedingly prosperous in business, and 
 the only cloud I could see dimming his happiness 
 was the death of four children, leaving him only 
 one, the youngest, a boy. In 1851, Dorison moved 
 from Bleecker Street to Twenty-third Street, and a
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY, I9 r 
 
 year later his wife died, the boy then being four or 
 five years old." 
 
 Mr. Eustace got up and going to his desk took 
 from a pigeon-hole a little book. Turning over its 
 leaves he examined a page of it attentively, and re- 
 turned. 
 
 "I am correct in my recollection. One after- 
 noon, three years after the death of his wife, he 
 came to me in deep distress, saying he must relieve 
 his feelings by talking with some one he could trust. 
 He said that two years previously he had met his 
 early love, and discovered that she was a widow 
 that her husband had treated her ill all his life, and 
 had several years previously gone to another part 
 of the country, contributing sufficiently to her sup- 
 port to escape charges of abandonment; that she 
 had had advices of his death, by letter, from one of 
 his companions who had sent her his private papers; 
 and that she was childless ; that he found his love 
 for her returned, and in haste and without consider- 
 ing consequences had married her. For reasons 
 which he did not give me, he said he determined he 
 would not make the marriage known until he could 
 carry out successfully his retirement from business, 
 and permanently invest his property. So he had 
 rented a house and was providing for her as a hus- 
 band should, but still keeping the fact of the mar- 
 riage secret. He had retired and was about ready 
 to announce his second marriage, two children hav- 
 ing been born to them in the meantime, when the 
 first husband presented himself alive and in person.
 
 192 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 Though Dorison had been compelled to pay heavily 
 to prevent the husband from making a scandal, from 
 prosecuting his wife for bigamy and to go his way 
 and leave her in peace, the fact remained that she 
 was not his wife, and could not be recognized as 
 such. Though he was the father of her children, 
 he said the woman insisted on an absolute severance 
 of their relations. She said they had sinned, but 
 sinned innocently, and that they could repair their 
 wrong only by separation. He had tried to combat 
 her resolution, but she was immovable, and he was 
 almost heartbroken, saying his love for her was 
 never so great as when she had shown such nobility 
 of soul; that she should be surrounded by every 
 comfort, and that her protection should be his care. 
 Again he refrained from the mention of names, and 
 handing me securities to the amount of fifty thous- 
 and dollars, asked me to hypothecate them on a 
 long term." 
 
 "My theory is confirmed," said Cathcart. "Did 
 he ever refer to it again?" 
 
 "No," replied Eustace, "except once in answer 
 to a question, when he said that affairs had settled 
 into a sad and quiet rut and he avoided thought of 
 it as much as possible. Not long after this affair 
 occurred my own financial troubles, and after they 
 had been straightened out, upon which he labored 
 much, I went abroad in the diplomatic service. 
 While our warm friendship was never broken, 
 our confidences, by the fact of separation only, 
 ceased,"
 
 PIECING OUT A STORY. 193 
 
 "Um," said the detective, "Is that all you have 
 to say?" 
 
 "No. One more point. In 1869 I returned 
 from the continent on a short visit, leaving my 
 family behind me. The night before I was to re- 
 turn, Dorison came to me, begging to be excused 
 for troubling me at such an hour and time on such 
 a matter. He said he was in great trouble, the 
 causes of which were too many and involved too 
 long a story in explanation to give them. He had 
 with him a small tin case in which were contained 
 one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of govern- 
 ment securities, which he said he desired me to 
 retain, subject to his order, the reason for which he 
 would give me some time. He had a receipt pre- 
 pared simply reading: 'Received from Reuben 
 Dorison government securities to the amount of one 
 hundred and fifty thousand dollars,' which he asked 
 me to sign, and I did. 'I am preparing,' he said, 
 'for a storm. You know the unfortunate affair I 
 became involved in. This is intended to be some 
 reparation to the children whose paternity I am 
 compelled to deny one child perhaps it were bet- 
 ter to say. In view of the fact that Emma's first 
 husband is yet alive and makes demands on her, I 
 don't think it wise to hand them to her yet. In 
 view of certain demands on me, of matters occur- 
 ring and likely to occur in the future, they were 
 better out of my hands. I can think of no better 
 place than to put them in the hands of a friend I 
 trust as I do you. A demand will be made upon
 
 194 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 you, sometime. When it is, yield them up only on 
 the presentation of this paper.' He showed me a 
 paper written in red ink, the edges of which were 
 notched. 'Here,' he continued, 'is another piece 
 of paper, blank, which fits into these notches.' I 
 fitted them and saw they compared. He went 
 away. I never saw him after, and I yet have the 
 piece of blank notched paper in my safe. The 
 bonds are in my possession, swollen by interest and 
 compound interest to nearly a quarter of a million 
 of dollars, and no demand has yet been made for 
 them." 
 
 "And never will be," said Cathcart positively.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE STORY PIECED OUT. 
 
 MR. EUSTACE was evidently much astonished 
 and impressed by the positive tone of the 
 old detective. 
 
 "Why? What do you know?" 
 
 The old man ignored the question, but asked 
 another: 
 
 "Did you never hear anything more on the 
 subject?" 
 
 "Yes. A year later, in a letter to me at Paris, 
 Dorison said that he did not know but events were 
 shaping themselves so that he himself would be 
 compelled to demand a return of these securities, 
 but I never heard more from him on the subject." 
 
 "I am inclined to believe," said Cathcart, after 
 some moments of thought, "that that unfinished 
 letter was intended to be addressed to you?" 
 
 "To me? Can you mean it?" 
 
 "Yes, I do, and the more I think of it the more 
 confirmed I am. See ! He gave those bonds in 
 trust for a person whom he protected by not hand- 
 ing them to her, but to you. The necessity for her 
 possession of them did not arise during his life. If 
 he were to approach death, then he meant to give the 
 order to her, but he was carried off without a
 
 196 THE MAN WITH A THUMB, 
 
 moment's warning. But that is not my direction. 
 He knew they were in your hands, recoverable by 
 him at any time. He intimated in one letter to you 
 that he might be compelled to demand possession 
 of them himself. What is that letter you have read 
 but an explanation of the reasons why he wanted 
 them? Had he been permitted to finish that letter, 
 he would have wound up with a demand for their 
 return, and for further assistance from you." 
 
 "And he should have had it," said Mr. Eustace 
 fervently. "I owe everything to him.". 
 
 "I see it clearly now. He had hypothecated all 
 of his securties. They were in danger of lapsing. 
 He wanted the proceeds of these bonds and your 
 assistance to redeem them. His real estate was 
 mortgaged to its full value; his other means were 
 exhausted, and so, without the aid of those bonds and 
 your assistance, he could not redeem the pledged 
 securities. By his sudden death they did lapse into 
 the hands of those who had advanced him money." 
 
 "But what did he do with all the money he 
 raised?" asked Mr. Eustace, bewildered and 
 astonished. 
 
 "He tells you in that unfinished letter. You ask 
 me how I know no demand will ever be made upon 
 you. I will tell you, and in doing so will piece out 
 the tale you told me. First, there is no one to 
 make the demand. They are dead. The woman 
 Mr. Dorison married only to find she could not be 
 his wife, was Mrs. Emma Parish, living at No. 
 East Sixteenth Street; the two children of which
 
 THE STORY PIECED OUT. 197 
 
 Mr. Dorison was the father were a boy and a girl. 
 The girl's name was Anne ; the boy's name I believe 
 to have been Harold, of that I am not quite 
 certain." 
 
 "How long have you known this?" asked Mr. 
 Eustace, in open astonishment. 
 
 "Since you told me your tale." 
 
 "I cannot comprehend." 
 
 "Possibly not. I have been studying, searching, 
 delving, dreaming and working on this case for two 
 months, and I have only just comprehended it." 
 
 "Then these bonds which Dorison intended for 
 this woman, should, if her identity be established, 
 go to her?" 
 
 "That is impossible." 
 
 "Why, indeed?" 
 
 "She is dead; so is her daughter." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 "Have you forgotten the Farish murder?" 
 
 "Great heavens! Are those the people were 
 they the victims of that horrible butchery?" 
 
 "The same. Now see how marvelously the 
 affairs of this life are adjusted. I am employed by 
 the younger Dorison to endeavor to explain the 
 riddle of that letter, which has covered him with 
 disgrace. These murders are committed, and I am 
 solicited by the police authorities to hunt the 
 murderer or murderers down. I have two cases 
 on my hands as widely separated, you would say, as 
 they well could be. I take my first step. In the 
 room where the daughter is killed a portrait of Mr.
 
 I9 8 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 Dorison and his seal ring are found, and in one of 
 the hands of the murdered girl a scrap of paper torn 
 from a letter; another on the floor. They are 
 both in the handwriting of the elder Dorison. My 
 first determination is what? Why, I have not two 
 cases on hand but one to reveal the mystery of one 
 is to reveal the mystery of the other. How shall you 
 account for these things? A man in a Western 
 city sets me at work in New York in a case concern- 
 ing him alone, and coming here with some reputa- 
 tion, the police employ me on the murder, and lo ! 
 they are in effect the same case." 
 
 "The ways of Providence are past finding out," 
 said Mr. Eustace solemnly, aghast at the informa- 
 tion forced upon him. "But where is the son?" 
 he asked, suddenly and eagerly. 
 
 "I don't know," replied Cathcart. "He disap- 
 peared from his home when about eighteen, and, I 
 should say, mysteriously." 
 
 "Oh!" said Mr. Eustace, cast into profound 
 thought by the answer. 
 
 "I am quite certain," said Cathcart, "that those 
 
 murders had their origin in an endeavor 
 
 Phew" 
 
 The old man leaped to his feet with a long, low 
 whistle, and thrusting his hands into his vest-pockets, 
 began treading the floor rapidly, saying to himself, 
 "Let me think! Let me think! Ho, ho! let me 
 think! Ho, ho! let me think !" 
 
 Mr. Eustace, startled by the abruptness of 
 Cathcart, began to ask him questions, but the old
 
 THE STORY PIECED OUT. 1 99 
 
 detective \vaved him to silence with an imperious 
 gesture. Thus he continued to tramp for fully ten 
 minutes. Then he resumed his seat. 
 
 "Now listen," he said, bending forward earnestly. 
 "Inquiry has determined that the murders were not 
 committed for the sake of robbery, that is, for the 
 sake of obtaining jewels and money, but in order 
 to obtain possession of certain documents. It is 
 clear, apparently, that among those desired docu- 
 ments were letters from Dorison, since we have 
 fragments torn from them in a struggle which pre- 
 ceded the murder of the daughter. But this mur- 
 der of the daughter, from whom those letters were 
 wrested, did not yield what was wanted, and so the 
 mother was killed and something torn from her 
 breast, where she had concealed it. What was 
 desired? The order for the bonds of one hundred 
 and fifty thousand dollars in your hands, the exist- 
 ence of which the murderer had knowledge of, and 
 of the way to obtain them? And as Dorison talks 
 of defalcations and forgeries committed by a son, 
 were evidences of those forgeries, existence of which 
 were a menace to the wrong-doer, in possession of 
 the woman? Were these the things wanted?" 
 
 " And was the son who so mysteriously disap- 
 peared, and who was charged with these crimes, 
 the murdere/ ? " shouted Mr. Eustace, excited and 
 losing his habitual control. 
 
 " Eh, eh, eh, eh ! " cried Cathcart with eager 
 exclamations, as if he were urging on the chase 
 after an idea.
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUM&. 
 
 " It must be so ! " cried Mr. Eustace. " It must 
 be so ! " 
 
 " Softly, softly ! " said the old detective, putting 
 a curb upon himself. " There are other things. 
 There was a glove By Heaven ! " he almost 
 shouted, as he again leaped to his feet with his 
 hands in his vest-pockets, repeating his tramping 
 up and down. "Oh, my heavens ! this will never do. 
 Could he have known of these bonds and wanted to 
 get the people out of the way so he could seize 
 them " 
 
 He turned short upon Mr. Eustace, who was 
 staring at him, unable to follow his words under- 
 standingly. 
 
 " Have you ever told any one you had these 
 bonds? " 
 
 " Never a soul." 
 
 " Are you certain ? This question means a great 
 deal." 
 
 " No one knows that I hold the bonds given me 
 by Reuben Dorison, except you." 
 
 " You have never written about them or made a 
 memorandum likely to come to the eyes of another 
 person ? " 
 
 " No. I wrote a statement of how they came 
 into my hands, with instructions that they must be 
 held by my executors subject to the order spoken 
 of by Dorison, but that statement was by me placed 
 with my will as soon as completed and under seal 
 immediately. The eal has never been broken." 
 
 " I hope not. I hope not," said Cathcart.
 
 TffE STORY PIECED OUT. 261 
 
 " What is this that excites you now ? " 
 
 " Nothing that I can tell you until I know more. 
 If I were to speak now I might heedlessly do a 
 great wrong. Good-afternoon. You will hear 
 from me again." 
 
 " Stop one moment, Mr. Cathcart," cried Mr. 
 Eustace. " There is a point I have been trying to 
 speak of for sonle time." 
 
 " Ah ! What is that ? " said Cathcart, coming 
 back to the fireplace. 
 
 " Some time ago my daughter was nearly run over 
 on Broadway and was saved by a young gentleman, 
 who acted exceedingly well in the matter. I called 
 upon him to make my acknowledgments of his ser- 
 vice, and was startled by his extraordinary resem- 
 blance to Dorison when he was of the age the 
 young man is now." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Cathcart aloud, but to himself he 
 added, " our young friend enters." 
 
 " He denied relationship to Dorison when I spoke 
 of it. I have met him several times since, and 
 indeed have entertained him at dinner, for he and 
 my son have become quite intimate. At this dinner 
 I referred to this resemblance again, and I saw that 
 he was making efforts to evade the conversation, in 
 fact, everything leading to a discussion of his ante- 
 cedents. Suddenly the idea occurred to me that 
 this young man might be one of Dorison's illegiti- 
 mate children. He gives his name as Dudley." 
 
 "Ah!" said Cathcart gravely. "I will look 
 into this."
 
 202 THE MAN WITH A T1IUUD. 
 
 " You will have no difficulty in finding him. He 
 moves about a good deal. His apartments are in 
 Twenty-ninth Street." 
 
 "What number!" asked Cathcart, with an in- 
 terested expression in his face. 
 
 "I have forgotten, but will send it you, after 
 obtaining it from my son." 
 
 "That is unnecessary. What streets is it be- 
 tween?" 
 
 "Broadway and Fifth Avenue." 
 
 "That is all that is necessary." 
 
 "So satisfied was I that this young man was play^ 
 ing a part, that I strenuously objected to his being 
 received here as a friend of the house longer, and 
 tried to prevent his acting as an escort to one of my 
 daughters to a theater party my son gave. But as 
 that would have necessitated the withdrawal of 
 invitations, I yielded in this instance, upon the 
 understanding that he was not to be encouraged 
 further." 
 
 "That was proper very proper. Did you give 
 your reasons?" 
 
 "No; I could not, without telling more than I 
 would." 
 
 "I see. You have had trouble with a man Lang- 
 don, have you not?" 
 
 "Well, we have been annoyed by a man of that 
 name." 
 
 "Very true! Seriously annoyed. Annoyed by 
 his forced attentions to one of your daughters." 
 
 "Upon my word, Mr. Cathcart, I hardly know
 
 THE STORY PIECED OUT. '203 
 
 which to admire .^ost the directness of your 
 speech or the scope of your information." 
 
 "Don't be annoyed, sir. I mean only to do you 
 a service. The fellow is a scamp. He is married. 
 He has a wife. Any time you want me to convince 
 your daughter of that I will do it, so there will be 
 no question concerning it." 
 
 Leaving Mr. Eustace dumfounded by his knowl- 
 edge of what was supposed to be a family secret, 
 and yet appreciative of the value of the service 
 proffered, Cathcart caught his hat and moved 
 quickly to the door. 
 
 He was back again in a moment. 
 
 "I take it, Mr. Eustace, you see the necessity of 
 keeping these developments of to-day strictly a 
 secret, not to be talked about. Devotion to the 
 memory of your dead friend would demand this, even 
 if justice did not." 
 
 "I think I understand my position," said Mr. 
 Eustace, loftily. 
 
 This time the old detective slipped out of the 
 door and was gone, leaving Mr. Eustace agitated 
 and excited, feeling very much as if he had been 
 caught up in a whirlwind, and after many confus- 
 ing gyrations, set down where he had been taken up.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 
 
 LEAVING the Eustace mansion, the old detec- 
 tive walked hastily to Broadway, where he hailed 
 a cab and ordered that he be driven rapidly to 
 Twenty-ninth Street, to Dorison's apartments. 
 Here he handed a note to the janitor, requesting 
 that it be delivered at once to Mr. Dudley. 
 
 From thence he was driven to his own apartments 
 in Bond Street, where he dismissed the cab. 
 
 A moment later a man with a black beard and 
 bushy black hair left the house. Had he been fol- 
 lowed, it would have been found that he made his 
 way straight to Police Headquarters and into the 
 office of Captain Lawton. 
 
 Ten minutes after the officer, who was now con- 
 stantly in attendance upon Cathcart, left the house 
 and hurried to Broadway. 
 
 In the meam time Dudley had received Cathcart's 
 note and read it. It ran : 
 
 "It is as plain as a pikestaff. There was another 
 son. I have it all in my hands. Come and see me 
 this evening." 
 
 "Is the old man drunk or has he gone crazy?" 
 exclaimed Dorison, bewildered, as he read the 
 204
 
 EUSTACE IX THE TOILS. 205 
 
 words: "What is as plain as a pikestaff? If there 
 was another son who was his father? What is the 
 old imbecile talking about?" 
 
 After a vain endeavor to arrive at a meaning of 
 the strange epistle, and gathering as the only intel- 
 ligence that the old detective desired to see him in 
 the evening, he resumed his reading the delivery of 
 the note had interrupted. 
 
 From this occupation, three hours later, he was 
 aroused by the entrance of young Eustace, who, 
 throwing his hat lightly upon a table and drawing 
 off his gloves, walked up to where Dorison was 
 seated. 
 
 "Look at me," he said. "Gaze upon me with 
 thine eagle eye." 
 
 Dorison perceived that- Eustace was not a little 
 excited and irritated. He looked at him inquiringly 
 without rising. 
 
 "Please get up," continued Eustace, "and 
 examine my bump of combativeness and destruc- 
 tiveness and see whether they are abnormally 
 developed. Look at the top of my head and see 
 whether there is a general depression where the 
 moral faculties should lift it dome like. Peer into 
 my eyes and observe whether they emit baleful 
 gleams. Consider my jaw and determine whether 
 it is square, angular, and cruel. Are my lips thin ? 
 Do I smile a spasmodic smile, mirthless and mechan- 
 ical? And when I do smile does my mustache go 
 up and my nose come down? Answer me, most 
 potent and grave, would you from an hyndred
 
 206 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 men, good and true, pick me out for a butcherous 
 murderer?" 
 
 Dorison's heart gave a great leap into his throat, 
 and falling back pounded at his ribs. It was only 
 by a supreme effort he could control himself and 
 reply as he desired. 
 
 "What do you mean by -such rodomontade?" 
 he asked, assuming a vexed pleasantry. 
 
 "Mean?" replied Eustace severely. "I mean 
 the distinguished honor has been done your friend, 
 by the intelligent police of our city, of entertaining 
 the idea of the possibility of his having committed 
 the Farish murders." 
 
 "For Heaven's sake!" cried Dorison, seriously 
 alarmed and much agitated. "What can you 
 mean? Tell me." 
 
 "I hardly know whether to be mad as blazes or 
 to laugh consumedly, ' ' replied Eustace, drawing a 
 chair in front of Dorison and seating himself. 
 "Here is the woful tale. This afternoon about 
 three o'clock I was sailing down Fifth Avenue, in 
 all the pride of my pomp and power, felicitating 
 myself upon the havoc I was making in all the 
 female hearts I met, when a man, with a high, 
 long thin nose, between two ferret-like eyes, stepped 
 up to me, with smooth, catlike movements, and 
 said: 
 
 ' 'Mr. Charles Eustace, I believe.' 
 
 "Assuring him, with that distinguished grace 
 which is so peculiarly my own, that the expression 
 of his belief did not do injustice to the fact, with
 
 EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 207 
 
 less elegance than precision of speech, he informed 
 me 'I was wanted.' ' 
 
 "Not at that time having had the inestimable 
 privilege of association with those gentlemen who, 
 for a yearly consideration, undertake to guard our 
 persons and possessions and to protect our morals I 
 enjoyed later, I was unacquainted with the peculiar 
 meaning they attach to simple words of our language, 
 and so I said, 'What?' my tone being a happy blend- 
 ing of surprise and perplexity." 
 ; 'You're wanted,' he repeated. 
 
 "'My friend,' I remarked sweetly, 'there is a 
 charming insufficiency in your information. By 
 whom am I wanted and what for?' 
 
 1 'They want you at Police Headquarters,' 
 replied the mysterious one. 
 
 " 'Who wants me at Police Headquarters," 
 asked I. 
 
 " 'Captain Lawton, the head detective,' he replied 
 with a grin. 
 
 " 'For Heaven's sake,' I cried, as light broke 
 upon me, ' what have I been doing ? ' 
 
 " 'Blest if I know, if you don't,' replied he of 
 the grin. * They want you at once. They sent 
 me to take you.' 
 
 " 'I'm taken then, am I ?' I asked. 
 
 " 'You be,' he replied briefly, but positively and 
 ungramatically. 
 
 "'Are you bound to carry me?' I inquired 
 innocently.
 
 208 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " ' Not if you will ride in the street-car,' replied 
 he of the grin. 
 
 " ' Then lead on, I'll follow.' " 
 
 " For heaven's sake ! " broke in Dorison, " Get 
 on to something important. You torture me." 
 
 "Do not interfere with my recital," replied Eus- 
 tace. " I am giving this wondrous tale in my best 
 realistic vein. Well, to pursue. We entered the 
 street-car, and as we were borne rapidly over the 
 bounding pavement note the neatness of that I 
 devoted myself to a review of the evil deeds of my 
 life. It is astonishing how pure and harmless that 
 life appeared when put to the test of a calm review 
 in a street-car on the way to Police Headquarters. 
 I pledge you my word the only crime I could hon- 
 estly charge up against myself, was the surrepti- 
 tious and felonious purloining of a vagrant peanut 
 from the stall of a child of sunny Italy, who took 
 his pay in hurling maledictions after me in choice 
 Tuscan." 
 
 " Oh, do not delay so ! " cried Dorison, burning 
 with impatience and most eager for the outcome. 
 
 " Well, then, if you are not satisfied to listen to 
 a minute analysis of my emotions, I will say that 
 in due course of time we arrived at the Palace of 
 Public Protection in Mulberry Street, where, with 
 great eclat and pomp, I was ushered into a luxuri- 
 ously-furnished apartment by my taking guide, who 
 immediately disappeared. In a moment I found I 
 was in the presence of two persons. One a rather 
 fine-looking man, who sat in a chair at a desk,
 
 EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 209 
 
 regarding me austerely ; the other a middle-aged, 
 stout gentleman of medium height, with black 
 beard and bushy black hair, whom I recollect to 
 have seen dining in the Hoffman House cafe the 
 night I had the honor of first making your acquain- 
 tance." 
 
 " Cathcart in disguise," muttered Dorison, under 
 his breath. 
 
 " On that night he attracted my attention by 
 reason of his keeping his black, beady eyes upon 
 me during the whole dinner, the reason whereof 
 was made plain to me in the subsequent proceed- 
 ings. 
 
 " ' Good afternoon, Mr. Eustace,' said the gen- 
 tleman at the desk. 
 
 " ' Good afternoon,' I returned courteously, 
 adding, ' I am here because of a pressing invita- 
 tion to call on Captain Lawton I presume you are 
 Captain Lawton. I am at loss for its reason, for I 
 can confess to but one crime, after a careful review 
 of my life, and that is the felonious theft of a pea- 
 nut yesterday morning. I would make restitution, 
 but the sad fact is, and I freely confess it, I have 
 eaten it.' 
 
 " The Captain, with just the soupfon of a merry 
 twinkle in his eye, replied : 
 
 " ' Perhaps when the business upon which you are 
 brought here is made known, you will not show 
 such levity.' 
 
 " Receiving this rebuke as best I could, I pulled 
 myself into a corresponding serious expression and
 
 210 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 calmly awaited developments, taking a chair unin- 
 vited in the mean time, and assuming one of my 
 favorite poses of grace and elegance. 
 
 " Reaching forward over his desk, the Captain 
 removed a newspaper and took in his hand a plate 
 with glass over it. Under the glass seemed to be a 
 cheap fan, and on the fan something I could not in 
 the light then make out. He handed it to me, 
 saying : 
 
 " ' Do you recognize that ? ' 
 
 " Imagine my surprise when I found carefully 
 preserved under that glass one of my own gloves. 
 I was so astonished I could not reply for a moment, 
 and the while as I looked at it, both these kindly 
 gentlemen bored holes into my face with their 
 sharp eyes. 
 
 " ' That, I take,' said I, when I could recover 
 from my astonishment, * to be one of my own gloves. 
 I am aware that it is not a common glove that 
 there is a peculiar elegance about it, rarely achieved 
 but why the eminent Captain Lawton should pre- 
 serve it so carefully under a glass, and a bell glass 
 at that, I am at a loss to determine.' 
 
 " ' You are very frank,' sternly said the Captain. 
 4 Do you know where that was found ? ' 
 
 " ' I do not,' I replied as calmly as I could, but in 
 reality trembling in the most minute fiber of my 
 body, while visions of wrathful and murderously- 
 inclined husbands and lovers swarmed upon me, 
 and the suspicion that Mr. Blackbeard was one of 
 them, presented horrible consequences.
 
 EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 21 1 
 
 " ' Near to,' said the Captain impressively, ' and 
 under the murdered body of Mrs. Parish.' 
 
 " ' Oh dear,' I ejaculated weakly, for I was unable 
 to recall the lady. ' How did you get it there ? 
 Who did you say ? ' 
 
 " ' Mrs. Parish.' 
 
 " ' Madame Delamour,' grunted Mr. Blackbeard. 
 
 " ' Oh, the costumer,' I cried, my wits in opera- 
 tion under the suggestion. 
 
 " ' Ah, you do know her then,' said the Captain. 
 ' Now, how did that happen to be there ? ' 
 
 " ' Upon my word, I don't know,' I replied, inno- 
 cently but truthfully, ' unless I dropped it on the 
 floor the night I called upon her.' 
 
 " ' You did call upon her, did you ? ' said the 
 Captain eagerly. ' Now, be very careful in what 
 you say.' 
 
 " A little astonished, I said in return : 
 
 " ' Perhaps you will kindly tell me what you two 
 amiable gentlemen are driving at ? ' 
 
 " ' Mrs. Parish was murdered,' answered the 
 Captain, with owlish solemnity. ' Her body was 
 found ten or twelve hours after the deed was done. 
 Upon the floor near the body was found this glove. 
 Since inquiry has determined that Mrs. Parish 
 received only one male visitor, it became necessary 
 to find out to whom this glove belonged. It was 
 found to be yours. With this explanation, perhaps 
 you can see that it became necessary for us to send 
 for you, to explain its presence at that place at 
 that time ? '
 
 212 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " To say I was taken aback is perhaps unneces- 
 sary. For a moment I was stunned. I failed 
 utterly to perceive the humor of the situation. 
 
 " ' And you suppose I committed that murder,' I 
 blurted out. 
 
 " ' We charge nothing. We give you an oppor- 
 tunity to explain the presence of that glove at that 
 pla'ce at that particular time.' 
 
 " The wild absurdity of the idea finally broke 
 upon me, and I ' larfed a larf ' of blended mirth, 
 contempt, and annoyance. 
 
 " ' Gentlemen,' I said, ' you will be compelled to 
 call in your dogs and send them on another scent. 
 Tell me, when did this murder occur ? ' 
 
 " ' On the fifth day of last October,' replied the 
 Captain. 
 
 " I took from my pocket my memorandum-book, 
 and turning to the page of that date I said : 
 
 " ' Yes, I called upon Mrs. Parish at No. 
 
 East Sixteenth Street on the night of that day. 
 However, she was alive and well when I went there, 
 and she was alive and well when I left her.' 
 
 " The two gentlemen exchanged looks after this 
 crushing blow, and appeared to be somewhat mixed, 
 so to speak. I politely and magnanimously waited 
 for them to recover from the effects of the 
 blow. 
 
 '"What was your business there?' asked Mr. 
 Blackbeard. 
 
 " ' Charity,' I promptly replied ' charity on both 
 ends. I went to see her about costumes.'
 
 EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 213 
 
 " ' But that was not her place of business,' per- 
 sisted Mr. Blackbeard. 
 
 " ' True,' I replied, ' but if you will bear with me 
 I will tell in detail how I came to go there. Last 
 October Mrs. Bushnell, a lady of charitable incli- 
 nations, was interested in an uptown hospital, for the 
 aid of which an entertainment, of which tableaux 
 were to be a feature, was proposed. As I had had 
 some experience in those things, I was asked to 
 take charge. In the management of this affair I 
 called upon Mr. Newton, a real estate broker, to 
 ask that his daughter might participate. During 
 our conversation he asked if I had engaged cos- 
 tumes, and learning I had not,. said he was greatly 
 interested in a person who had just rented apart- 
 ments in a house in Bleecker Street^ of which he 
 had charge, in which to conduct a costumer's busi- 
 ness. He imagined, he said, she was in want of 
 assistance in starting. And, if I could do as well 
 with her, he would like me to see her and give her 
 the business. But, he added, that he did not 
 believe she was fairly open for business yet, and 
 that, though Madame Delamour was her business 
 
 name, I could find jier as Mrs. Parish at No. 
 
 East Sixteenth Street. Willing to oblige him, I 
 went that evening to see her. I did not do any 
 business with her, however, for finding out what I 
 wanted and how soon, she thought her business 
 was not far enough advanced to undertake so large 
 an order to be filled in so short a time. So 1 left 
 her, and, as it appears, my glove also.'
 
 214 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " 'Had you ever known her before ? ' asked Mr. 
 Blackbeard. 
 
 " 'No, sir,' I replied, as respectfully as two peas. 
 
 " 'Never had heard of her ? ' he persisted. 
 
 " 'Never knew such a person existed until Mr. 
 Newton talked of her,' I replied. 
 
 " 'Did you not read of her being murdered," 
 again asked Mr. Blackbeard. 
 ' 'Oh yes,' was my reply. 
 
 " 'Why didn't you speak of it then?' he de- 
 manded. 
 
 ' 'I did in my family,' I answered. 
 
 " 'To your father,' he suggested. 
 
 " 'Perhaps. I spoke of it at the table, but 
 whether my father was present or not I do not recol- 
 lect. My talk was with my mother and sisters?' 
 
 " 'Um,' grunted Mr. Blackbeard. 'Why didn't 
 you speak to the authorities about it?' 
 
 " 'Why should I?' asked I in return. 'Icouldn't 
 contribute anything to the general or special informa- 
 tion, and my name was not mentioned in connection 
 with the affair.' 
 
 " 'You had lost your glove there,' persisted Mr. 
 Blackbeard! 'Were you not afraid you would be 
 charged with the murder?' 
 
 " 'In the first place!' I returned, 'I did not know 
 I had lost a glove there. In the second place, not 
 being engaged in murder as a fine art, or as a trade, 
 it did not occur to me that any one would charge 
 me with it.' 
 
 "That delicate and entirely ingenious reference
 
 EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 215 
 
 to De Quincy was a settler for Mr. Blackbeard. 
 The Captain came at me then : 
 
 " 'You have studied surgery, haven't you?' 
 ' 'Well, I have pretended to' thus me, most 
 modestly. 
 
 " 'Mrs. Parish was killed by one who knew how to 
 reach the carotid artery with a lancet and with great 
 precision,' he suggested, and I thought maliciously. 
 
 " 'I never reached a carotid artery with a lancet 
 or precision, or with any other kind of an instru- 
 ment.' 
 
 "That brilliant witticism was lost upon them, for 
 neither even smiled. 
 
 ''It is as I expected,' said Mr. Blackbeard. 
 'Ever since suspicion was directed toward him, I 
 have not doubted he could explain the glove 
 business.' 
 
 "This was addressed to the Captain in so lugubri- 
 ous a tone that my sympathies were excited. So 
 I said: 
 
 ' 'Sir, I greatly grieve to have been the cause of 
 such disappointment. The next time I lose a glove, 
 where a woman may fall upon it, so as not to grieve 
 you, I will engage in the gentle pastime of assassina- 
 tion.' 
 
 "At this the Captain laughed outright, and we 
 all became quite merry. After which he said: 
 
 ' 'I think you have satisfactorily explained your 
 connection with the case. You ought not to wonder 
 at our wanting to see you, in view of finding your 
 glove there.'
 
 216 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 " 'What time did you call on Mrs. Farish?' 
 inquired Mr. Blackbeard, by this time having 
 recovered from my settler. 
 
 "'I should think at about half-past eight,' I 
 answered, holding no malice against him. 
 
 " 'Was her daughter with her?' 
 
 ' 'Her daughter,' I repeated. 'No, I saw her 
 alone. And now that I recollect, she said she 
 wished her daughter- would come in, not alone 
 because she wanted to consult her as to the possi- 
 bility of undertaking my work, but because she was 
 worried over her delay in returning from business.' 
 ' 'Urn,' grunted Mr. Blackbeard. 'It is as I 
 supposed. Her daughter was killed first.' Then 
 to me, 'You have no other incident to give us?' 
 
 " 'None!' I replied. 
 
 Whereupon the Captain, rising and giving me his 
 hand, said: 
 
 ' 'We will detain you no longer.' 
 
 "So, after exchanging our distinguished consid- 
 erations, as became dignitaries, I went out into the 
 free air-r a free ma-an. 
 
 "With the end of this o'er true tale," concluded 
 Eustace, "comes this reflective inquiry how the 
 deuce did they discover that glove to be mine?" 
 
 Dorison had listened to Eustace intently and with 
 varying emotions. It was with difficulty he could 
 prevent expressing exuberant satisfaction over the 
 outcome. He was inexpressibly glad that the test 
 Eustace had been subjected to had ended as it had 
 that is to say, in a triumphant clearance of Eustace.
 
 EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 217 
 
 He made no doubt of it, and as he thought then he 
 did not believe he had ever judged Eustace to be 
 anything but innocent. As it was, he said warmly, 
 he was glad it had ended so well, since he had been 
 greatly frightened. 
 
 "You take it too seriously, my friend," said 
 Eustace. 
 
 "No, I do not," replied Dorison. "But that you 
 were enabled to present names to substantiate your 
 story you might have been in an awkward predica- 
 ment, with annoying publicity." 
 
 "Bless my heart, but I never thought of that," 
 said Eustace. "I think you are right. And I also 
 think it is time to -dine. Come with me, and after 
 dinner we'll go to the theater." 
 
 "I'll dine with you, but I have a business engage- 
 ment for this evening," he replied, as he prepared 
 to go out with his friend.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A MYSTERY REVEALED. 
 
 T EAVING young Eustace after dinner, Dorison 
 LJ went at once to the rooms of the old detective. 
 A single glance informed him that the old man 
 was in a happy humor. 
 
 "I received a note from you in the early after- 
 noon," said Dorison, "but all of it I could under- 
 stand was that you desired to see me this evening. 
 And here I am." 
 
 "You are not quick of comprehension. I meant 
 your case is as plain as a pikestaff. You had, or 
 have, a brother the latter I think." 
 
 Dorison stared in astonishment at the detective, 
 his anger rising at the same time. However much 
 he had in his own heart condemned his father for 
 the charge which, for eight years, had embittered 
 his life, he was not willing others should cast reflec- 
 tions upon him. 
 
 But Cathcart was not a man to regard the emo- 
 tions of others, and though, doubtless, he quickly 
 enough perceived the anger of the young man, 
 without preface, apology, or effort to soften the 
 news he had given him, he went directly at the 
 statement. 
 
 Very soon Dorison 's anger was lost in the astonish- 
 218
 
 ' A MYS TER Y RE VEA LED. 2 1 9 
 
 ment the story gave rise to, and when he learned 
 that all this had been obtained from Mr. Eustace, 
 he could not deny that it was conclusive. 
 
 "Now," continued Cathcart, "As I say, it is as 
 plain as a pikestaff. I have reasoned the whole 
 thing out to a certain conclusion, my reasoning being 
 based upon information obtained from Mr. Eustace, 
 papers of your father I have had access to, confirm- 
 ing them by public records and the examination of 
 books of private institutions, and that unfinished 
 letter. I shall not waste time by going over the 
 processes, but will give you my conclusions in the 
 shape of a statement : 
 
 ' When your father was twenty-one or three he 
 met Emma Ludlow, a very pretty girl, daughter of 
 a costumer of Chatham Street. Ludlow was an 
 Englishman who had in his own country been con- 
 nected with a family of prominence. There drifted 
 to this country one of the younger members of that 
 family, named Parish, who also saw the girl Emma, 
 and desired to marry her. The father felt honored 
 that one of the family he had been a servant in, 
 desired to marry his daughter, and having the 
 notions of parental authority Englishmen entertain, 
 and overlooking the faults of the man Parish, which 
 were so great he was compelled to leave England, 
 opposed your father and forced the marriage with 
 Parish. Subsequently, your father yielded to the 
 wishes of his family and married Mary Clavering, 
 your mother. That marriage was an exceedingly 
 happy one, notwithstanding the previous romance.
 
 220 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 Your father and mother had been married twelve 
 years when you were born the youngest of a family 
 of five, the elder of whom had all died. When you 
 were four, your mother died. A year later your 
 father met Mrs. Parish, then, as he understood, and 
 as she believed, a childless widow. His love 
 returned for her, and he secretly married her. 
 Why, does not yet appear, but his excuse was he was 
 retiring from business and did not want to announce 
 his second marriage until that project was fully 
 accomplished. After two years of this sort of life, 
 during which two children, a boy and girl, were 
 born, Anne and Harold Parish, the husband turned 
 up on the scene, to separate your father and the 
 woman. Mrs. Parish was a good woman, and 
 although Parish, who seems to have been a scamp, 
 was paid well to keep away and make no scandal, his 
 wife insisted upon an absolute severance of rela- 
 tions between your father and herself. In view, 
 however, of all that had happened, your father pro- 
 vided well for her and his children. In 1854 he 
 gave her the house she lived and was murdered in, 
 and fifty thousand dollars, which he invested for 
 her, I suppose. 
 
 "The low spirits your father showed at that time 
 were not due to his having retired from business, 
 but to this unfortunate complication. The children 
 grew, and the boy early went wrong. Between the 
 years he was sixteen and nineteen, he committed 
 defalcations and forgeries, the latter principally of 
 your father's name, which indicates that he knew
 
 A MYSTERY REVEALE&. 221 
 
 of his relation to your father, and which were paid 
 by his father and yours, and as well, much more 
 money to save him from punishment foolishly to 
 be sure, but compelled to it to save the good name 
 of the woman, the mother, if for no other reason. 
 This used up the property. When he died he was 
 appealing to Mr. Eustace for assistance. When 
 he died the scamp Harold disappeared. Three 
 years ago he reappeared again and ruined his mother 
 by his insatiable demands and " 
 
 "And," interrupted Dorison excitedly, "he is 
 Harry Langdon and murdered his mother and 
 sister." 
 
 "Such would seem to be the logical conclusions," 
 said the detective calmly. 
 
 A thousand questions crowded tumultuously upon 
 the brain of Dorison. He did not know which to 
 ask first he wanted to ask them all at-once. Finally, 
 he said : 
 
 "But do you know all this to be true?" 
 
 "No, not in its entirety," replied Cathcart. "Some 
 of it I do know to be true, the rest I sincerely 
 believe. It is now, however, a mere work of time 
 to verify everything. The mystery is solved. The 
 ungrateful son is Harold Parish, alias Harry Lang- 
 don." 
 
 "But what was the cause of the murder that was 
 a horrible thing to do," asked Dorison. 
 
 "There I have proof I think of the accuracy of 
 my theory in the beginning. I said the object of 
 the murders was not robbery, but the possession of
 
 222 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 documents of value to somebody. I assume they 
 were proofs of crimes committed, forgeries and the 
 like, which so long as they were held by the mother 
 and sister, were a protection to a certain extent to 
 them, and a menace to him. And perhaps and we 
 will not quite know until we force the rascal to con- 
 fession some one pursuing him was on track of 
 them and he was determined to secure and destroy 
 them, and perhaps, which I think even more prob- 
 able, one other reason, to obtain an order for a 
 large sum, possession of which would secure posses- 
 sion of the sum, which he thought they held. Of 
 this, however, I will not speak at present for reasons 
 of my own." 
 
 "Do you then think the murders were deliber- 
 ately planned?" 
 
 " No. The first, that of the daughter, was unpre- 
 meditated, but was done in a moment of exaspera- 
 tion. The second of the mother was a conse- 
 quence of the first, as a matter of self-preservation." 
 
 Horrified and much excited, Dorison was silent. 
 His head was in a whirl, and every moment fresh 
 thoughts, each one coming to him as a shock, occur- 
 red. The murderer was his half-brother ; the beast, 
 Harry Langdon, was his half-brother. The same 
 blood coursed in their veins. The passions and 
 emotions which possessed him he could not stop to 
 analyze, they succeeded each other so rapidly in- 
 deed, became so entangled and exhausted him so with 
 their violence, that he became confused and sick, 
 incapable of thinking clearly; but over all, as a
 
 A MYSTERY REVEALED. 223 
 
 lambent light, was the thought that his own name 
 was clear and he could walk erect among other men 
 in his own person. 
 
 Cathcart was the first to break the silence. 
 
 "Your friend, young Eustace, is out of it," he 
 said. 
 
 Dorison roused up with something like a start. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "he told me. He came straight 
 from you to me." 
 
 "Did he know who he had talked with," asked 
 Cathcart anxiously. 
 
 "No," replied Dorison, "but I recognized his 
 description of the black-bearded man." 
 
 "I do not want him to know that the man to whom 
 his father told that story, and the one who helped 
 to examine him, were the same. I do not- want him 
 to know that you ever suspected or watched him." 
 
 "He will never know from me. I am far more 
 anxious than you. I cannot look upon that part 
 of the search with anything but self-contempt." 
 
 "But I never believed he was in it," said Cathcart. 
 
 "Why then," asked Dorison hotly, "did you force 
 me to an intimacy with that idea in view?" 
 
 "Because the glove business must be explained, 
 but principally because, early in my search into your 
 part of the affair, I had come upon the intimate 
 relation of the elder Eustace to the elder Dorison, 
 through Cousin Nettleman, and I foresaw then an 
 intimacy with the family would be a necessary 
 thing, and that I might have to use you to elicit the 
 information I wanted. At the time I could not
 
 224 THE MAX WITH A THUMB. 
 
 give you the details, but I had to give you a reason 
 for seeking the intimacy, since you are one of those 
 uncomfortable persons to work with who must have 
 a reason for everything. But your blundering, and 
 the coolness which you permitted to grow up 
 between the elder Eustace and yourself, necessitated 
 my doing the work I intended for you. As it is, 
 I am glad it turned out as it did. You could never 
 have gotten the story." 
 
 Agitated and excited as he was, Dorison appre- 
 ciated the truth of the old man's words. 
 
 "You do not know the reason of the old man's 
 coolness to you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "What?" asked Dorison eagerly. 
 
 "He suspected you to be the son of Dorison by 
 Mrs. Parish. " 
 
 "Oh!" The possibility of such a thing had not 
 occurred to Dorison. 
 
 "But that is no reason why he should treat me 
 coldly, since, as you have told me, he was not then, 
 at least, aware of the bad character of that son." 
 
 "There was a stain on the birth of that son of the 
 elder Dorison." 
 
 "Even then it should have appeared more as a 
 misfortune than a crime of the parents." 
 
 "True, so far as he might have looked upon 
 such a son in the abstract, but as a person whom 
 he had received as an equal into his house, was 
 entertaining as a guest at his own board, and bring-
 
 A MYSTERY REVEALED. 225 
 
 ing him into associations with his daughters, there 
 was a great difference to a man of his views of life 
 and of his station. He would naturally draw a line 
 on a man of such birth at his own door, commisera- 
 ting the man for the necessity at the same time." 
 
 "True. You are right," replied Dorison thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "I think you ought to appear before the elder 
 Eustace now in your own person." 
 
 Dorison was startled at the idea, and shrank 
 from it. 
 
 "Are you so certain of your case then?" he asked. 
 
 "I am absolutely certain. It is now a mere mat- 
 ter of time to prove it in all its details." 
 
 "But will he receive me courteously after having 
 appeared to him under a different name?" 
 
 "I have very much misjudged the man, if he is 
 not much interested in the legitimate son of Reuben 
 Dorison, sympathizing greatly with his misfortunes, 
 and anxious by reason of the service rendered him 
 by his father, to actively assist the son of that father. " 
 
 "Ah!" Yet Dorison was doubtful. He thought 
 Mr. Eustace would be prejudiced against him by 
 reason of his masquerade. 
 
 "I think," continued Cathcart, "that Mr. Eustace, 
 with his high social position and his honorable repu- 
 tation, will be a very great aid to you in the rehabil- 
 itation of your name. His friendship and patronage 
 will do more for you than a thousand explanations. 
 Indeed, without the assistance of some such person, 
 explanations will be of little avail. I will write a
 
 226 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 letter to him that will make all things straight, which 
 you shall carry to him." 
 
 Acting upon the thought immediately, Cathcart 
 turned to his table and began writing. 
 
 Dorison sat by, lost in wonder over the patient 
 subtlety the old man had displayed in reaching the 
 secret of that unfinished letter. 
 
 When Cathcart had finished the letter he inclosed 
 it in an envelope which he sealed. As he handed 
 it to Dorison he said : 
 
 "Take that to Mr. Eustace to-morrow. It is too 
 late to-night. I have sealed it, because I have 
 asked Mr. Eustace not to mention to you a certain 
 matter which I think well to be concealed from you 
 for a time. ' ' 
 
 Dorison was now too well accustomed to the pecu- 
 liar frankness of the old man to either wonder at or 
 combat it. As he received the letter he said: 
 
 "Do you intend to cause the arrest of this Lang- 
 don right away?" 
 
 "No. Not until I have verified some matters 
 and have obtained some further information con- 
 cerning him, that I may use to wrest a confession 
 from him." 
 
 "He may escape you." 
 
 "No, he suspects nothing, and besides he is 
 shadowed every step he takes by more than one 
 too." 
 
 The hour being late, Dorison departed.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 
 
 WHEN Dorison left the house in which were 
 Cathcart's rooms, he was still in a whirl and 
 confusion of thought. The dream he had enter- 
 tained for eight years seemed on the point of reali- 
 zation. If the old detective were to be believed, 
 it was even then practically realized. And the 
 revelation had come, so far as he was concerned, 
 at a moment when he was sunk into the deepest pit 
 of despair when the -case looked darker and more 
 hopeless than ever. 
 
 So marvelously had it all worked out, thought 
 Dorison as he walked along so strangely had he 
 been led by impulse to return to the city; and so 
 curiously had he been brought into relation with 
 Mr. Nettleman and then into connection with the 
 murder of Anne Parish, thus bringing him again 
 into relations with Cathcart, that he could not but 
 feel that he was in the hands of a Power whose 
 movements he could not even attempt to comprehend. 
 
 As in a dream he walked along. The house occu- 
 pied by the old detective was further from Broad- 
 way than from the Bowery. So it came that he had 
 some distance to walk before he reached the former 
 street. 
 
 227
 
 228 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 He was aroused by the noise of a stumble behind 
 him, and turning quickly received simultaneously a 
 severe blow upon his left forearm, a blow evidently 
 intended for his head, and so powerful as too send 
 him to the pavement. At the same time he heard 
 a cry. 
 
 "Ah, you rascals!" 
 
 This cry frightened his assailants, who dashed 
 across the street and were lost in the darkness. 
 
 By the time the one who cried out had come run- 
 ning up, Dorison, faint with pain, had struggled to 
 his feet. 
 
 "The woman was right. I should have heeded 
 her warning," he muttered, confusedly, to the man 
 who had come to his assistance, and who was none 
 other than the officer Cathcart had instructed to 
 follow Dorison as a protection. 
 
 "You must return at once to the chief," said 
 the officer. "Are you much hurt?" 
 
 "My arm pains me a good deal," replied Dori- 
 son, "but it is better than if it were my head." 
 
 The officer hurried him to Cathcart's apartments. 
 
 The old detective comprehended the situation 
 before he could be informed by the officer. 
 
 "Where were you hit?" he asked. 
 
 "On the left arm," replied Dorison. 
 
 Quickly and gently the old man bared the injured 
 member. 
 
 "lam not a surgeon," he said, as he manipulated 
 the arm, "but I can generally tell whether bones are 
 broken or not."
 
 AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 229 
 
 He looked serious as he plied it. To the officer 
 he said, "Get a coach as quickly as you can." 
 
 Leading Dorison to a lounge he laid him upon it, 
 saying, "Rest there a moment; I cannot tell 
 whether your arm is broken or not. We will go 
 immediately to a surgeon. By Heavens!" he cried 
 to himself, "that is an idea, and he is not far off." 
 
 He sprang to his bureau and opening the lower 
 drawer took out a light gray wig and beard. With 
 a rapidity that astonished Dorison, watching him in 
 great pain as he was, the old detective put them 
 on, and with the use of cosmetic, rouge and powder, 
 presented in a moment an entirely different face 
 and head. Darting into an adjoining room he 
 issued a moment or two later in a black broadcloth 
 suit. To put a gold chain around his neck and to 
 assume a gold eye-glass secured by a small gold 
 chain, was the work of a moment more, and when 
 completed, he was a prosperous merchant or bank r, 
 ready to receive the announcement of the officer who 
 entered, that the carnage was ready. 
 
 The interest of this strange proceeding was so 
 great to Dorison that he had not asked a question, 
 contenting himself with watching. 
 
 "Come," said Cathcart, "I will take you to a 
 physician a surgeon." 
 
 As Dorison, with the help of the others, arose, 
 Cathcart said to the officer, "You are to go with us." 
 
 After Dorison had been placed in the carriage 
 Cathcart told the driver to go to No. Tenth Street, 
 Dr.* Fassett.
 
 230 THE MAN WITH A 77/C.lf/?. 
 
 Even this conveyed nothing to Dorison, some- 
 what dazed with the pain he was enduring. 
 
 Dr. Fassett was in, and they were at once taken 
 into his consulting room. 
 
 The surgeon bared the arm and examined it. 
 
 "I should say this injury was inflicted with a sand 
 club. What are the circumstances?" 
 
 Before Dorison could reply, Cathcart interfered. 
 
 "Robbery, I should say. This young man, who 
 is my nephew, was passing along Bond Street. My 
 friend and myself were some distance behind him, 
 when three men rushed from a place of concealment 
 upon him. He heard them, for he turned, and a 
 blow aimed for his head fell upon his arm. My 
 friend cried out, 'Ah, you rascals!' and they fled 
 without inflicting further injury. Calling a car- 
 riage, I drove right here, for I had heard my friend 
 Eustace speak of your skill." 
 
 The surgeon had been manipulating the arm 
 while Cathcart was talking. 
 
 "No bones are broken, I am sure," he said. 
 "Take him home immediately and apply cloths 
 dipped in hot water, as hot as he can stand it, and 
 keep this up constantly for four or five hours. 
 Then to-morrow morning bring him here to me 
 before ten o'clock." 
 
 The physcian was curt, prompt, and imperative. 
 Cathcart was disposed to engage him in conversa- 
 tion. But Dr. Fassett ended further talk by say- 
 ing: 
 
 "I have told you what to do. YJU must hot
 
 AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 231 
 
 detain me. I have an important case, and must go 
 out now." 
 
 "Can we not set you down where you want to 
 go?" asked the old detective. 
 
 "What you want to do," said the doctor, "is to 
 get your nephew under treatment of hot water as 
 soon as you can." 
 
 There was nothing left on this but to go, and 
 they did, with very bad grace upon the part of the 
 old detective. 
 
 "That was a misplay," he said, as he entered the 
 carriage. "I hoped to be able to talk with him so 
 as to bring in Langdon. I want to know what the 
 doctor knows about him. Not much, perhaps, but 
 everything counts in this business. However, I will 
 have a chance at him to-morrow morning." 
 
 "That was the physician that knocked Miss 
 Eustace down, on Broadway, with his horses," 
 said Dorison faintly. "He did not recognize me." 
 
 Arriving at Dorison's apartments, to which they 
 were rapidly driven, Cathcart and the officer devoted 
 themselves to the treatment recommended by the 
 surgeon, after which, and putting Dorison into his 
 bed, Cathcart dismissed the officer, with instructions 
 to go to his rooms in Bond Street early in the 
 morning, and bring what mail he might find there 
 to him before nine. Then he laid himself down on 
 the lounge to sleep. 
 
 The treatment he had been subjected to eased the 
 
 pain that Dorison had been suffering from, yet he 
 
 lay a long time unable to sleep. The events of the
 
 $$2 THE MAN WITH A THUM&. 
 
 day and evening had been many and startling. 
 They were destined to have a very considerable 
 influence upon his life. Just what, he could not tell, 
 but one thing was certain, it would now be turned 
 into another channel than that he had followed 
 for the past eight years. Though he tossed on his 
 bed because of the excitement of the day, Cathcart 
 slumbered so peacefully and easily, that Dorison 
 became unreasonably provoked with him. 
 
 However, as the morning light streamed into the 
 windows, he fell into a sleep, from which he was 
 aroused shortly after eight by Cathcart and bidden 
 to dress and partake of the breakfast he had sent 
 for. He was barely prepared for it before the officer 
 entered with Mr. Cathcart's mail. 
 
 Among the letters was a telegram which Cathcart 
 opened. Reading it, he handed it to Dorison, with 
 an expression of satisfaction and the remark: 
 
 "Confirmations are beginning to come." 
 
 Dorson read it. It ran : 
 
 "Langdon was known as Harry Parish here seven 
 years ago then a mere boy ; afterwards got into 
 prison. Turned up in Chicago five years ago as 
 Harry Langdon. See letter mailed to-night." 
 
 "That settles that part of the theory," remarked 
 Cathcart. 
 
 Having partaken of the breakfast, Cathcart pro- 
 posed to set out to call upon Dr. Fassett. 
 
 To this Dorison demurred. His arm, though stiff 
 and sore, however needed no more treatment than 
 had been given it.
 
 AM UNEXPECTED TURN. $$$ 
 
 But Cathcart said : 
 
 "No; I took advantage of your accident to get 
 to Dr. Fassett naturally, and we must go to fulfill 
 the purpose I was balked in last night. How much 
 Fassett may know about Langdon is uncertain, but 
 I propose to obtain all he does know. Your injury 
 gives us the natural excuse." 
 
 Therefore they set out. On arriving at the house 
 of the physician and entering, the reception room 
 was found to be not only full, but actually crowded. 
 
 Dr. Fassett happened to be in the hall at the 
 moment of entering, and said: 
 
 "I am afraid you will have to wait a little time, 
 for I have a nice operation on hand." To his 
 attendant he said, ' 'James, take these gentlemen 
 into my private office," and disappeared. 
 
 The attendant was evidently astonished. "I've 
 been with Dr. Fassett three years," he said as he led 
 the way, "but I've never known this to occur before, 
 though I've seen them sitting in the hall before this. ' ' 
 
 Cathcart whispered to the officer to remain in the 
 hall. 
 
 The private office of the physician was a small 
 room, evidently an extension from the main building, 
 for it was lighted pleasantly from the side. 
 
 Between the two windows was a small roller-top 
 desk. In the center a flat table where the physi- 
 cian evidently did his writing. At one window was 
 a large operating-chair, but devoted by its owner to 
 the purpose of ease. A low easy-chair, into which 
 Dorison dropped, was on the side of the center
 
 234 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 table, opposite to that on which the writing-chair 
 stood. In the corner was an iron safe, the heavy 
 door of which was open, the inner one only being 
 closed. 
 
 So soon as the door was shut upon the attendant 
 Cathcart began a minute examination of the room, 
 much to Dorison's annoyance, who thought his 
 companion was displaying an impertinent curiosity. 
 
 He even opened the portfolio of the doctor and 
 turned over its leaves. Between two. of them was 
 a letter partly written, and Cathcart did not scruple 
 to read it. Nor a letter addressed to the physician. 
 
 Unable to contain himself longer, Dorison pro- 
 tested, intimating that it was highly improper to 
 read the private papers of a gentleman who had 
 trusted them to the extent of turning them into his 
 own private room. 
 
 To this Cathcart made no answer, but asked 
 coolly: 
 
 "Didn't that woman say that Langdon had some 
 hold on Dr. Fassett?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And young Eustace suspected something of the 
 kind from the way in which Langdon treated 
 Fassett?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, they are both right, I should judge, from 
 these things. This letter," taking up one, "is 
 signed 'Harry,' and intirriates that they must have 
 some more business from the doctor, or the fur will 
 fly. This one," taking up the one partially com-
 
 AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 235 
 
 pleted, "tells Harry that there will be no more 
 business ; that he has been his servant as long as he 
 ever will be, and that the end is reached, since he 
 is now in a position to do for Harry what Harry 
 threatened to do for the writer. It seems to be a 
 declaration of independence." 
 
 He closed the book, leaving it precisely as he 
 found it. On the mantel-piece he found a case of 
 instruments and became much interested in it, tak- 
 ing out each one and examining it closely, putting 
 them back one by one. 
 
 Every visible object in the room seemed to go 
 under his touch ; but when he went to the roller-top 
 desk, and taking a wire from his pocket deliberately 
 picked the lock and softly moved up the top, Dori- 
 son could stand it no longer. 
 
 '-'If you do not end this thing," he cried, "I cer- 
 tainly shall ask the doctor to come here." 
 
 "Be quiet," said Cathcart contemptuously. 
 "Everything is grist that comes to my mill." 
 
 His search was not rewarded, and he closed the 
 desk. 
 
 The safe now claimed his attention. The key 
 had been left carelessly in the inner door ; calmly 
 turning it he threw it open and as calmly and coolly 
 inspected its contents. Perceiving in one of the 
 pigeon-holes a bundle, he took it out and ran over 
 the ends of it. This seemed to be interesting to 
 him, for he closed the door, turned the key and 
 walked to one _ of the windows. Taking off the 
 elastics which bound it he shuffled the various papers
 
 236 THE MA IV //7/'//,/ 77/r.)/7>\ 
 
 in his fingers and putting the rubber bands on again 
 went back to the safe as if he intended to restore, 
 them, then turning quickly on his heel, went to 
 the door and called the officer, who was awaiting 
 him in the hall. 
 
 To Dorison he now turned and said : 
 
 "I have found something which will throw some 
 light on Harold Farish and the relations existing 
 between him and Fassett." 
 
 Dorison was about to protest, but he observed 
 that the old man's eyes were flashing fire. 
 
 To the officer who entered he said : 
 
 "I want you to sit down here and keep your 
 mouth shut." 
 
 He put the package of papers in the inner pocket 
 of his coat, and going to the center-table leaned 
 against it, thrusting his hands in his vest-pockets 
 and dropping his chin on his breast. 
 
 There was something so extraordinary in his 
 manner that both men watched him silently. 
 
 Perhaps ten minutes elapsed, when the attendant 
 opened the door and said that the doctor would see 
 them. 
 
 Dorison rose to obey the summons, but Cathcart 
 waved him back with an imperious gesture. 
 
 "Tell the doctor," he said, "to come here it is 
 important." 
 
 The attendant disappeared, and Dorison looked 
 to the old detective for an explanation. 
 
 None was forthcoming. 
 
 In a moment more Dr. Fassett hurried in, with a
 
 AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 237 
 
 frown of impatience and annoyance clouding his 
 brow. 
 
 "Close the door," said Cathcart to the officer. 
 
 Then stepping quickly to the physician and lay- 
 ing his hand on his shoulder he said : 
 
 "Dr. Fassett, I arrest you for the murders of 
 Emma Farish and Anne Parish. "
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 STRANGE REVELATIONS. 
 
 doctor staggered back as white as the wall 
 1 against which he fell. 
 
 Dorison and the officer sprang to their feet, 
 astounded and horror-stricken. For a brief moment 
 Dorison entertained the idea that Cathcart had 
 taken leave of his senses. 
 
 But what thoughts either might have had were 
 diverted by the mad rush the doctor made at 
 Cathcart. 
 
 The officer and Dorison, despite his injured arm, 
 leaped to the assistance of the old man. 
 
 Had Cathcart anticipated the attack ? He was 
 not, at all events, taken unaware: for stepping 
 lightly aside, he caught the doctor by the throat, 
 and would have himself incapacitated the infuriated 
 man without the assistance promptly given him. 
 
 "You will not do another," he said fiercely to 
 his prisoner. 
 
 Firmly held by the officer, with his arms twisted 
 behind his back, the doctor was helpless. To make 
 his hold more secure, the officer placed his knee 
 against the doctor's back and bent him over back- 
 wards. 
 
 In impotent rage the doctor gnashed his teeth. 
 238
 
 STRANGE REVELATIONS. 239 
 
 "How do you know this? It is a lie! It is a lie! 
 You couldn't have known it," he cried huskily. 
 
 He made a mighty struggle to free himself, and 
 Cathcartwent to the assistance of the officer. 
 
 "Take the handcuffs from my inside pocket," 
 said the officer to Dorison, who did as he was 
 requested. 
 
 In a moment more they were snapped upon the 
 struggling man's wrists. Even then he fought and 
 wrestled until he was thrown down and his ankles 
 tied with a stout twine. 
 
 "I did not come prepared for this sort of busi- 
 ness," said the panting officer. 
 
 "None of us did," replied Cathcart. Then to 
 the doctor he said : 
 
 "You do not help yourself by such struggles. 
 I've had many a man in your fix befose." 
 
 "What imp of hell are you?" hissed the physician 
 from between his teeth. 
 
 "My name is Simon Cathcart," replied the old 
 man quietly. 
 
 The name appeared to calm the doctor, and he 
 mustered: 
 
 " 'The Devil of the West!' Harry said he was 
 in the city. Well," he cried aloud, "its a lie. 
 Why do you charge me, one of New York's foremost 
 physicians and surgeons, with such a thing?" 
 
 "Because you killed those two helpless and inof- 
 fensive women, that's why." 
 
 The cold, positive tone of the old detective 
 enraged him again.
 
 240 THE MAN WITH A THUMB, 
 
 "Its a lie. You couldn't have known it. No- 
 body could." 
 
 "Bah!" replied Cathcart, "you're a baby. You 
 don't even know enough to cover your tracks. 
 When I first saw the bodies, I knew a physician, a 
 surgeon, had done the job. You couldn't keep 
 the shop out of it. You cut the carotid artery in 
 each case, not as a bungler, but as a surgeon per- 
 forms an operation." 
 
 The idea that the crime might be traced to a sur- 
 geon in this way had not occurred to the doctor, 
 and he seemed frightened at the sagacious penetra- 
 tion displayed by the detective. 
 
 "You did it with a lancet," continued Cath- 
 cart. And taking the one the servant had found 
 on the floor from his pocket, he added: "And 
 with this lancet, which you foolishly left behind you 
 after the second murder. And this lancet came 
 from this case." 
 
 The old man crossed to the mantel-piece, and tak- 
 ing up the case, continued, as he opened it: 
 
 "It belongs to this set. It is precisely the same 
 make same tortoise-shell handle, and here is, the 
 place from which it came a vacant place waiting for 
 it since the 5th day of October. Bah! You haven't 
 even attempted to cover your tracks. You, a smart 
 man." 
 
 The physician, apparently crushed and humil- 
 iated, turned a look of horror upon the merciless 
 old man. 
 
 Dorison, filled with pity for the poor wretch,
 
 STRANGE REVELATIONS. 241 
 
 failing to realize that the murderer of his half-sister 
 lay bound before him, thought Cathcart brutal in 
 his triumph over the prisoner. But the old man 
 had a purpose in the course he was pursuing. 
 
 "Bah! If you were as skillful a murderer as you 
 are a surgeon, you would not have made tracking so 
 easy. Your very skill as a surgeon undid you, and 
 it was only a question as to when we would get 
 around to you. Murder is a fine art a man said 
 yesterday. When a man undertakes to do two in 
 one night he wants to be a master^of the art." 
 
 The man on the floor made a gallant effort to 
 retrieve himself. He was not a coward. He had 
 been overwhelmed by the unexpected blow. But 
 now that vigorous brain came into action, he re- 
 covered self-possession, and was cool and master of 
 himself. 
 
 "You are very keen," he said with a sneer. "Do 
 you know that a thousand such cases of instruments 
 can be found .in the city, and that surgeons usu- 
 ally carry their lancets in their pockets. If you will 
 permit one of these gentlemen to feel in my right- 
 hand vest-pocket you will find another lancet exactly 
 similar to the one you have in your hand." 
 
 The total change in the manner of the physician 
 startled Dorison, and his words made him believe 
 Cathcart had made a blunder in arresting the doctor 
 on so slight a ground. 
 
 "I'll take your word for it," said Cathcart calmly. 
 "And you take my word that I'll find the case to 
 which it belongs in your consulting room."
 
 242 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 The expression passing over the doctor's face 
 assured Cathcart that his hazard had been a winning 
 one. 
 
 Dorison experienced a revulsion, and was de- 
 ceived, supposing that, unobserved by him, the old 
 detective had made the discovery the previous 
 evening when the doctor was examining his arm. 
 
 "Yes, you carried the lancet in your vest-pocket 
 the night you went to Bleecker Street to kill that 
 poor girl," continued Cathcart, "and you put it 
 back in your vest-pocket when you hurried to East 
 Sixteenth Street too kill the poqr mother in the 
 same manner. There, however, you left it on the 
 floor behind you." 
 
 There was a rap at the door. Cathcart sprang to 
 it hastily. It was the attendant desiring to tell the 
 doctor that those in waiting were becoming impatient. 
 
 "Dismiss them all, and say that the doctor will 
 be unable to see any more to-day," and he closed 
 the door. 
 
 "There is no escape for you, Dr. Fassett. The 
 whole of the story is plain. I will tell it, not 
 because it will be new to you, but because it will 
 show that there is no use for you to struggle against 
 your fate. 
 
 "You committed a crime in your younger days 
 Harry Langdon, alias Harold Parish, was cognizant 
 of it and held you so firmly in his grip that you 
 were a slave to his orders." 
 
 "Ah, the doggish hound! He has informed on 
 me, has he?" interrupted the doctor. "You have
 
 STRANGE REVELATIONS. 243 
 
 him then, have you? Well, even then that proves 
 nothing as to this charge." 
 
 "You knew he was a criminal, but you had no 
 proof of it," continued Cathcart, as if Fassett had 
 not spoken. "You knew there was evidence of his 
 crimes in the hands of those poor women, .his 
 mother and sister." 
 
 Dorison was quite as much surprised at this as 
 was the doctor, who could not perceive that the old 
 man was doing some shrewd guess-work. 
 
 "You wanted that proof," continued Cathcart, 
 "that you might be free from that slavery, against 
 which your proud, arrogant spirit chafed. You 
 determined to obtain it. You had information it 
 was in the hands of the sister. She was in the cos- 
 turner's shop in Bleecker Street, as you knew. You 
 sought her there, and found her looking over docu- 
 ments you thought were the ones you wanted. You 
 begged her to give them to you. You would not 
 believe her when she told you she had them not. 
 You threatened her, and when she insisted that those 
 which she had in her hands were not what you 
 wanted, you attempted to take them by force. She 
 resisted, and in a moment of exasperation, without 
 premeditation, frantic with rage and her resistance 
 and mad with desire, you killed her and seized them. 
 They were not what you wanted. You found that 
 out after you had escaped by the rear, through the 
 drinking saloon. They were letters written by Reu- 
 ben Dorison to Emma Farish." 
 
 Notwithstanding there was the assumption of a
 
 244 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 sneer upon the physician's face, there was in his 
 eyes an expression of utter amazement, and he mut- 
 tered to himself under his breath. 
 
 "Do you deny this?" asked Cathcart, sternly. 
 
 "Give me those slips," he said, turning sharply 
 to Dorison. The young man was so absorbed in 
 the vivid and graphic description the old detective 
 was giving of the murder, as to believe for the time 
 that he must have been an eye-witness of it, that Cath- 
 cart was forced to repeat the demand. Mechanically 
 taking out his pocket-book he handed the slips to 
 the old detective, a proceeding Fassett regarded 
 with interest not unmixed with curiosity. 
 
 "These slips, " continued Cathcart, holding them 
 before the eyes of Fassett, were found in that room 
 within a quarter of an hour after your departure 
 one on the floor, one in the hand of the murdered 
 girl." 
 
 Taking out the package he had removed from 
 the safe he slipped out two letters. The expression 
 of curiosity fled from the doctor's eyes; in its stead 
 came one of alarm. He quickly glanced at the safe 
 in the corner. He realized it all in that one glance. 
 
 A frightful imprecation broke from his lips. 
 
 "You are a thief," he yelled. 
 
 "No," calmly replied the old man. "I have only 
 taken that which you thieved on the night you 
 murdered. You see how these slips fit into the 
 letters from which they were torn in your struggle 
 with the poor girl. We will read the whole letter 
 now."
 
 STRANGE REVELATIONS. 
 
 245 
 
 /a-scc*. ti. *%& &^<tn~t 
 
 The detective, laying the letter upon the table, 
 turned to Dorison, saying: 
 
 "There is a message from the grave of your 
 father, John Dorison." 
 
 "Who?" cried Dr. Fassett. "Who is that ? That 
 is Dudley."
 
 246 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "No," said Cathcart. "That is John Dorison, 
 son of Reuben, who for eight years has suffered for 
 the sins of Harry Langdon, your friend, his half- 
 brother. He is the half-brother of your victim." 
 
 All of this was beginning to tell upon the bound 
 man, and he showed it in his face. 
 
 "Great God!" he cried. "What a revelation . ? " 
 
 Cathcart waited for him to say more, but the 
 doctor relapsed into gloomy silence. The old man 
 took up the other. 
 
 "This slip,"* he said, "fits into this letter, and 
 we will have some more testimony from the dead." 
 
 "The letters from which these slips were torn were 
 found in your safe. Do you want more proof? 
 Well then, you hastened to Sixteenth Street, 
 knowing that you had killed one person needlessly 
 and yet must have the documents. There you found 
 the mother alone, and there you demanded the 
 documents and were refused. You were desperate 
 and reckless now. The struggle this time did not 
 precede the murder. Your hand was in, and, 
 quickly dispatching her, you ravished her bosom of 
 the documents you had waded through blood to 
 secure. With them in your hands, dropping your 
 lancet as you went, you hurried away, and" hesita- 
 ting a moment, Cathcart added, "and with them 
 in your pocket you hastened to the hospital, where 
 you were already overdue, and with calm hand set 
 a man's broken leg." 
 
 "Here are the documents," continued the old 
 
 * See facsimile letter on next page.
 
 STRANGE REVELATIONS. $47 
 
 
 ^-^- f_ g .. V-" /iJ>-c*_^l. t <_. <ltfr*C^*"
 
 248 77/7? MAN IVITir A TIIl'.Mn. 
 
 'detective, tapping the package he held in his hand, 
 "forged notes and checks by Harold Parish, and 
 other proofs of his crimes, the marriage certificates 
 of Reuben Dorison and Emma Parish, and some 
 other matters." 
 
 The poor wretch, completely overwhelmed by 
 the overpowering circumstantiality of the proof piled 
 up against him, gave up resistance. 
 
 He laughed, a bitter, reckless, despairing laugh. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "youknovrall. The devil himself 
 must have been your informant, for you could not 
 have guessed so correctly You have other proof 
 behind. It is not likely you have exhausted every- 
 thing yet. I confess it. It is fate. Fate has con- 
 quered me. I have tried to live down the first 
 error, but it has followed me to the end and run 
 me down. Lift me into a chair. I have nothing 
 now to conceal." 
 
 The officer and Cathcart lifted the man from the 
 floor and placed him in a chair. 
 
 Dorison, wrought up to the highest pitch, found 
 himself full of pity for the despairing wretch, who 
 had given up all hope and ceased to struggle against 
 his fate. 
 
 "I might have lived a better life," said the doctor 
 after he was seated. "I had the ability and I have 
 already achieved eminence in my profession. But 
 I began wrong. There is a taint in my blood. The 
 wrong was begun before I was born. The truth is, 
 I come from a long line of criminals? Some men 
 are born to a tendency to this, that, and the other.
 
 S TKA NGE RE VELA 7 'TONS. * 49 
 
 I was to crime. Heredity! You know so much, 
 know all. 
 
 "When I was a boy, at a time my parents were 
 cast into prison, I was taken from my family, as bad 
 a one as Indiana ever saw, by a charitable man of Chi- 
 cago, who, perceiving mental qualities in me supe- 
 rior to the ordinary run of boys, educated me. I 
 went to college and then to a medical school. I 
 repaid his kindness by ruining his daughter. That 
 was the first beginning. To escape the conse- 
 quences of that error I killed her, not purposely, but 
 the result was the same, a fact discovered by a fellow 
 medical student, Harry Farish. Then I employed 
 him to assist me in covering my tracks. He was 
 already bad, and shortly after, for some petty offense, 
 had to run away. In Indianapolis he was detected 
 in another and larger crime, and under the name of 
 Tortescue was imprisoned. Released five years 
 ago, he went to Chicago, under the name of Harry 
 Langdon, where he associated himself with a band 
 of thieves, robbing a bank with the connivance of a 
 clerk. After this the gang came to New York. 
 Langdon hunted me up and began his persecutions 
 of me. I weakly submitted to the first threat, and 
 they made me one of the 'gang in spite of myself 
 compelling me to use my knowledge of the interior 
 of the houses I visited as a physician, so that they 
 could rob them 
 
 "Ah, the mysterious robberies!" said Cathcart. 
 
 "Growing as I was into fame, reaching the highest 
 places .in my profession, I became wild, frantic, over
 
 25 T/r/>: MAX WITH A THUMB. 
 
 this slavery, and made this desperate effort to free 
 myself " 
 
 There was a rap at the door. 
 
 From the force of habit the doctor cried out: 
 
 "Well." 
 
 The voice of the attendant was heard in reply. 
 
 "Doctor, Mr. Langdon says he must see you on 
 a matter that cannot be delayed a moment."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 
 
 /^ATHCART imposed silence with uplifted hand. 
 \^> "Ask the gentleman -to step here, " he called 
 out. 
 
 Dorison, who had been a silent and awed witness 
 of the rapid events, looked inquiringly at the detec- 
 tive for some indication of his purpose. 
 
 The old man was inscrutable. 
 
 While listening to Fassett, he had again leaned 
 against the center-table in his favorite attitude his 
 hands in his vest-pockets. 
 
 As he heard steps advancing through the hall he 
 went to the door, and while admitting Langdon, 
 prevented the attendant from seeing into the room. 
 
 As the door closed upon the new comer, Langdon 
 perceived Dorison, and started back in surprise 
 and alarm. 
 
 Cathcart laid his hand upon Langdon's shoulder 
 saying: 
 
 "You are my man, Harold Farish." 
 
 ' 'Who the devil are you?' ' cried Langdon angrily. 
 
 The old detective pulled off his wig and beard. 
 
 "Simon Cathcart. You know me." . 
 
 As he declared himself, he had shifted his posi- 
 tion, so that Langdon, for the first time, saw Fassett 
 bound in his chair. 
 
 251
 
 252 THE MAN II' 1 '1 "I'll A THUMB. 
 
 "Oh!" he cried in a rage. "You have given 
 me away, have you? This is what your independ- 
 ence meant, is it? Well, Simon Cathcart, do you 
 know what this man is? He is a " 
 
 "I know what he is well enough," interrupted 
 the old man. "I know, too, that I have the leader 
 of the new gang of burglars, when I have you." 
 
 "He is a fine one to 'peach'," growled Langdon 
 viciously. "Send me up! Send me up! I'll be 
 out some time to make hell for him." 
 
 "You will never be out in time to do that," said 
 the physician, with a bitter and contemptuous laugh. 
 
 Something in the tone and manner of the physi- 
 cian disconcerted Landgon, yet he strove to main- 
 tain his air of bravado. 
 
 "You can't make a long term of it." he said to 
 the detective. "You've first got to prove I was in 
 any of the jobs." 
 
 "The charges against you are plenty, so are the 
 proofs," remarked the old man. "For instance, 
 you can be charged with inciting the attempt to 
 murder my friend here John Dorison." 
 
 "Who?" almost screamed Langdon. "That John 
 Dorison? He?" 
 
 "Yes," calmly replied Cathcart, 'John Dorison, 
 son of Reuben." 
 
 "My G !" he exclaimed, overwhelmed. 
 
 "Yes," quietly repeated the old man. "It is not 
 a. pleasant thing to think that you endeavored to 
 have your half-brother killed, is it?" 
 
 "What can this mean? Dudley? Dorison?"
 
 A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 253 
 
 "But then," continued Cathcart, "that is not so 
 bad as assisting in the murder of your mother and 
 sister." 
 
 "No, no, no!" creid Langdon, frightened and 
 horrified. "No, not that. I am bad enough, but 
 not that. Oh Heavens, no! Not so bad as that." 
 
 The old detective, watching Fassett rather than 
 Langdon, as he made the accusation, saw surprise 
 steal over the face of the physician, quickly succeeded 
 by malicious satisfaction, as if he had divined its 
 purpose. 
 
 "You rascal!" cried Cathcart, turning viciously 
 on Langdon, "what do you mean by denying com- 
 plicity? Do you want me to think that, being inno- 
 cent, you kept away from the house when you heard 
 your nearest relatives had been murdered?" 
 
 "How could I go there?" whined Langdon. 
 "To do so was to give myself away." 
 
 "You mean," sternly continued Cathcart, "you 
 mean your mother had evidences of your forgeries 
 in her possession, which you feared had fallen into 
 the hands of the police." 
 
 Taken by surprise, Langdon confessed by his 
 manner that the detective had spoken the truth. 
 
 "Well," said Cathcart, "you were right. They 
 did fall into the hands of the police. Here they 
 are," he cpntinued, as he drew from his pocket 
 the package he had taken from Fassett's safe. 
 
 "Here are the forged checks and notes of hand 
 against Reuben Dorison, the payment of which 
 through your poor mother, and of further sums to
 
 $54 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 prevent your prosecution, ruined Reuben Dorison, 
 your father. Those will send you up for another 
 term. You can be kept out of harm's way for 
 many years." 
 
 Suddenly, with increased violence of voice and 
 manner, Cathcart demanded: 
 
 "If you did not kill your mother and sister, who 
 did?" 
 
 "I don't know," answered Langdon, with such 
 anxious earnestness as would have carried belief 
 with his words, if the old man had not already 
 known. "I don't know. I did not dare to show 
 myself, I was afraid I would be charged if those 
 papers were found. I didn't even dare talk about 
 it, though I have tried to find out." 
 
 "Urn," growled Cathcart, as if he did not believe 
 him. 
 
 There was silence as the old detective fixedly 
 gazed upon the scamp. 
 
 It was Fassett who broke it. 
 
 "Look at me, Harold Parish !" he cried, his 
 strong face convulsed with hatred, malice, and 
 despair fairly devilish in its aspect. 
 
 "Look at me," he repeated. "Ididit. I killed 
 your mother and sister." 
 
 "You!" gasped Langdon, "You! You!" 
 
 "Yes, I. And you were the cause. .Take that 
 to your false, black heart. Of all human devils I 
 have known, you have been the most cruel and 
 heartless. Since I have waded through so much 
 blood, I wish I had killed you. Ever since we were
 
 A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 255 
 
 students together you have been my evil genius. 
 When, in my trouble, I took you for a friend and 
 adviser, you it was who put the evil thought into my 
 head. When it resulted so unexpectedly fatal, you 
 it was who suggested concealment. When I was 
 climbing to fame and prosperity here, you it was 
 who pounced upon me with this secret, and made 
 me, a reputable physician, one of your band of burg- 
 lars and assassins. It was to be free from you to 
 be your master, to be in possession of the proofs of 
 your crimes you had told me of in your cups, that 
 led me into murder. But as usual you lied. You 
 said your sister held them, and not believing her, 
 I killed her, to find you were the liar. Yes I killed 
 them. And by all that's foul, if my hands were 
 free, I'd kill you where you stand now." 
 
 Langdon was overwhelmed he was stupefied by 
 the revelation hurled at him with a malice that was 
 fiendish. 
 
 The eyes of the physician, gleaming with foul 
 hatred and murderous desire, held him fas- 
 cinated. 
 
 "This is awful!" gasped Langdon. 
 
 Criminal as he was, stained with almost every 
 crime as his hands were, he had a perception of 
 depravity from which even he recoiled. 
 
 Dorison staggered to his feet in protest against 
 the horror of the scene. 
 
 Even the officer was moved, and lifted his hands 
 imploringly to Cathcart, as if appealing to him to 
 end it. It seemed as if Fassett had been stripped
 
 250 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 of all human qualities save that of speech, as if he 
 had become a wild beast. 
 
 The old detective's purpose had been accom- 
 plished ; he had obtained confessions from both ; 
 he had gotten all there was to be known, and so he 
 brought the awful scene to a close. 
 
 Pointing to Langdon he said to the officer: 
 
 "Take that man at once to Police Headquarters 
 to Captain Lawton, and tell him that you bring him 
 the leader of the gang of burglars who have bothered 
 him so long. Tell him to lock the man up until I 
 can come to him. " 
 
 Dazed and stunned, Langdon obediently turned 
 to follow the officer. 
 
 "Stop," cried Cathcart, "Let us have no mis- 
 takes." 
 
 Taking from his pocket a leathern strap he buckled 
 it on the wrists of the physician. Then, and not 
 until then, he removed the handcuffs and placed 
 them on Langdon, his hands crossed behind his 
 back. 
 
 "Now you can go," said he, "and arriving there 
 send two men at once. Hurry you, and let them 
 hurry." 
 
 As the officer left the apartment with Langdon, 
 Cathcart sat down at the writing-table. 
 
 Taking out a memorandum book he began mak- 
 ing entries as coolly as if nothing out of common 
 had occurred. 
 
 So calm, so composed, so inscrutable was he that 
 Porison, wound up to a pitch of intense excite-
 
 A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 257 
 
 ment and nervousness, felt he could willingly horse- 
 whip him for his imperturbability. 
 
 Cathcart turned to Fassett abruptly. 
 
 "You know I am going to lock you up. Is there 
 anything you want to do here?" 
 
 The question startled the physician, but he col- 
 lected his thoughts. 
 
 "Not here," he replied after a moment. "There 
 is something I do want to do. Write!" 
 
 Cathcart did not comprehend him. 
 
 "Write at my dictation," ordered the physician 
 sternly. 
 
 The old detective wrote the names of a number 
 of people, with their addresses, as dictated by Fas- 
 sett. When he had finished, the physician said : 
 
 "Those are the names of patients who are danger- 
 ously ill. They are likely to die if they do not 
 receive proper medical attendance. Send that list 
 to Dr. Allingham. Let him attend them; he is 
 competent." 
 
 Dorison looked upon the man with open-mouthed 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Great Heavens!" he said to himself. "Here 
 is a man who by his own confession has killed three 
 people and wishes to kill a fourth, yet at such a 
 time takes the precaution to save the lives of others." 
 
 "Is that all," asked Cathcart. 
 
 "No; I want to write a letter to that obstinate 
 old fool Dr. Roy, with whom I have had a contro- 
 versy on heredity. I could have overcome him if I 
 could have cited my own case in proof of my con-
 
 258 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 tendon, that the impulse to crime is an hereditary 
 tendency. I want to do it now. Then I want to 
 make my will." 
 
 "Is this bravado?" asked Dorison in thought. 
 "Or a phase of human nature of which I have 
 had no conception?" 
 
 "Loosen my hands until I can do these things and 
 I will thank you. I will attempt no harm to you." 
 
 "I am not afraid you will," said Cathcart as he 
 helped the physician to hobble to his desk with the 
 roller top. Having seated his prisoner he loosened 
 his hands. 
 
 Throwing up the top, the doctor began to write 
 hastily. From time to time he suspended his work, 
 leaned back in his chair with his eyes on the ceiling 
 as if thinking profoundly, playing with the locket 
 dangling from his watch-chain. 
 
 There was no agitation, no nervousness, no 
 trepidation. He could not have written more com- 
 posedly, nor with greater concentration of mind, 
 had his hands been free from blood and his soul 
 unstained by crime. 
 
 He wrote a long time, and when he finished he 
 inclosed the sheets he had filled in an envelope, 
 which he addressed and handed to Cathcart. 
 
 "You will do me the favor to hand that to Dr. 
 Roy. He can't answer that argument. Now for 
 the will." 
 
 He thought a moment. Now it was he betrayed 
 an agitation he had not previously shown. In his 
 nervousness he wrenched the locket he played with
 
 A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 259 
 
 from his watch-chain. Apparently unconscious 
 of his act, he placed it in his mouth, turning it 
 over and over and biting it. Finally he spat it out 
 on the desk, ruined. 
 
 "Oh, this will never do," he cried, and addressed 
 himself to the work of drafting his will. It was 
 the work only of a moment. 
 
 When he had finished he said: 
 
 "You two must witness this my will. It is brief. 
 Let me read it. 
 
 ' 'I, Arthur Fassett, physician and surgeon, 
 being of sound mind and health, but in the face of 
 death for crime committed, do will and bequeathe all 
 the property, whether it is money, stock, bonds, chat- 
 tels, houses or real estate of whatever kind of which 
 I am possessed at my death, to the Home Hospital.' 
 
 "I have no relatives," he added bitterly. "My 
 family have all died either in prison or on the gal- 
 lows. So no one will contest the will." 
 
 The two signed as he desired, Cathcart as a 
 matter of course ; Dorison, with strange emotions. 
 
 Having appended his own name, he handed this 
 also to Cathcart. 
 
 At this moment there was a stir at the front door. 
 Cathcart told Dorison to admit the officers. As 
 they entered the room the old detective said : 
 
 "Handcuff this man:" 
 
 "It is useless," said the physician. "I do not 
 intend to resist." 
 
 "Perhaps," replied Cathcart dryly and cynically. 
 "Do as I tell you, officers."
 
 260 THE MAN WITH A Til I '.MI!. 
 
 The physician said appealingly: 
 
 "Let me sit here a moment only a moment it 
 will not be for long. I shall not detain you long 
 long it is not for " 
 
 Cathcart sprang to him. 
 
 The physician's chin had fallen on his breast 
 and his eyes were glazed and rolling. 
 
 He roused up with an effort. 
 
 "It is near the end," he said chokingly. "I have 
 taken poison. Death grips me. In forty seconds 
 I will be dead. I had it all ready for this emer- 
 gency." 
 
 He sank immediately into a stupor, and within 
 the time he had predicted his heart ceased to beat. 
 
 Overcome by this culmination of the past hour's 
 excitement, weakened as he was by the injury he 
 had received, Dorison fainted. 
 
 As unconsciousness closed upon him, he dimly 
 heard Cathcart say: 
 
 "He has cheated the gallows." 
 
 When Dorison was restored, the old detective 
 was bathing his head. Looking about him he saw 
 the physician stretched upon the floor, calm in death.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 CATHCART CLOSES HIS BOOKS. 
 
 D ORISON had sustained another shock, and he 
 was carried into the consulting room. The 
 attendant, still sitting at the door and unconscious 
 of the tragedy enacted in the inner room, was dis- 
 patched for brandy, which, being administered 
 to Dorison, restored him a second time. 
 
 Cathcart went back to give instructions to the 
 officers. Reappearing he said to Dorison : 
 
 "Come. We will go." 
 
 Dorison followed him out into the street, feeling 
 as if he had escaped from a charnel house. They 
 walked to Fourth Avenue, indeed to the Bowery 
 before either spoke. Then Dorison asked: 
 
 "Where did he get the poison?" 
 
 "It was concealed in that locket. He opened it 
 in his mouth. I ought to have my head cuffed for 
 not taking precautions." 
 
 "It is better as it is," said Dorison. 
 
 They walked some distance before Cathcart 
 replied. 
 
 " Perhaps," he said. " The lesson is the same. 
 
 Crime cannot be committed without detection. 
 
 Well, the whole search is over. You can assume 
 
 your own name. It is cleared. I have done all 
 
 261
 
 262 THE MAX ///'/'// ./ THUMB. 
 
 I set out to do. I can do no more. I close the 
 books. 
 
 " More ? " cried Dorison. " You've done all. 
 You've done all that could be done. You've done 
 everything. It is wonderful." 
 
 "Yes," replied the old man complacently. "It 
 is pretty fair. It will show these New York people 
 that the old man hasn't lost his cunning that 
 he can work in New York as well as in the 
 West." 
 
 " When did you first suspect the doctor ? " 
 
 " This morning, when I went into his room with 
 you." 
 
 " What ! " cried Dorison, wholly surprised. 
 " This morning ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the old man. " Until then I sus- 
 pected Langdon. I saw that letter from Langdon 
 and the partially written reply, and the case of in- 
 struments to which the lancet belonged. But that 
 did not arouse my suspicions. I thought perhaps 
 Langdon had taken the lancet. But when I got 
 that package from the safe, the whole thing burst 
 upon me in a moment. The letters and lancet took 
 their place at once in the story, and I acted upon 
 inspiration." 
 
 Dorison was so astonished that he was silent for 
 a moment. Then he asked : 
 
 " Was Langdon's coming an accident too ?" 
 
 "Purely an accident, so far as I was concerned. 
 Probably he had come to know that after the attack 
 upon you last night you were brought to Dr. Fassett,
 
 CATHCART CLOSES HIS BOOKS. 263 
 
 and his visit of this morning had some reference to 
 that attack. What, I cannot determine." 
 
 They walked along again in silence. 
 
 " What about Pittston ? " 
 
 " He is shadowed and will be arrested during the 
 day. They will all be sent up." 
 
 As they turned into Bleecker Street from the 
 Bowery, Cathcart said : 
 
 " What is to be further done to set you right 
 must be done by Mr. Eustace. He can do it by 
 patronage of you. Go to him without delay. Give 
 him that letter I gave you yesterday. Tell him all 
 that has occurred to-day. One thing more." 
 
 They had stopped at the corner of Mulberry 
 Street, and he took from his pocket the package, 
 from which he drew a paper, on which there was 
 writing in red ink. 
 
 " Take this," he said. " It is better with you 
 than in the report I must make, since it has not 
 ntered into the murder case. Langdon could not 
 have known of its existence or he would have had 
 it. Fassett could not have known its meaning, or, 
 if he did, did not care. But why these women, 
 whose fortunes had gotten pretty low, didn't use it 
 I cannot tell. No one will know now. Perhaps 
 they were afraid to get the money. It belongs to 
 you now, by every right. It is your father's order 
 for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The 
 amount, now swollen to nearly a quarter of a mil- 
 lion, has been held in trust by Mr. Eustace, subject 
 to that order, for many years. You are rich. Give
 
 264 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 that paper to Mr. Eustace. He will tell you all 
 about it. I am going to Police Headquarters to 
 write my report. Our relations are ended, but I 
 hope our acquaintance is not." 
 
 " I should hope not, indeed," replied Dorison, 
 warmly. 
 
 "Well, go to Eustace now. Come to my rooms 
 to-morrow, and tell me about your interview with 
 him."
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 "PARLY in the summer of 1889, the Gallia 
 \ j arrived at the port of New York after a 
 prosperous voyage. 
 
 On its passenger list was this entry : 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. John Dorison, two children and 
 maid." 
 
 An old gentleman, tall and distinguished, accom- 
 panied by a younger man, middle-sized, plump and 
 golden-haired, stood on the wharf impatiently 
 awaiting the throwing up of the gang-plank. 
 
 When the plank was placed in position, with an 
 agility his years scarcely warranted, the old gentle- 
 man rushed up and embraced a lady, who, smiling 
 through glad tears, stood awaiting him, beside John 
 Dorison, by whose hand that of the old gentleman 
 was warmly shaken. 
 
 The lady, presenting a lad of five years and a 
 baby girl of two, to the old gentleman, bade them 
 know him as " Grandpapa," and also to the younger 
 gentleman, who, she said, was " Uncle Charley." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the old gentleman, as he gazed 
 proudly on the lady, " my dear, you were beautiful 
 as Evelyn Eustace, but as Evelyn Dorison you are 
 lovely." 
 
 And young Eustace said : 
 265
 
 2 66 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 
 
 "And, father, I think John is to be complimented 
 on his beauty too." 
 
 " Happiness and sweet content of mind are great 
 beautifiers, Charley my boy," replied Dorison, 
 laughingly. 
 
 He advanced to greet an old man with white hair, 
 keen, bright and restless eyes, who presented him- 
 self with a contorted face which Dorison knew, if 
 on-lookers did not, was intended for a smile of 
 gladness, and whose hands he grasped warmly, 
 saying that his home coming would not have been 
 complete if he could not have grasped the hand of 
 him to whom he owed, the possibility of his happi- 
 ness and prosperity. 
 
 THE END.
 
 .