A TALE OF 
 
 TWENTY= FIVE 
 HOURS
 
 Me of <u)cntn~Fn)c (Jours
 
 JBv? 36ranfcer /IDattbews. 
 
 THE LAST MEETING: A STORY. 
 
 A SECRET OF THE SEA, AND OTHER 
 STORIES. 
 
 A FAMILY TREE, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 WITH MY FRIENDS: TALES TOLD IN 
 PARTNERSHIP. 
 
 IN THE VESTIBULE LIMITED: A 
 STORY. 
 
 JUDGE LYNCH: A ROMANCE OF THE 
 CALIFORNIA VINEYARDS. 
 
 GERALD FFRENCH S FRIENDS.
 
 alc of StocntQ-fiuc (jours 
 
 BY 
 
 BRANDER MATTHEWS 
 
 AND 
 
 GEORGE H. JESSOP 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 1892
 
 Ps 
 
 T 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1892, 
 BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 
 
 PRINTED AT THE 
 APPLETON PRESS, U. S. A.
 
 prefatory 1Rote. 
 
 In a different form and under another 
 title this story was published four orfivz 
 years ago in an ^American magazine and 
 also as one -volume of a ^British series. 
 Carefully revised by its authors, it now 
 appears for the first time in its proper 
 
 proportions. 
 
 <B. ZM. 
 
 G. H. f.
 
 Contents of tbe Ubirtecn Cbapters. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT S SITTING- 
 ROOM, i 
 
 II. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT AT BREAK 
 FAST, ...... 10 
 
 III. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT RECEIVES A 
 
 VISIT, 21 
 
 IV. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT PAYS A 
 
 VISIT, 37 
 
 V. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT GOES DOWN 
 TOWN, 53 
 
 VI. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT CALLS ON 
 
 M. ZALINSKI, . . . .71 
 
 VII. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT PUTS Two 
 
 AND Two TOGETHER, . . .99 
 
 VIII. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT INVADES 
 
 " THE RUBENS," . . -113 
 
 -IX. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT MAKES A 
 
 DISCOVERY, . . . .126
 
 vi Contents of tbe Cbirteen Chapters. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 X. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT is LATE FOR 
 
 AN APPOINTMENT, . . -139 
 
 XI. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT PASSES A 
 
 DISTURBED NIGHT, . . .151 
 
 XII. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT SPEAKS His 
 
 MIND, 159 
 
 XIII. MR. PAUL STUYVESANT READS THE 
 
 " GOTHAM GAZETTE," . .170
 
 H ale of GwentHfoe Ibours, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT S SITTING-ROOM. 
 
 >R. PAUL STUYVESANT S 
 bachelor apartment was on 
 the seventh floor of a tall 
 building overlooking a broad 
 square almost in the centre of New 
 York. Years ago the broad square had 
 been named in honor of an American 
 president; and the tall building, only 
 recently remodelled, now recalled the 
 title of an English duke. Its lower 
 floor, level with the street, was a single 
 huge store, wherein one of the chief 
 jewellers of the world vended his glit 
 tering wares. Most of the rooms on the 
 second floor were leased by a sporting 
 club, composed of fast and fashionable
 
 B Cale of Cwentgsffte Ibouvs. 
 
 young men, many of whom, having taken 
 to horses, were making ready to go to the 
 dogs. The upper floors were devoted to 
 apartments for bachelors; and into these, 
 as into the monastery on Mount Athos, 
 no women were allowed to enter save 
 when one of the inhabitants asked a mar 
 ried sister to matronize a flock of girls 
 who came to have a cup of tea osten 
 sibly, and in reality to investigate the 
 bachelor s den. 
 
 From the seventh floor the outlook was 
 wider than it was below. Paul Stuy- 
 vesant knew what he was about when he 
 took rooms at the top of the house, and 
 he had never regretted his selection. 
 What he sought especially was quiet; 
 and this he had found. Indeed, he had 
 found more a certain faculty of ab 
 stracting himself from the busy life of 
 the city beneath him a power, as it 
 were, of cutting himself off from the rest 
 of the world. 
 
 This morning there was neither dust 
 nor noise. Almost the first snow-storm 
 of the winter had come and gone during 
 the night. A white b anket covered the
 
 a Sale of Cwentg=five Ibours. 3 
 
 cornices of the building across the way, 
 and the cross-pieces of the giant tele 
 graph-poles were encrusted with spark 
 ling crystals. The thin layer of snow 
 clogged the car-tracks on the street far 
 below, and deadened the sound of the 
 horses feet. The roar of the traffic of 
 the great city arose muffled; and even 
 the sharp note of the car-bells, which 
 came up clearly enough now and again, 
 seemed farther off than before. Al 
 though it was late on Friday morning, 
 there was a hush almost as though it 
 were Sunday. Perhaps it was owing to 
 this unusual calm that Stuyvesant was 
 oversleeping himself. 
 
 His apartment consisted of a sitting- 
 room, a bedroom, a bath-room, a tiny 
 hall, and a closet or two. The large 
 square sitting-room had four windows, 
 two looking out to the east and two fac 
 ing the south. It was a bright and 
 cheerful place, generally; and now, as 
 the slight snow-storm slowly ceased, and 
 the sun gained power to force its rays 
 through the dense gray clouds, this room 
 had a very pleasant aspect. It was such
 
 4 B Gale of Cwentgsfive Tbours. 
 
 a room as a man might be glad to enter 
 and sorry to leave. 
 
 When the sun had at last turned itself 
 full on and flooded the place with its 
 brightness, a boldly painted portrait 
 which hung on the western wall next to 
 the entrance-door glowed with life, and 
 seemed ready to start from its frame. 
 This picture was singularly strong in 
 color, and it had not a little of the mel 
 low tone and golden richness which lend 
 so great a charm to the paintings of the 
 great Venetians. It was the portrait of 
 a handsome man of about thirty or thirty- 
 two years of age. He was tall and dark; 
 his countenance was aquiline; his eyes 
 had a penetrating glance as they fol 
 lowed a visitor about the room inquisi 
 tively. To these eyes, indeed, the visi 
 tor involuntarily recurred; and he could 
 find in them a look of curiosity a qual 
 ity most precious, and objectionable only 
 when misapplied to the pettinesses of ex 
 istence. The impression made by the 
 picture varied, of course, with the char 
 acter of those who might look at it. 
 Most people were pleased with it; most
 
 B Gale of awentE=:ff\>e t)our0. 
 
 people, if closely cross-questioned, could 
 have been made to confess that it looked 
 as though the man who had sat for it 
 was pleased with himself. But so frank, 
 manly, and engaging was this man as 
 revealed by the artist that most people 
 did not give this revelation a second 
 thought. The picture was a portrait of 
 the owner of the apartment, painted by 
 Charley Vaughn, to whose sister, Kath- 
 erine, Stuyvesant was engaged to be 
 married. 
 
 On the narrow space of wall between 
 the two windows opposite the picture 
 was a tall frame, divided longitudi 
 nally into three sections, in which were 
 diplomas. One bore witness that the 
 owner of this department was a Bach 
 elor of Arts, summa cum laudc, and this 
 was enriched with the seal of Columbia 
 College, Novi Eboraci. The second tes 
 tified that the University of Gottingen 
 had conferred on him the degree of J. U. D. 
 The third was a certificate of member 
 ship in the famous fraternity of Alpha 
 Omega, the secret society which Stuy 
 vesant had joined in college, and mem-
 
 6 a ftale of GwentE five ibours. 
 
 bers of which he had met all over the 
 world in the most unexpected places. 
 
 Between the windows on the southern 
 side was a panoply of arms, or at least 
 what might pass for such at first sight. 
 On closer inspection, the weapons were 
 seen not to be those that are custom 
 arily arrayed in trophies. Among half 
 a dozen other unconventional weapons 
 were a cruel-looking gimlet knife and a 
 roughly wrought bowie, on the broad 
 blade of which could still be seen the 
 cross-hatching of the file from which it 
 had been made. This last object of in 
 terest had been a present from Charley 
 Vaughn. 
 
 Two or three hickory sticks blazed and 
 crackled in the fireplace on the northern 
 wall of the room. On each side of the 
 broad wooden mantelpiece were book 
 cases packed with solid tomes as high as 
 a man might reach while standing on his 
 feet. Some of these were portly law- 
 books, sedate in their sheepskin cover 
 ings. Some were books of reference 
 in German, French, and English. Some 
 were the books that no gentleman s li-
 
 B Cale of tXwentB*fivs tbours. 7 
 
 brary should be without; but of these 
 there were only a few, and they looked 
 as fresh as when they had left the bind 
 ery. On a shelf level with the eye, and 
 within easy reach of the right hand as 
 the owner of the room should stand be 
 fore the fire, there was a row of books of 
 all sorts and conditions. Some of them 
 had been handsomely bound, and some 
 of them were still in the frail paper cov 
 ers in which they had been issued; but 
 all bore marks of repeated readings. 
 Chief among them was a set of the com 
 plete works of Edgar Allan Poe; the vol 
 ume most worn was that containing " The 
 Murders in the Rue Morgue" and " The 
 Gold Bug." Next to this stood a paper- 
 covered copy of "The Moonstone," by 
 Mr. Wilkie Collins, and an English rail 
 way edition of " A Confidential Agent," 
 by Mr. James Payn. Near these were 
 "The Leavenworth Case," by Miss Anna 
 Katharine Green; "His Natural Life," 
 by Mr. Marcus Clarke; "The Mark of 
 Cain," by Mr. Andrew Lang; and "The 
 New Arabian Nights," by Mr. Robert 
 Louis Stevenson. The " Memoires de
 
 B Sale ot Cweiite=fiv>e Hxwrs. 
 
 Vidocq" elbowed half a dozen tales by 
 Emile Gaboriau and Fortune du Bois- 
 gobey; and " Les Morts Bizarres," of M. 
 Jean Richepin, brought up the end of the 
 line. 
 
 A broad desk-table was in the centre of 
 the room. Its flat surface supported a 
 student-lamp, and also a large photograph 
 in a velvet frame, with velvet curtains 
 drawn over the portrait closely, so that 
 no indiscreet eye might recognize the 
 features of the lady. Bits of paper of 
 different sizes, each of them having a 
 sentence or two written on it hastily, 
 some in ink and some in pencil, littered 
 the centre of the desk. It might fairly 
 be guessed that these were the accumu 
 lated notes intended to serve in the com 
 position of the thick manuscript, the 
 sheets of which were heaped together just 
 under the student-lamp. On the first 
 page of this manuscript was written " A 
 History of Circumstantial Evidence: with 
 an Analysis of its Fallacies. By Paul 
 Stuyvesant, J.U.D. , Adjunct Professor 
 of the Canon Law in Columbia College." 
 Apparently the author had been laboring
 
 B Sale of awentE=fiv>e f>ours. 9 
 
 on his book until very late at night, and 
 had gone to bed as soon as he had done 
 his stent of work, without waiting to 
 gather up his scattered notes. Perhaps 
 in this delayed labor might be found the 
 reason why he was sleeping so late this 
 morning.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT AT BREAKFAST. 
 
 was past ten o clock when 
 Stuyvesant came out of his 
 bedroom into the parlor. In 
 the strong light it could be 
 seen that the portrait on the wall behind 
 him was a striking likeness, although 
 perhaps a certain dreaminess which might 
 lie latent in the original had been accent 
 uated by the artist. Rich as was the col 
 oring of the portrait, it was not warmer 
 than the flush which arose to the face of 
 the man as he stepped to the table in the 
 centre of the room and took up the pho 
 tograph-frame which stood there. He 
 parted the velvet curtains, and gazed in 
 tently on the face of the woman they had 
 concealed. It was a pretty face, and he 
 looked at it long and lovingly. Then he 
 kissed it once, twice, thrice, and set it 
 back on the table. It was a photograph 
 of Miss Katharine Vaughn.
 
 B Sale of CwentE five t>ours. n 
 
 Although he was a college professor, 
 Paul Stuyvesant was a young man and an 
 ardent lover. Just now his whole thought 
 was of his future bride, and how he might 
 make her happiest. It was because he 
 had lingered later with her the even 
 ing before that he had been obliged to 
 work on until far into the night. Fort 
 unately, the fortnight s vacation for 
 Christmas and New Year was not yet 
 over. It was Friday, the 3d of January, 
 and he had no lectures to deliver until 
 Monday. The day was his own, and he 
 might do with it as he pleased. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and one 
 of the janitor s assistants brought in a 
 tray containing Stuyvesant s breakfast, 
 which was the only meal supplied in the 
 apartment-house. The books and maga 
 zines which littered a small table in the 
 corner were hastily cleared away, and 
 the breakfast-tray was set down. The 
 attendant laid a letter and the Gotham 
 Gazette of that morning by the side of the 
 tray, and left the room. 
 
 Stuyvesant took his seat at the table; 
 but before he tasted the golden Florida
 
 is S Gale of {rwent=ffve fjoure. 
 
 orange, with which he always broke his 
 fast, he took up the letter. It was from 
 Charley Vaughn : 
 
 " THE RUBENS, 
 
 "January 2(1. 
 
 " DEAR POST SCRIPT : Perhaps yoti 
 may remember that you promised to go 
 with me Saturday to see the new pictures. 
 If you don t recall the circumstance, this 
 will serve to remind you of it; while it 
 informs you that the engagement is off! 
 I can t meet you, because I m to meet the 
 Bishop of Tuxedo to talk about a stained- 
 glass window for his new church. You 
 know he is a man of the world they used 
 to call him the Apostle to the genteels 
 and I think I shall suggest Dives and 
 Lazarus as a subject. With some new 
 ruby glass I have just seen, I can put 
 Dives into a red-hot hell. That s a job 
 that would have puzzled Titian! I rob 
 you, Paul (of an appointment) to pay 
 Saint Peter that s the name of the new 
 church. 
 
 " So long, 
 
 " CHARI.EV.
 
 a (Tale of dvventg=five l&ours. 13 
 
 "P.S. I ve been trying to read this 
 and it seems scarcely legible. I see I 
 haven t put in the commas and things. 
 Season to suit yourself. I hold that 
 punctuation is the thief of time. 
 
 "C.V." 
 
 Stuyvesant read this brief letter with 
 some surprise. He did not understand 
 the reason given for the cancelling of the 
 engagement. He glanced again over 
 the letter, and he remarked in it what 
 seemed to him like forced gayety. The 
 humor struck him as artificial. It seemed 
 to him almost as though the note were the 
 result of an effort. In general, Charley 
 was as light-hearted a young fellow as 
 could be found in all New York, and he 
 had a flow of spirits as far removed as 
 possible from any suggestion of strain. 
 And yet this was not the first time that 
 Stuyvesant had seen signs of a certain 
 constraint in Charley Vaughn. 
 
 Paul laid the letter on one side and be 
 gan his breakfast. As he poured out his 
 coffee he remarked that the tray was not 
 quite level ; one corner was higher than
 
 u B Cale of Cvventgsfitfe tt>ours. 
 
 the other; and beneath it he found a thin 
 little book, inside of which was a bundle 
 of slips of paper. In clearing off the 
 table he had overlooked this. He recog 
 nized it at once as the pass-book which 
 he had sent to the Metropolitan National 
 Bank to be balanced, and which he must 
 have taken out of his pocket the night be 
 fore. The bundle of slips was a collec 
 tion of the checks which he had drawn 
 during the past six months. 
 
 Only half a year before had Paul Stuy- 
 vesant opened his first bank-account, de 
 positing the check for the salary of his 
 professorship. Old as he was, a check 
 book was still a novelty to him; and it 
 was with a boyish pleasure that he broke 
 the band which encircled the thin bundle 
 and began to turn over the cancelled 
 checks. Here was the very check he had 
 drawn to pay for the engagement-ring he 
 had given to Katharine Vaughn. Not a 
 few of the others could be connected with 
 her more or less directly. There was 
 another, drawn in payment of the little 
 supper after the theatre-party which he 
 had given her, and which Mrs. Duncan
 
 B Cale of GwentE=five Ibours. 15 
 
 had kindly matronized the supper at 
 which Charley had flirted so funnily with 
 the pretty girl from Yonkers. Yet a 
 third was to the order of a florist; and as 
 he looked at it there arose a vision of 
 Katharine Vaughn as she stood before 
 him at the ball, radiantly beautiful, su 
 premely happy, and holding in her hand 
 the bunch of roses he had provided for 
 her. 
 
 As Stuyvesant turned this check over, 
 he took up the one beneath it. He rec 
 ognized that also, and he knew where the 
 money had gone. The check was to the 
 order of Charles Vaughn ; and it had been 
 posted to him only a fortnight before, to 
 pay Paul s slight losses the last time they 
 had played poker. He had been unlucky 
 that evening, and he had not yet forgotten 
 the four deuces with which Charley had 
 beaten his ace-full. He smiled, as the 
 recollection of a good game of poker 
 seems to make most Americans smile. 
 As he turned the check over on the others, 
 he was struck by the indorsements. Most 
 of the checks had been deposited at once 
 by the payees. This alone had appar-
 
 16 a Gale of wentE*fh>e 1bour0. 
 
 ently passed from hand to hand, almost 
 as though it were a bank-note. There 
 were four names on the back : Charley 
 had given it to M. Zalinski, who had in 
 dorsed it to the order of James Burt, and 
 he in turn had passed it along to Elipha- 
 let Duncan. Now, Stuyvesant knew Eli- 
 phalet Duncan as well as he knew Charley 
 Vaughn. That a check which he had 
 given to Charley should find its way into 
 the hands of Eliphalet, after passing 
 through those of two unknown men like 
 M. Zalinski and James Burt, struck him 
 as peculiar. M. Zalinski the name 
 seemed somehow familiar, although he 
 could not place it at once; the hand 
 writing was stiff and foreign: probably 
 the man was a Polish Jew. The signa 
 ture of James Burt was bold and irregu 
 lar, as though it was the result of main 
 strength misapplied. 
 
 Stuyvesant turned over the rest of his 
 checks carelessly as he went on with his 
 breakfast. Then he took up the Gotham 
 Gazette, while he smoked a cigarette with 
 his coffee. The newspaper happened to 
 be so folded that the eighth page was
 
 a Gale of wentE=fiv>e Tbours. 17 
 
 under his eye. He had not more than 
 glanced down the first column before he 
 checked the cup which he was raising to 
 his lips. A curt paragraph informed the 
 readers of the Gotham Gazette that the 
 case of James Burt, charged before Police 
 Justice Van Dam with having burglars 
 tools in his possession, was postponed 
 until the following Wednesday, at the 
 request of his lawyer, Mr. Eliphalet 
 Duncan. 
 
 Stuyvesant laid down the paper and 
 stared straight before him in deep 
 thought. He had found, apparently, the 
 connecting link between two of the four 
 indorsements on his check. James Burt 
 had paid it over to Eliphalet Duncan as 
 a retainer. That seemed simple enough. 
 But who was M. Zalinski? And how 
 came Charley Vaughn to be paying money 
 to a man who had dealings with a burg 
 lar? These questions he put to himself 
 repeatedly, and he found no answer. 
 Charley was neither eccentric nor fast; 
 and it was no easy task to account for his 
 having passed Stuyvesant s check to a 
 man who had passed it on again to a
 
 is a ale of 
 
 house-breaker. The combination of cir 
 cumstances was singular, certainly, but 
 probably it was of no significance what 
 ever. Charley had behaved queerly of 
 late in more ways than one, it was true; 
 but no doubt he could explain in a few 
 words this curious linking of his name 
 with a malefactor s. Paul said to him 
 self that he was attaching too much im 
 portance to a trifle, and that a perfectly 
 innocent explanation would be forthcom 
 ing in due time. Of course, if Charley 
 were in trouble in any way, Stuyvesant 
 would do all that he could to help the 
 boy out. Katharine Vaughn was a bond 
 between them, all the stronger, since the 
 girl was unusually proud and fond of her 
 clever, light-hearted brother. Paul was 
 very fond of Charley for his own sake 
 also, and he was ready to go great 
 lengths, if he could relieve the young 
 fellow from any worry which might be 
 wearing on him. 
 
 For a few minutes Paul sat silently 
 thinking, and not conscious of the series 
 of concentric smoke-rings which he was 
 blowing, one through the other When
 
 21 Cale of CwentE=fh>e Tbours. 19 
 
 his cigarette burned down and scorched 
 his fingers, he aroused himself. Light 
 ing a second cigarette, he took up the 
 newspaper again. He turned it, and on 
 the first page he found this despatch from 
 Paris, set forth with a hydra-like profu 
 sion of "display heads:" 
 
 " THE EXTRAORDINARY THEFT OF A 
 PICTURE! 
 
 " The art world of Paris was thrown 
 into a high state of excitement to-day by 
 a rumor that the great painting of Mary 
 Magdalen, by Titian, had been stolen 
 from the handsome apartment of Mr. 
 Samuel Sargent, the well-known Ameri 
 can millionaire and chief owner of the 
 Transcontinental Telegraph Company. 
 This is the great picture which was so 
 romantically recovered two years ago, 
 after having been lost to sight for nearly 
 two centuries. It was painted in Ferrara 
 in 1520 for Lucrezia Borgia, and it had 
 been lost since the beginning of the eigh 
 teenth century. It is a single head, 
 trea ted in the great artist s most glorious 
 manner. Mr. Sargent has been away in
 
 20 B Cale of GwentB=five Ibours. 
 
 Russia for more than six months, leaving 
 his magnificently decorated apartment in 
 the Avenue de 1 Opera locked up. When 
 it was opened, the Mary Magdalen was 
 gone. It had been cut from the frame. 
 The police do not know when the robbery 
 had been committed ; but they say they 
 have a clew to the thieves." 
 
 Here followed a brief description of 
 the scene of the crime, with a further ac 
 count of the stolen picture, including the 
 dimensions of the canvas. 
 
 "Now, that is really very curious in 
 deed," said Stuyvesant to himself. This 
 is the second paragraph in to-day s paper 
 which is of interest to Charley." 
 
 Just then there came a sharp knock at 
 the door.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT RECEIVES A VISIT. 
 
 JTUYVESANT looked up as he 
 cried, " Come in!" 
 
 The door opened, and 
 Charley Vaughn appeared. 
 He walked straight to the blazing fire 
 and began rubbing his hands. 
 
 Charley Vaughn was a lively little fel 
 low, with curly blonde hair and a quizzi 
 cal face. He wore a pair of eye-glasses, 
 behind which his sharp blue eyes were 
 never still. 
 
 "Is it very cold out ?" asked Stuyve- 
 sant. 
 
 "It isn t the cold I mind," Charley re 
 plied, taking a cigarette from a cup of 
 cloisonne enamel which stood on the 
 mantelpiece. "It s the confounded un 
 certainty of the thing. I m in Green 
 land s icy mountains one clay and on 
 India s coral strand the next. In the
 
 22 8 tTale of tr\v>entE=five Hjours. 
 
 course of a week Old Probabilities serves 
 us up a great deal of weather of assorted 
 sizes: if you don t see what you want, 
 ask for it." 
 
 "If you want a match, you will find a 
 box on the book-case behind you," sug 
 gested Stuyvesant, smiling. 
 
 "Thank you," returned Charley 
 gravely. " Let me beg of you not to 
 rise. I can help myself. I should hate 
 to put you to any inconvenience." 
 
 He lighted his cigarette, and then took 
 up a favorite masculine position on the 
 hearth-rug, with his back to the fire and 
 his feet well apart. His eyes fell on the 
 breakfast-tray. 
 
 "You got my letter, I see, " he said, 
 watching Stuyvesant closely. 
 
 "Yes," answered Paul dryly. 
 
 There was an awkward pause for a few 
 seconds. Charley kept his eyes on his 
 host until Stuyvesant happened to look 
 up; their glances met, and the guest, with 
 a little nervous laugh, dropped his gaze to 
 the floor. 
 
 "I came in to explain how it is," 
 Charley began, in a hesitating way, in
 
 H Cale of awentE=fi\>e "fcours. 23 
 
 marked contrast with his usual glib 
 speech. 
 
 Stuyvesant smoked on silently. 
 
 "I can tell you how it is," pursued 
 Charley. " I like the Bishop of Tuxedo: 
 he s a white man, for all he s a gospel- 
 sharp. And so I thought you wouldn t 
 mind my postponing our engagement for 
 to-morrow. " 
 
 There was another awkward pause, and 
 then Stuyvesant said : 
 
 I thought you hated stained glass 
 with a holy hatred?" 
 
 " I do hate it, of course; but 
 
 " But you like the bishop so much that 
 you are willing to make an exception in 
 his favor? " 
 
 "Exactly," said Charley, quickly seiz 
 ing at the explanation obligingly offered. 
 
 " Ah! " Stuyvesant rejoined, with sig 
 nificance. 
 
 " Now, what do you mean by that con 
 temptible ah! ? " cried Charley with a 
 show of indignation. 
 
 "Nothing," answered Stuyvesant, 
 coolly " nothing much. Only this, in 
 fact, that I heard you say last week that
 
 24 a Gale of wentg=fix>e 1bour0. 
 
 you would as soon compose music spe 
 cially for the hand-organ as make a design 
 for stained glass, in the execution of 
 which the artist was wholly at the mercy 
 of the artisan." 
 
 "Did I say that?" asked Charley pit 
 ifully. 
 
 "I heard you," was the uncompromis 
 ing reply. 
 
 "Oh, well," the artist responded at 
 last, " if you are going to search my rec 
 ord, and try to pile up petty inconsist 
 encies, I shall not say another word. Of 
 course, there isn t anything to explain." 
 
 Here he glanced again at Stuyvesant 
 sharply; and again Stuyvesant looked up 
 and caught his eye. 
 
 "Can he suspect anything?" thought 
 Charley. " He studies my face as though 
 my secret were written there in black and 
 white." 
 
 "What is the matter with the boy?" 
 was Paul s mental query. "He is not 
 straightforward with me this morning. I 
 wonder what he has on his mind ? " 
 
 "You lawyers are always so sharp," 
 said Charley, at last. " You seem to
 
 H Gale of Gwentfive Ibours. 25 
 
 think you have the whole world in the 
 witness-box. By the way, how is the big 
 book getting on?" And he made a ges 
 ture toward the pile of manuscript on the 
 table. 
 
 Stuyvesant saw his chance, and seized 
 it promptly. 
 
 "It s a long job, of course, " he said, 
 " and I have hard work to get all the ma 
 terial I need. I think I shall go down 
 and ask Eliphalet Duncan if he has some 
 fresher facts for me. You know he has 
 been engaged in several important crim 
 inal cases." 
 
 "Has he?" asked Charley, with indif 
 ference. 
 
 "I see by the paper this morning," 
 Stuyvesant went on, "that he is to defend 
 an alleged burglar James Burt." 
 
 He never took his eyes from Vaughn s 
 face, but the face made no sign. 
 
 "I believe," continued Stuyvesant, 
 "that this Burt is a pal of Zalinski s. " 
 
 "Of Mike Zalinski s?" Charley in 
 quired eagerly. 
 
 " That is the man s name, probably," 
 Paul answered. " Do you know him ?
 
 26 B Cale of Cwentg=fiv>e fjours. 
 
 "I ve met him," said Charley. 
 
 Stuyvesant did not like to push the 
 matter farther. He felt that it was im 
 possible for him to ask Charley what his 
 connection with Zalinski might be. 
 There was something in his young friend s 
 manner which he had never seen there be 
 fore. It was a vague restlessness a sort 
 of subdued feverishness. 
 
 " Don t you feel well, Charley?" Paul 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 " Why shouldn t I feel well ? " he replied 
 indignantly. 
 
 " I thought you looked worn or wor 
 ried," Stuyvesant returned. " That s why 
 I asked you." 
 
 "Oh, I m all right," Charley rejoined. 
 "I m as chubby as a cherub, and as 
 chipper as a chipmunk." 
 
 " If I can do anything for you 
 began Stuyvesant. 
 
 "But you can t," interrupted Charley 
 hastily. "Can you minister to a mind 
 diseased? I mean, can t you be satisfied 
 until I pack myself up in paper-shavings, 
 as if I were imported glass-ware this 
 side up, with care?" And, as though
 
 H Cale of wentB*five 1bour0. 27 
 
 anxious to change the subject, he went 
 over to his friend s portrait. 
 
 "That s not bad, you know, though I 
 say it as shouldn t," he remarked, as he 
 drew off and examined the picture crit 
 ically. "I don t believe I shall ever get 
 the values better than I did then. The 
 color s pretty harsh in some places, 
 though. But the composition isn t so 
 queer,after all. You see, Paul, you stoop, 
 and one of your shoulders is higher than 
 the other: most people wouldn t notice 
 it, perhaps." 
 
 "Thank you," said the subject. 
 
 "You needn t thank me," replied the 
 painter; "I saw it plainly enough, and 
 that s why I posed you as I did. I flatter 
 myself that I made Art conceal the de 
 fects of Nature." 
 
 "Go on," Stuyvesant laughed, "go on! 
 Don t mind my feelings." 
 
 "I don t," said Vaughn. "When 1 
 stand before a portrait I know no mercy ; 
 I forget all friendship; I ignore all the 
 conventions of civilization. That is why 
 I dd not hesitate to tell you that one side 
 of your head is all out of drawing." 
 3
 
 28 a Cale of Gwent=ffve fbours. 
 
 " In your picture? " 
 
 " On your body." 
 
 " Now, Charley " began Stuyve- 
 
 sant, half laughing and half piqued. 
 
 " It is the frozen verity," the artist in 
 sisted. "You have no right to hold me 
 responsible for the blunders of Nature. 
 The most I could do was to try and in 
 vent a scheme of color that would distract 
 attention from the defects of the subject; 
 and I think I have succeeded fairly well 
 in that." 
 
 "Am I to understand that, if you had 
 done me exact justice, I should appear on 
 the canvas deformed?" 
 
 "No, "replied Charley gravely; "no, 
 it is not as bad as that. In the main, 
 you are not much amiss " 
 
 "A thousand thanks " 
 
 "But one side of your head is out of 
 drawing; that I have said, and that I 
 stick to! But I doubt if one man in a 
 million, or even if one artist i-n ten, would 
 find it out. You see that there is a glow 
 to the picture, a richness and a mellow 
 ness like those of the best portraits of the 
 great Venetians. And that is the result
 
 B Gale of Cwentsfiv?e Ibours. 29 
 
 of using the marvellous medium I discov 
 ered after I once had a chance to restore 
 a Sasso-Ferrato. I stretch my canvas 
 myself, and I prime it myself, as the 
 old masters used to do. Then I lay 
 on the color with a medium of my own 
 compounding. When I retire from busi 
 ness I shall reveal the secret of that 
 medium, and the whole world of pain 
 ters will rise up and call me blessed. 
 With that medium and a little touch of a 
 varnish I know, I can make a cow-boy as 
 romantic as a bull-fighter. I can shine 
 up a picture of mine until it glows almost 
 like a Titian." 
 
 " Have you seen the Gotham Gazette this 
 morning?" asked Stuyvesant suddenly. 
 
 " No. Why ? " 
 
 "There s a cable despatch in it which 
 will interest you." 
 
 " Has the Queen at last discovered my 
 genius? Has she cabled to the President 
 requesting him to engage me to paint her 
 portrait?" asked the artist. 
 
 " The news does not refer to you di 
 rectly. No doubt her majesty will send 
 for you some day, and perhaps you will
 
 30 B Gale of awents=five Ibours. 
 
 tell her that her royal head is out of 
 drawing too." 
 
 " I see that my truthful criticism of 
 your anatomical imperfections still ran 
 kles in your shallow soul. Go on with 
 the news. Of course, if it does not refer 
 to me personally by name, I cannot think 
 it important." 
 
 "The Mary Magdalen of Titian is 
 stolen," Stuyvesant said. 
 
 " They have found that out at last, have 
 they?" was the artist s reply. 
 
 "What do you mean by that ?" asked 
 Stuyvesant surprised. "How did you 
 know that it had been taken?" 
 
 Charley Vaughn looked up, as though 
 in wonder at the other s vehemence. 
 
 " I never supposed he came by it hon 
 estly," he answered after a pause. 
 
 " He ? " returned Paul. " Who ? " 
 
 " The man in whose possession I found 
 it first; in fact, I used to regret that I 
 didn t take it and keep it for myself when 
 I first saw it," Charley replied, and his 
 voice became more enthusiastic as he 
 continued: "You don t know what a 
 marvel it is. Titian never did anything
 
 a Cale of Cwentgsfive fjours. 31 
 
 else as good. The drawing is masterly, 
 and the coloring is incomparable. I 
 have never seen a picture I would rather 
 steal." 
 
 "Are you in the habit of stealing pict 
 ures?" asked Stuyvesant grimly. 
 
 "No," Vaughn answered as gravely; 
 " but I would make an exception in favor 
 of this one." After a momentary pause, 
 he added: " Let me see the paper." 
 
 Stuyvesant passed it to him, and he 
 read the paragraph slowly. 
 
 "I see," he said, as he laid the news 
 paper down again and lighted a fresh cig 
 arette. " This time there is no doubt 
 that somebody has carried it off. The 
 man, whoever he is, has a treasure, but it 
 is a treasure he will have to keep to him 
 self; he cannot show it to his friends; 
 he cannot boast of it; he cannot sell it; 
 he cannot let any one even suspect that he 
 has it in his possession. I can under 
 stand how he feels, poor fellow! " 
 
 "Are you pitying the thief?" asked 
 Stuyvesant. 
 
 "You are not an artist, and you have 
 never seen that picture, or you couldn t
 
 32 8 Gale of tIwentg*fiY>e f>ours. 
 
 help pitying a man who had in his posses 
 sion a gem of the first water, which he 
 dare not display, and which he can enjoy 
 only by stealth." 
 
 "When did you see it last?" inquired 
 Stuyvesant. 
 
 "I d sooner tell you when I saw it 
 first," replied Charley, after a moment s 
 hesitation. "You know I am almost the 
 rediscoverer of that picture. I saw it in 
 the window of a brocanteur, near the 
 Chateau d Eau, in Paris, one day about 
 four years ago. It was dusty and dirty, 
 and the frame was almost broken to bits; 
 but when my eye lighted on it I was fas 
 cinated. I went in and asked the man 
 what he wanted for it. He said he had 
 just given the refusal of it to a gentleman 
 who was to return at three o clock. If 
 he didn t take it I could have it for a 
 thousand francs. I examined the picture 
 carefully, and I felt sure that it was a 
 genuine Titian, and one of his best. I 
 tried to beat the man down, of course, 
 and told him it was impious to ask a 
 thousand francs for an old crust like that. 
 But he retorted that I needn t buy it if I
 
 B (Talc of CwentBsfive t>our0. 33 
 
 didn t like it, and that, even if I did like 
 it, the other gentleman had the refusal. 
 As I looked at the picture, the longing 
 for it grew on me. In my head I went 
 over a list of the people I could ask to 
 lend me a thousand francs. Of course, I 
 hadn t any money on hand. It was near 
 the end of the month, and I was living 
 on three francs a day, and there was a 
 month s rent due. At last I made up my 
 mind that I would take the picture and 
 the seller with me in a cab to the bank 
 er s, and I would vouch for the value of 
 the picture, and ask them to lend me the 
 money to buy it. I didn t dare go away, 
 for fear I should lose the chance. It was 
 not twelve when I caught sight of it, and 
 I waited there until three. Five minutes 
 before the time expired, a gentleman 
 came into the shop, and my heart dropped 
 into my boots, P. D. Q. I knew him by 
 sight: he was the manager of the London 
 branch of a great firm of French picture- 
 dealers. As soon as I saw him, I knew 
 that my chance was clean gone. He paid 
 the thousand francs, and he had the pict 
 ure put into his carriage. Just as lie
 
 34 H Gale of awentgsffve l>ours. 
 
 \va.s driving off, I mustered up courage to 
 ask what he would take for his bargain. 
 I spoke French, but my tongue betrayed 
 me, and he answered in English that he 
 expected that his morning s work would 
 pay a profit of ten thousand pounds only 
 this, and nothing more." 
 
 "Ten thousand pounds?" repeated 
 Stuyvesant. " Is this Mary Magdalen 
 worth anything like that?" 
 
 " They sold it to Sam Sargent for three 
 hundred thousand francs," replied the 
 artist indignantly. "That s the sort of 
 thing that makes Communists. I wanted 
 that picture, and I could have appreciated 
 it. Sargent got it, and he doesn t know 
 the difference between Giorgione and 
 Georges Ohnet: he deserved to have it 
 stolen from him. He kept it shut up, so 
 that it was very hard for any one to get 
 at it." 
 
 " From the way you received the news, 
 Charley," said Stuyvesant, "and from 
 what you said, I was beginning to think 
 that the theft was some great practical 
 joke, and that you knew the picture was 
 gone some time ago."
 
 B Gate of GwentE*fix>e t>ours. 35 
 
 "I confess the news didn t surprise 
 me," the artist answered. "A clever 
 man would have no great difficulty in get 
 ting into Sargent s apartments while he 
 was away." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " Stuyvesant 
 asked. 
 
 Charley Vaughn flushed up as though 
 he had made an awkward admission. 
 
 "Never mind how I know," he an 
 swered. " Let s change the subject. Are 
 you going skating to-day?" 
 
 "I don t know," Stuyvesant returned. 
 "I am going to call on Kitty at twelve, 
 and if she likes 
 
 "I see: you will do as you are bid. 
 Happy man, you are under petticoat gov 
 ernment already! 
 
 1 Life, young man, is only 
 
 A slippery sheet of ice ; 
 No girls there, it s lonely 
 One girl there, it s nice. " 
 
 And with this he went toward the door. 
 "Good-morning," said Stuyvesant. 
 When Charley Vaughn reached the door, 
 he paused as though in doubt. Then he
 
 36 B Gale of zrwents*f!x>e Ibours. 
 
 turned, and in a hesitating way and with 
 an obvious effort he spoke again: 
 
 "I say, Paul, are you superstitious 
 like the Irish gentleman who wouldn t 
 commit suicide on Friday because it was 
 an unlucky day?" 
 
 " Why ? " asked Stuyvesant. 
 
 "Oh, I don t know," replied Char 
 ley, grasping the door-knob again. " I 
 thought I d ask that s all. Some fel 
 lows are afraid of doing anything impor 
 tant on Friday." 
 
 " I am not," Stuyvesant returned. 
 
 "Neither am I," said Charley. "So 
 long! See you later. I really must ex 
 ude now."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT PAYS A VISIT. 
 
 [FTER Charley Vaughn left 
 him, Stuyvesant remained for 
 a minute or two in thought. 
 There was something in the 
 boy s manner that the elder man did not 
 like. There was a certain suggestion of 
 restraint all through the interview. Just 
 what this peculiarity might be, Paul 
 could not precisely define for himself, but 
 it seemed to him as though Charley were 
 laboring under a suppressed excitement. 
 Beyond all question, the young fellow was 
 suffering from some tension of the nerves. 
 Arid Stuyvesant could not help wondering 
 whether this was due in any way to his 
 relations with the M. Zalinski to whom 
 he had given a check which M. Zalinski 
 had passed to a burglar. 
 
 Still turning these things over in his 
 mind, Stuyvesant threw his cigarette into
 
 38 H Cale of SwentEsfipe f>our0. 
 
 the fire and began to dress to go out. 
 When the elevator came up to take him 
 down he caught himself looking in the 
 broad mirror which filled one side of that 
 aerial vehicle. Unwittingly he had been 
 examining his own appearance in the 
 looking-glass. A sudden blush mantled 
 his cheek; and then he smiled as he 
 thought that six months before he never 
 would have dreamed of looking in a mir 
 ror. It was the desire to appear well in 
 her eyes which tended to make a fop of 
 him. He smiled again as he reflected 
 that even the wayfaring man, though a 
 fool, might know that he was going to see 
 the woman he loved. 
 
 When he came out on the street a sharp 
 wind struck him, and he set out briskly. 
 
 Under the influence of the rapid walk 
 and the bracing breeze Stuyvesant s spirits 
 rose, and he succeeded in throwing aside 
 the vague feeling of depression which had 
 overshadowed him ever since he had seen 
 the name of James Burt on the check he 
 had given to Charley Vaughn. As he 
 breathed the pure air and as the exercise 
 sent the blood to his cheeks, he began to
 
 Sale of CwentE=five t>ours. 
 
 take a more cheerful view of the matter. 
 Before he reached the door he was calling 
 himself a fool for having attached any 
 importance at all to what was probably a 
 mere coincidence of no significance what 
 ever. 
 
 Mrs. Vaughn s house was on a side-street 
 only a few blocks above the square which 
 Stuyvesant s apartments overlooked. It 
 was a very little house, barely fifteen 
 feet wide, trying vainly to make up in 
 height what it lacked in breadth. Small 
 as it was, however, it was amply large 
 enough for its occupants, Mrs. Vaughn 
 and her daughter Katharine. Mrs. 
 Vaughn was a widow with only two chil 
 dren, Charles and Katharine. They had 
 each an income fairly sufficient to satisfy 
 them if their wishes were modest and 
 their administration economical. Charles 
 had been able to study at the Paris 
 School of Fine Arts and to spend a year 
 in Italy, chiefly at Venice. Katharine 
 and her mother had always lived together; 
 and Charles, although he had set up for 
 himself and had a bedroom adjoining his 
 studio, was very frequently at his mother s
 
 40 a Gale of C\ventB=fh>e f>ours, 
 
 house. He was a good son, as Katha 
 rine was a good daughter; and the mother 
 and her children lived happily. 
 
 Stuyvesant was ushered into a rear 
 parlor, miscalled the library. In reality 
 it was Miss Vaughn s sitting-room, and 
 it reflected the presence of a young lady 
 of a charming diversity of taste. 
 
 As Stuyvesant entered this pretty room 
 of a pretty girl and took a seat amid its 
 characteristic disorder, a bright voice 
 came floating down from the floor above : 
 
 "Is that you, Paul? Oh, I m so glad! 
 Just wait. I ll be down in a minute." 
 
 A minute passed, and two, and ten 
 and Paul still sat in lonely silence. He 
 began to be a little impatient. He rose, 
 and walked up and down the room three 
 or four times. Then he took up a mag 
 azine, and, resuming his seat, he turned 
 its leaves with indifference. A paper on 
 "Political Cohesion" caught his eye, and 
 in a few seconds he became absorbed in it. 
 
 So absorbed was he that he did not 
 hear the light rustle of a dress as Katha 
 rine Vaughn floated airily downstairs. 
 He had his back to her, and she came be-
 
 a Cale of {TwentE=fiv>e t>ours. 41 
 
 hind him and clasped her hands over his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Guess who it is! " she cried. 
 
 "And what reward shall I have if I 
 guess aright ? " he answered gravely. 
 
 "I don t know," was her reply. 
 
 "But I know what I shall insist on," 
 said Stuyvesant. " It is Kitty! " 
 
 " Somebody must have told you! " was 
 her laughing confession as she withdrew 
 her hands. 
 
 "And this is the reward I claim," said 
 Stuyvesant, as he sprang up and clasped 
 her in his arms and kissed her. 
 
 "Don t, Paul," she cried, "don t! 
 You will muss my hair, and I ve just 
 been fixing it. There, that will do." 
 
 "Just one more," he pleaded. 
 
 "Well, then, just one." 
 
 He took two. 
 
 "And now," she said, "sit down where 
 I can see you, and behave like a lady, 
 and not like a great, big, rough bear! " 
 
 Stuyvesant obeyed her, and took a seat 
 on a sofa; she came and sat down by his 
 side. Probably no one who might see a 
 photograph of Miss Katharine Vaughn
 
 42 a {Tale of Cwentg*fiv>e fjours. 
 
 would call her handsome, but certainly 
 no one could talk to her half an hour 
 without declaring her charming. Her 
 face was not sufficiently dignified or reg 
 ular to deserve to be accepted as beauti 
 ful, but she had lively eyes, a bright 
 smile, lovely light golden hair, which 
 clustered in little curls behind her ears 
 and around her neck, and she was re 
 ceived as a pretty girl in a city where 
 there is no lack of pretty girls. Perhaps 
 her charm lay rather in her manner than 
 in her looks in her expression, in her 
 variety, in her brilliancy. But that she 
 was charming no one who knew her well 
 would ever dream of denying; that she 
 was pretty, few would dispute; and that 
 she was really beautiful, Paul Stuyvesant 
 believed as he believed in the immortal 
 ity of his soul. 
 
 " Don t you want to come out for a 
 walk?" asked Stuyvesant, when the first 
 fervor of the meeting was over. 
 
 "I want to walk, of course," she an 
 swered, "but I can t. I meant to have 
 told you yesterday evening, but I forgot. 
 At one o clock I m going to a grabiola."
 
 B Cale of GwentEsfive ttours. 43 
 
 "A what? "he inquired, surprised by 
 this strange vocable. 
 
 "A grabiola," she replied, laughing: 
 "that s what I call it. It is a girls 
 lunch where there are so many of us that 
 we don t sit down, but have to stand 
 around and grab our food the best way we 
 can. That s a grabiola. I hate em 
 generally; even regular sit-down lunch 
 eons are poky enough, goodness knows." 
 And then if you could hear the way 
 some of those girls talk, you would be 
 scared out of your seven senses. Are 
 there seven senses, or five, or three ? I 
 always forget," she asked with amusing 
 frankness 
 
 " And how can you expect me to remem 
 ber, " he answered gallantly, "when you 
 know that I always lose my senses in 
 your presence ? " 
 
 "That s not so bad for a beginning," 
 said the young lady. " Go up head ! " 
 
 It is to be noted that Miss Katharine 
 Vaughn had caught from her artist brother 
 a certain pictorial vivacity of language 
 which often came perilously close to the 
 verge of slang. But her lover was under 
 4
 
 44 a Cale of Gwentgsfive f)ours. 
 
 the spell, as a lover should be, and he was 
 ready to pick up for a pearl or a ruby 
 whatever might fall from her lips. 
 
 " I do wish you could just hear those 
 girls talk," she went on: "sometimes I 
 can t even get in a word edgeways." 
 
 "Not even a sharp one?" he inquired, 
 smiling 
 
 "Now, that isn t fair, Paul. Indeed, 
 it is really unkind! Have I ever said a 
 sharp word to you ? " And she looked at 
 him appealingly. 
 
 "My dear Kitty," he hastened to pro 
 test, "I didn t mean to insinuate 
 
 "If you didn t mean it, why did you do 
 it? "she retorted. "That s what Mme. 
 Parlier used to say to us at school. You 
 didn t know me, Paul, when I was in the 
 graduating class at Mme. Parlier s Insti 
 tute for Young Ladies! French is the 
 language of the school. I used to trans 
 late slang into French. Sometimes she 
 really strained herself trying to guess 
 what I meant by saying, Eh bien, jc 
 sourirais, and Ccla prcnd le gateau. We 
 did have dead loads of fun sometimes." 
 
 " Did Mme. Parlier have dead loads of
 
 B Cale of GwentB=fix>e f3our0. 45 
 
 fun also ? " asked Stuyvesant. " I suppose 
 she was like the frog in the fable: what 
 was fun to you was death to her." 
 
 "We didn t kill her. She is as fat and 
 as jolly as ever. I go to see her two or 
 three times a year. She always asks me 
 if we are keeping up our studies. Last 
 time I saw her she asked if I could speak 
 Italian yet, and I answered that I couldn t 
 exactly speak Italian, but I could still 
 dance the German. I think that puzzled 
 her a little. Now I really must send 
 you away. I have lots to do before I go 
 to lunch. I haven t had a minute to my 
 self all day, and I shan t have. You 
 needn t smile just as if you men did all 
 the work and we women were mere idlers. " 
 
 Stuyvesant inquired what it was which 
 had kept her so busy. 
 
 "Well, at nine o clock this morning I 
 had to be at the Industrial School 
 
 "To learn industry?" he asked hastily. 
 
 "To teach poor children how to sew," 
 she answered. " Incidentally they learn 
 manners also; and if you would like to 
 take lessons, perhaps you had better ap 
 ply for admission.
 
 46 a Sale of Gwentgsfive fjours. 
 
 Stuyvesant laughed lightly as she made 
 this quick return. 
 
 " And what else have you done to-day ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "At half -past ten I went to Mrs. Dun 
 can s, where our Shakespeare Club met. 
 Gladys Tennant and I read two acts of 
 As You Like It. " 
 
 " Do you know why you remind me of 
 Rosalind ? " he asked. 
 
 "I suppose she was good-looking," she 
 replied pertly. 
 
 " That s not the reason." 
 
 "Then what is it?" 
 
 "Because," Stuyvesant answered, "I 
 can say of you what Orlando said of Ros 
 alind. You are just as high as my 
 heart. " 
 
 "Really, Paul," she said, rising, "as 
 long as you say pretty things like that I 
 shall hate to turn you out. But I must 
 dress .now, or I m sure to be late. I ll 
 be good to you, though. You can come 
 back forme let s see: after lunch. I m 
 going to the New York Hospital. You 
 can come at half-past four and walk there 
 with me."
 
 H Gale of tlwcntBsfire "fcours. 47 
 
 " What on earth takes you to the hospi 
 tal ? " wasStuyvesant s surprised inquiry. 
 
 "You will take me there if you come 
 for me in time," was her answer. 
 
 " I mean, why are you going there ? " 
 
 "To read to the children. A lot of us 
 girls have agreed to go twice a week, 
 and it s my turn this afternoon. The 
 Bishop of Tuxedo suggested it to us, just 
 before he went West." 
 
 " Isn t the Bishop of Tuxedo still here ?" 
 Stuyvesant asked, at once recalling her 
 brother s excuse for breaking his next 
 morning s appointment. 
 
 "He started on Monday, I think," was 
 her reply. 
 
 " And isn t he going to be back soon ? " 
 
 "Not unless you call three months 
 soon," she answered. "He told us last 
 Sunday he was going on a sort of tour of 
 inspection as far as California." 
 
 "Are you certain that he has gone?" 
 
 "Yes: one of the girls at the sewing- 
 school this morning said that she had 
 seen him driving down to the ferry. She 
 didn t say whether it was Monday or 
 Tuesday; but it was early in the week."
 
 48 a dale of Gwentgsfive "toours. 
 
 "And he will not be in town here to 
 morrow ? " Stuyvesant asked the question 
 with the vain hope that perhaps Charley 
 had not deceived him. 
 
 " Of course he won t be here to-morrow. 
 Didn t I tell you he was going West, 
 young man, to grow up with the coun 
 try?" 
 
 He did not answer her. It was with a 
 shock that he discovered that Charley 
 Vaughn had invented the reason for 
 breaking the appointment. Under other 
 circumstances, he would not have thought 
 twice about the matter; he would have 
 accepted the artist s elaborate excuse as 
 an ingenious fiction intended merely to 
 hide the real reason. But now, since he 
 had seen the name of James Burt on the 
 back of the check given to Charles 
 Vaughn, Stuyvesant was strangely sus 
 picious. He was in the frame of mind in 
 which a man is ready to twist things in 
 nocent enough in themselves into a start 
 ling semblance of wrong. He was con 
 scious of this himself, and he tried to 
 throw off the cloak of doubt and distrust 
 which enveloped him.
 
 Gale of Gwentgsfive f>our0. 49 
 
 "Have you seen Charley to-day ?" he 
 asked, as Katharine Vaughn came with 
 him to the head of the stairs. 
 
 "I ve only seen him twice this week," 
 she answered. "And I wish he d come 
 oftener, for I don t think he s at all bright 
 just now." 
 
 So she had noticed it too, thought 
 Stuyvesant. 
 
 "I don t know what s the matter with 
 him," she continued. "At first I d an 
 idea that he might be in love. I didn t 
 like that at all, for of course I had meant 
 to pick out the girl myself that Charley 
 was to marry." 
 
 " Do you think that is what s the mat 
 ter with him ? " Stuyvesant asked eagerly, 
 hoping that some simple and natural rea 
 son like this might suffice to explain the 
 change in Charley s manner which both 
 his sister and his friend had noticed. 
 
 "I don t know," she answered. 
 " Charley in love would be a funny sight, 
 wouldn t it? You might sell tickets at 
 the door, and that alone would be worth 
 the entire price of admission. You know 
 that he is odd enough as it is, in some
 
 so a ale of went*fiv>e 1>ours. 
 
 ways. I don t know what to think about 
 it. He s always talking about his best 
 girl and his second-best girl; but he has 
 never told me who his best girl is. 
 That s very suspicious, isn t it?" 
 
 Stuyvesant asked whether she had no 
 ticed that her brother was attentive to any 
 particular young lady. 
 
 "He s attentive to them all, you know: 
 that s just the trouble," was her reply; 
 " he s so amusing, they all dote on him. 
 Perhaps he has been more taken with 
 Gladys Tennant than any one else; but I 
 haven t seen them together anywhere 
 lately, and Gladys never talks about 
 him. But do you remember how they 
 flirted together that night at your theatre- 
 party ?" 
 
 Stuyvesant reminded her that he had 
 met Miss Tennant only once, when she 
 had been invited by Kitty to the theatre- 
 party and to the following supper. Then 
 he asked her if she thought that her 
 brother was really interested in the young 
 lady. 
 
 "I don t know," was the reply. "I 
 thought he was beginning to take notice;
 
 H Gale of CvventB=fiv>e 1>ours. 51 
 
 but I wouldn t bet big money on it as 
 he would say." 
 
 "Is she interested in him?" he asked 
 next. 
 
 "I don t know about that, either," she 
 answered. "Of course she s a girl, and 
 doesn t let on how she feels or what she 
 thinks. She s been flirting lately with 
 Jack Dobbin you know that little 
 Frenchified dude who went to Paris a 
 year or two ago as Johnny Dobbin and 
 came back this fall with an imported ac 
 cent, now calls himself M. Jacques d Au- 
 ban, and says his ancestor drew a long 
 bow at the battle of Poictiers. When he 
 told me that I wanted to tell him that he 
 was following in the family footsteps 
 and drawing a long-bow now. But I 
 mustn t stay here chattering to you, or I 
 shall be late at the grabiola. " 
 
 They were standing at the top of the 
 stairs as she said this, but Stuyvesant 
 seemed in no hurry to descend them. 
 
 "Be off with you!" she cried, as she 
 saw that he made no movement to go. 
 
 "I m not in a hurry," he remarked 
 calmly.
 
 a ale of a\ventE=five Ibours. 
 
 "But I am. Where- are you going 
 now ? " 
 
 "Wherever you wish me to go." 
 
 " Then run down to Maiden Lane, and 
 tell them to hurry up that tennis-racket 
 of mine you took to be restrung. We 
 are going to play twice a week during 
 Lent. You can report about it when you 
 come here at half-past four to take me to 
 the hospital. And go at once, or I shall 
 be late at my lunch." 
 
 Probably Miss Katharine Vaughn was 
 a little late at that lunch, since it was 
 set for one o clock, and the factory- 
 whistles were shrilly announcing that 
 hour when Paul SUiyvesant left her 
 house.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT GOES DOWN-TOWN. 
 
 it was half-past one by the 
 broad dial of Trinity Church 
 when Stuyvesant turned into 
 Broadway from Maiden Lane, 
 having attended to Miss Vaughn s com 
 mission. He stood for a moment on the 
 corner irresolutely. He had nothing to 
 do and nowhere to go until the time came 
 to call again on her. Having begun the 
 day by oversleeping himself, he had given 
 himself up to laziness; and he knew that 
 he would accomplish little or nothing 
 even if he should summon up energy to 
 return to his apartments, where the in 
 complete manuscript of " A History of 
 Circumstantial Evidence" lay reproach 
 fully on his desk. 
 
 He glanced up and down the busy thor 
 oughfare, from which gangs of swarthy 
 laborers were rapidly removing the snow
 
 54 B ale of G:\vcnt=five Ibours. 
 
 now trodden into a dark mire. The sun 
 shone brightly, and the sharp breeze made 
 him button his coat and again put on his 
 sealskin gloves, which he had pocketed 
 while inquiring about the tennis-racket in 
 an overheated store. The bracing atmos 
 phere invited a walk, and Stuyvesant 
 turned his footsteps to the Battery, al 
 ways a favorite loitering-place of his. 
 
 And yet, long before he reached the 
 Battery, Stuyvesant stayed his feet and 
 turned aside. As he came almost in 
 front of Trinity Church, he suddenly rec 
 ollected that the office of Eliphalet Dun 
 can was in the Bowdoin Building, No. 
 76 Broadway. Ever since he had seen 
 Duncan s indorsement after James Burt s 
 on the check he had given to Charley 
 Vaughn, Paul had a desire to meet the 
 lawyer and to ask him well, he did not 
 know exactly what it was he wanted to 
 ask his friend. He could not get Charley 
 Vaughn out of his mind. Even the im 
 age of Kitty, vivid as it was usually, 
 was obscured by that of her brother. 
 Who was the M. Zalinski to whom 
 Charley had given the check ? And what
 
 B Gale of GwentE=five tours. 55 
 
 was his connection with the James Burt 
 whom Duncan was defending for having 
 burglars tools in his possession? 
 
 So it was that when Stuyvesant came 
 in front of the building where Duncan s 
 office was, he entered it; and the elevator 
 soon deposited him opposite the door 
 which bore his friend s name. 
 
 But Mr. Duncan was not in, so the 
 clerk told him. Mr. Duncan had re 
 turned from a reference a quarter of an 
 hour before, and he had only just gone 
 out to lunch. Would Mr. Stuyvesant 
 wait for him? he would probably return 
 in a few minutes. 
 
 Mr. Stuyvesant would not wait for him, 
 because Mr. Stuyvesant thought he knew 
 where he would find him without waiting. 
 
 In one of the small streets, almost 
 under the shadow of Trinity steeple, 
 there is a quaint little old house. It is, 
 indeed, one of the oldest houses in New 
 York; for it was built when New York 
 was yet New Amsterdam. It was once 
 the dwelling of a Dutch burgher trans 
 planted to the New World, where he had 
 sought to reproduce the comfort to which
 
 56 B Gale of GAventB=five Ibours. 
 
 he had been accustomed in his native 
 land. It was now decayed and worn with 
 years; its timbers were rotting at last, 
 and its floors were uneven. It had been 
 patched and braced up and treated with 
 reverent care ; but it was a very old house, 
 and its time was soon to be completed. 
 
 It was now occupied as a chop-house. 
 Within its dusky parlor, with its heavily 
 cobwebbed ceiling and its cleanly sanded 
 floor, the New Yorker came for his mid 
 day meal. The fare which could be had 
 there was simple and excellent. A chop 
 off the grill, a baked potato, a kidney, a 
 fresh mushroom, a porterhouse-steak 
 these were luxuries obtainable at Tom s 
 as they were to be had nowhere else in 
 America. The place was called Tom s. 
 Who Tom was, or rather who he had 
 been, and where he had lived, and where 
 he had gone these were all questions 
 which the frequenters of Tom s forbore 
 to ask, well knowing that they could get 
 no answer. The present proprietor was 
 a portly Englishman, who had once been 
 an actor. Such at least he was wont to 
 boast himself to a new customer after a
 
 B Gale of c:\vciitg=five fljours. 57 
 
 second mug of his own half-and-half. An 
 inquisitive reporter had, after a long and 
 difficult search, succeeded in finding the 
 playbill of a performance of "The School 
 for Scandal " at old Wallack s Theatre, on 
 Broadway, near Broome Street, on which 
 Mr. Hodges name appeared as the im 
 personator of Lady Sneerwell s servant. 
 Whatever Mr. Hodges histrionic faculty 
 or his theatrical reputation might be, be 
 fore he "retired to private life to keep a 
 public-house," no one could dispute the 
 quality of the refreshment he offered to 
 his customers; and, in consequence, the 
 two small rooms which constituted the 
 ground-floor of the little old house were 
 always inconveniently crowded from half- 
 past eleven to half-past two, six days out 
 of seven. What became of Tom s on 
 Sunday, or where Mr. Hodges spent that 
 day of rest, no man ever thought to ask. 
 It was here, in the little parlor of 
 Tom s, that Stuyvesant found his friend, 
 just about to beign on a kidney fresh 
 from the gridiron. At the moment Paul 
 entered the room the seat opposite to 
 Eliphalet Duncan s was vacated by a ro-
 
 58 a aale of Cwents=five t>ours. 
 
 bust stock-broker, who put on a showy 
 overcoat and strode forth with a stately 
 step which made the little old house 
 shake to its foundations. 
 
 Stuyvesant slipped into the vacant 
 seat, saying nothing, and waiting until 
 Duncan should look up. At last the law 
 yer raised his mug of ale to his mouth, 
 and his eyes were lifted from his plate. 
 
 "Paul Stuyvesant!" he cried in sur 
 prise. " How the deuce did you get in ? " 
 
 "Through the door," answered Stuy 
 vesant. " Is thy servant a spook, that he 
 should glide in through the wall or pass 
 up through the floor?" 
 
 " Now you are here, and however you 
 got here, have some lunch, "said the law 
 yer. 
 
 " I breakfasted late, and I have no ap 
 petite; but a kidney like the one on your 
 plate would tempt Lucullus after his 
 banquet." 
 
 Stuyvesant did not really want any 
 thing to eat. What he sought was an ex 
 cuse for sitting down with Duncan, in the 
 hope that the course of conversation 
 might so turn that he could twist in an
 
 a Gale of GwentE=fiv>e f)ours. 59 
 
 allusion to James Burt, and thus lead up 
 to an inquiry as to M. Zalinski. To ask 
 outright about either of them would force 
 him to declare the reason why he wanted 
 the information; and he was not willing 
 to mention Charley Vaughn s name care 
 lessly. He did not choose to confess, 
 even to himself, how anxious he was to 
 free his own mind from the strange doubts 
 which clouded it. 
 
 " Do you know anything about pict 
 ures?" asked Duncan rather abruptly, 
 after they had discussed two or three of 
 the minor topics of the day. 
 
 " I refuse to commit myself to a confes 
 sion of complete ignorance," answered 
 Stuyvesant. 
 
 "Of course," said Duncan. "But I 
 doubt if you know much more about them 
 than I do." 
 
 " That depends on how much you 
 know." 
 
 Stuyvesant laughed, and went on to ask 
 why his friend s thoughts had been turn- 
 ing- again to art. 
 
 " Because of that despatch in the paper 
 this morning," the lawyer answered, 
 5
 
 co a Gale of CwentBffre f>our0. 
 
 "about the stealing of that picture by 
 Titian. There s a thing I cannot un 
 derstand." 
 
 "What is there so extraordinary about 
 it?" asked Stuyvesant. 
 
 "That anyone should have stolen it 
 at all, that s what s extraordinary." 
 
 "But isn t the picture very valuable?" 
 
 "Of course," replied Duncan; "but 
 what good will that do the thief? He 
 can t sell it. Nobody will buy it. 
 Every man in the world who knows that 
 that picture is more valuable than a tea- 
 store chromo knows also this morning 
 that it has been stolen." 
 
 "I see," said Stuyvesant. "You mean 
 that the thief cannot profit by his theft." 
 
 " That is just what I do mean. He 
 might as well have stolen the Koh-i-noor, 
 for all the good it will do him." 
 
 "I should think the stealing of the 
 Koh-i-noor even a safer enterprise and 
 more likely to pay," Stuyvesant returned, 
 "because a big diamond can be broken 
 up, just as silver can be melted down." 
 
 " Of course," said Duncan. " And that 
 is what puzzles me. What did any man
 
 B (Talc of GAventE=ffv>e tours, ci 
 
 run the risk of prison to take that which 
 is of no use to him? That floors me, I 
 confess. Problems of criminal psychol 
 ogy have a strange fascination for me, 
 and I like to grapple with them resolutely. 
 I have been turning this one over and 
 over ever since I read the news at break 
 fast, and 1 am just as far from a solution 
 as ever." 
 
 " This is not the first time a picture has 
 been cut from the frame and .carried off," 
 suggested Stuyvesant. 
 
 " There have been other instances, I 
 know; but that doesn t help me to an 
 explanation," Duncan rejoined. "Some 
 times it has been done from malice, some 
 times with the hope of a reward for the 
 return of the stolen goods; and some 
 times, I think, the real cause has been 
 some sort of pictorial monomania on the 
 part of the thief." 
 
 "A strange madness that would be," 
 Stuyvesant commented. 
 
 "Of course, " said Duncan; "and yet 
 not so very strange. That a man should 
 be so taken with a picture so fascinated 
 by it, so overpowered by its beauty that
 
 62 a Gale of \vcntE=fiY>e Ibours. 
 
 he should steal it, to have it always at 
 his command, even though he could never 
 show it to any other human eye, that I 
 can understand. I have enough of the 
 artist in me to understand that." 
 
 Stuyvesant looked up seriously. 
 
 " Do you mean to say," he said, " that 
 you believe that a man might be led to 
 steal a picture simply out of sheer artis 
 tic appreciation of its beauties, merely to 
 have it in his possession where he could 
 see it at will, and yet knowing that he 
 could never show it to any one else?" 
 
 "That s exactly what I do believe," 
 answered Duncan. " Such things have 
 happened. Such a thing may have hap 
 pened in this case. Indeed, the longer I 
 think about it, the more inclined I am to 
 believe that this Mary Magdalen of Titian 
 has been stolen by some enthusiastic ad 
 mirer of Titian s painting 
 
 " Like Charley Vaughn," said Stuyve 
 sant, smiling at the idea. 
 
 " Like Charley Vaughn," repeated Dun 
 can; "and Charley, being an enthusiast 
 about Titian, is likely to be acquainted 
 with others as enthusiastic as he is. Per-
 
 B Cale of Cwentjgsftoe t>our0. 63 
 
 he could guess who the thief was. 
 If the picture doesn t turn up soon, I ll 
 have a chat with Charley, and maybe we 
 can give the police a clew or two." 
 
 " I can see that the motive you suggest 
 is just possible," remarked Stuyvesant, 
 " but it does not seem probable. Your 
 other explanation, that perhaps the pic 
 ture had been taken to hold for a ransom, 
 strikes me as far more plausible." 
 
 "Of course," said Duncan, " it is more 
 plausible; but, for all that, I think the 
 other is quite as likely to be the right ex 
 planation. " 
 
 " Is it absolutely impossible for the 
 thief to dispose of a picture as well 
 known as this Titian?" asked Stuyve 
 sant. 
 
 "Absolutely impossible," replied Dun 
 can, " or at least I should say so, if I did 
 not know what extraordinary things a re 
 ceiver of stolen goods is sometimes will 
 ing to buy." 
 
 As Duncan paused, Stuyvesant wished 
 he knew exactly how to bring in the name 
 about which he wanted to inquire. The 
 conversation was taking just the turn he
 
 64 B Gale of Gwent=fiY>e t>ours. 
 
 had hoped for; and he felt that it would 
 be his own fault if he left Tom s without 
 the information he was seeking. Before 
 he could find the words which would do 
 what he wanted, Duncan saved him the 
 trouble. 
 
 "We ve had for a client lately," said 
 the lawyer, "a notorious old fence, as 
 they call a receiver of stolen goods. I 
 have had to defend him on a charge which 
 the police trumped up against him. No 
 doubt he had been guilty of many other 
 offences, but of the particular offence 
 which they charged against him he was 
 innocent, as it happened. And in the 
 course of my interviews with him, when 
 I was preparing his defence, I got an in 
 side view of his business, and I learned 
 not a few of the tricks of the trade. 
 This Zalinski told me once 
 
 " Zalinski ? " interrupted Stuyvesant. 
 "Michael Zalinski?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Duncan; "his name is 
 Michael. But what do you know about 
 him?" 
 
 " And he is a receiver of stolen goods ?" 
 pursued Stuyvesant.
 
 H Cale of wentg=fiv>e t>ours. 65 
 
 "A fence, if you prefer the phrase," 
 was the answer. 
 
 " Is he an accomplice of James Burt s ? " 
 asked Stuyvesant. 
 
 " Now, what, in the name of common 
 sense, do you know about James Burt?" 
 was Duncan s astonished demand. 
 
 In answer, Stuyvesant took out his 
 pocket-book and drew from it the can 
 celled check he had given to Charley 
 Vaughn. He showed it to Duncan, and 
 then, turning it over, he drew the law 
 yer s attention to the indorsements: 
 Charles Vaughn. 
 M. Zalinski. 
 James Burt. 
 Eliphalct Duncan. 
 
 "So that s where you picked up the 
 name, is it? I remember the check well 
 enough," Duncan said. "Burt paid it me 
 as a retainer." 
 
 "I surmised as much," Stuyvesant in 
 terjected: " they are accomplices, I sup 
 pose, Zalinski and Burt pals you call 
 them, I believe? " 
 
 "They are close friends, certainly," 
 Duncan answered. " It was Zalinski who
 
 CG a tlale of GwentE=five 1bour0. 
 
 persuaded me to take up Burt s case in 
 spite of my distaste for criminal prac 
 tice." 
 
 "And what manner of man is this M. 
 Zalinski?" asked Stuyvesant, conscious 
 of not a little constraint. 
 
 "He s an odd fish a Polish Jew, I 
 think, and not yet wholly Americanized. 
 He has his good points and his bad 
 like the rest of us. One of his peculiari 
 ties is that he keeps no bank-account, 
 although he is making money hand over 
 fist. If he gets a check he pays it out 
 again as soon as he can. That s the way 
 I came to get this check of yours. 
 Charley gave it to Zalinski, and he 
 passed it along to Burt as soon as he 
 could -- " 
 
 " In full payment for stolen goods, I 
 suppose, and no questions asked ? " sug 
 gested Stuyvesant. 
 
 "Perhaps, and perhaps not," Duncan 
 answered. " He may have lent Burt the 
 money, or even given it to him outright; 
 there s no knowing. The two men are 
 thick as thieves in Vallombrosa, to use 
 a merry jest of Charley s."
 
 B Gale of Cvventgsfive f)ours. 67 
 
 " Does Charley know this burglar of 
 yours?" inquired Stuyvesant, with an 
 affectation of levity. 
 
 "How should he?" returned Duncan 
 in surprise. 
 
 "I thought that he might, perhaps," 
 Stuyvesant explained feebly. 
 
 "Of course," Duncan continued, "for 
 all I know, Charley may be an intimate 
 friend of my burglar, as you call him; I 
 can t say. But he has had dealings with 
 Zalinski more than once, I m sure." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " asked Stuy 
 vesant, with an increasing sense of dan 
 gerous discovery. 
 
 "Because Zalinski has twice given me 
 checks drawn to his order by Charley," 
 the lawyer replied. 
 
 Stuyvesant looked at him in astonish 
 ment. 
 
 " Do you mean to say," he managed to 
 inquire at last, "that this check of mine 
 is not the first that has come to you bear 
 ing the signatures of both M. Zalinski 
 and Charles Vaughn ? " 
 
 "I think it s the third," his friend an 
 swered; "the other two were Charley s
 
 68 8 Gale of G\ventE=fiY>e f>ourg. 
 
 own checks, drawn to Zalinski s order 
 and by him indorsed over to me as part 
 of my fees." 
 
 Stuyvesant wanted to ask Duncan if he 
 could suggest any reason why Charley 
 should pay money to a receiver of stolen 
 goods. The question framed itself in his 
 mind, but it stuck in his throat. He 
 could not bring himself to ask it. He 
 was not willing to excite Duncan s sus 
 picion by any untoward inquiry. 
 
 He looked up at Duncan with an anx 
 ious glance of examination. Although he 
 dared not inquire, he wondered how the 
 lawyer explained to himself the strange 
 conjunction of the artist, the "fence," 
 and the burglar. Stuyvesant himself had 
 no explanation to offer; he was wholly at 
 a loss. He did not know what to think. 
 That his own check given to Charley 
 should have passed into the hands of Za- 
 linski was remarkable enough. That 
 Charley should twice before have paid 
 Zalinski money was even more extraor 
 dinary. 
 
 Before Stuyvesant could invent a plau-
 
 B Gale of G\ventE=fiv>e f>ours. 69 
 
 sible method of pursuing the conversation, 
 and adroitly eliciting Duncan s opinion 
 on the transaction, a single stroke from 
 the steeple of Trinity declared that it was 
 half-past two. The lawyer rapped on the 
 table. 
 
 "You must excuse me, Paul," he said, 
 as the waiter came up; "but I have an 
 appointment with a client in a quarter of 
 an hour. " 
 
 " I must be off myself," returned Stuy- 
 vesant, rising as though he were in a 
 hurry, his mental trouble communicating 
 itself to his body. 
 
 Duncan paid the waiter, and the two 
 friends wended their way out of Tom s 
 and turned toward Broadway. 
 
 In the midst of the crossing and scat 
 tering throng it was impossible for Stuy- 
 vesant to continue the conversation in the 
 tone he wished for. And yet before they 
 came to a stop at the broad white marble 
 steps of the Bowdoin Building, where 
 Duncan had his office, Stuyvesant had 
 irfanaged to express his curiosity about 
 Zalinski so as to lead the lawyer to tell
 
 70 a {Tale of awentgsfive f)ours. 
 
 him just where the receiver of stolen 
 goods lived. It was in Bleecker Street, 
 about two blocks west of Broadway. 
 
 After a few words of hasty farewell, 
 they shook hands, and Duncan went into 
 the building before which they were stand 
 ing. 
 
 As soon as his friend had gone, Stuy- 
 vesant took out one of his cards and 
 wrote down the exact number of M. Za- 
 linski s place of business.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT CALLS ON M. ZA- 
 LINSKI. 
 
 [TUYVESANT had abundant 
 subject for thought as he 
 pursued his course northward 
 along Broadway, walking 
 briskly to keep his blood in circulation 
 until a car should overtake him. Michael 
 Zalinski was a "fence" a receiver of 
 stolen goods a man of a class which 
 Paul knew as having an existence in every 
 great city, in common with the burglar, 
 the bunco-man, and the lawless element 
 generally, but with which he had never 
 come in contact personally. Of the man 
 ners and habits of men of this class he 
 was as profoundly ignorant as he might 
 be of the daily life of the ichthyosaurus. 
 And yet he was going to meet this strange 
 being, familiar enough in the abstract, 
 but curiously unfamiliar in the concrete. 
 He was going to beard this undescribed
 
 of Cwentgsfive 1bour0. 
 
 lion in his den; and he had the street and 
 number of the den pencilled on a card in 
 his pocket. How this pariah of Bleecker 
 Street would receive him, what he would 
 be like, how much or how little a mem 
 ber of so secretive a profession woulo 
 be disposed to tell, and how much or how 
 little of his communication would be 
 worthy of credit, Paul did not know. 
 
 It was a singularly distasteful mission, 
 this on which he was bent. As an ama 
 teur he enjoyed a bit of detective work. 
 He admired the skill of Gaboriau s detec 
 tives, although he recognized that the 
 problems they encountered were invented 
 only to be solved. Probably it was an 
 unacknowledged taste in this direction 
 which had led him to adopt the fallacies 
 of circumstantial evidence as the subject 
 of his first book. But this was little 
 more than a clever man s satisfaction in 
 the successful piecing together of an in 
 genious puzzle. Paul s mind followed 
 Lecoq willingly enough through slums 
 and haunts into which Paul himself would 
 never have dreamed of taking his body. 
 And yet he was now on his way to the
 
 B Cale of Cwcntg=fi\>e f>ours. 73 
 
 shop the house the lair how should 
 it be termed ? of a " fence." 
 
 The connection of a "fence" with the 
 outside world, so Paul argued, must needs 
 be twofold. The receiver of stolen goods 
 is the manager of the jobbing and com 
 mission house of crime. Like other com 
 mission houses, it must buy from the pro 
 ducer to sell to the consumer. Therefore 
 he will pay money to the one and receive 
 it from the other. James Burt, the house 
 breaker, is a producer that is plain 
 enough; and nothing was more natural 
 than that Zalinski should pay him money 
 Charley s check, for instance. This 
 reasoning was a sensible relief to Stuy- 
 vesant s mind. Of course he did not 
 suspect Charley of anything wrong; he 
 would have scoffed at any one who should 
 have suggested that he might come to be 
 lieve that the young artist was guilty of 
 any evil ; yet it was a relief to remember 
 that because a man pays money to a re 
 ceiver of stolen goods there is no reason to 
 suppose that he has been selling plunder. 
 
 Of course Stuyvesant had read "Oliver 
 Twist," and he had seen the play which
 
 74 a Cale of {Twentgsfive "fcours. 
 
 has been made out of it. Fagin, he as 
 sumed, was a tolerably correct portrait 
 of a typical "fence;" but Fagin belonged 
 to the London of half a century ago, 
 while Zalinski belonged to the New York 
 of to-day. A change of climate and an ad 
 vance of forty years or more would natu 
 rally make many a modification in Fagin. 
 
 These mental queries were idle, he 
 confessed to himself; for he would soon 
 know what manner of man Zalinski might 
 be. Here was the number. He stopped 
 in surprise and doubt, staring hard at the 
 house in front of him, as though he had 
 made a mistake. 
 
 Opposite him a door swung and creaked 
 as some one passed out. Over his head 
 glittered the arms of Lombardy, and be 
 neath a legend in tarnished gilding set 
 forth: 
 
 M. ZALINSKI, 
 LICENSED PAWNBROKER. 
 
 LIBERAL ADVANCES ON ALL KINDS OF 
 PERSONAL PROPERTY. 
 
 UNREDEEMED PLEDGES FOR SALE.
 
 a Gale of CwentE=five ibours. 75 
 
 Stuyvesant had never bargained for 
 this. The " fence " was bad enough ; but, 
 in a way, the pawnbroker seemed infi 
 nitely worse. Around the one had hung 
 the halo of some sort of mystery; while 
 the other stood boldly confessed as the 
 licensed conductor of a shabby, sordid, 
 and (in Paul s eyes) degraded trade. 
 And Charley had paid this man money 
 not once, nor twice, but several, perhaps 
 many, times. And Duncan, ignoring the 
 ostensible business altogether, had spoken 
 of him as a " fence." 
 
 The door swung back once more, and 
 then hung, quivering and complaining, 
 in its normal position, half open, half 
 shut, as two young men passed out. 
 
 One of them was attaching a latch-key 
 to his watch-chain as he came down the 
 steps. 
 
 "Time s up," he remarked, with a 
 coarse, reckless laugh. 
 
 " And it s likely to be up for a while," 
 responded the other. " D ye see those 
 three balls?" and he pointed upward 
 " D ye know what they stand for?" 
 
 "Do I?" said the first speaker, some-
 
 76 a Gale of Gwentgsfive 1)ours. 
 
 what bitterly. "I think I ve had a good 
 chance to learn." 
 
 " They mean that it s two to one you 
 don t get anything out, once you put 
 it in." 
 
 " Double the odds and it s a safe bet 
 still, "said the young man, buttoning his 
 coat so as still to display the watch-chain. 
 " Devil may care, for all of me. Come 
 on: we ve got the boodle now; let s go 
 somewhere and get a ball for ourselves." 
 
 "I m with you, "replied the other, with 
 evident alacrity. 
 
 Stuyvesant watched them as they passed 
 down the street, until the nearest saloon 
 swallowed them up. They had not far 
 to go. 
 
 He walked away to the next corner and 
 paused there for a moment. He felt an 
 almost invincible repugnance to enter 
 the place. It seemed to him as if he 
 would leave something of his self-respect 
 behind him. What would Kitty think if 
 she were to see him going into a low, 
 disreputable pawnshop or coming out of 
 it? Then he laughed to himself, as he 
 glanced up and down the street; it did
 
 a Cale of Cwentg=fiv>e fjours. 77 
 
 not seem a likely promenade for a fash 
 ionable young lady. 
 
 Stuyvesant was fully conscious that 
 there was nothing wrong or dishonorable 
 in what he was about to do; and yet, if 
 he had been going to commit a theft he 
 could not have felt more nervous and un 
 comfortable than he did as he ran up the 
 steps and pushed open the creaking door. 
 He let it fall behind him, glad to screen 
 himself from the street, yet feeling more 
 like a sneak than he had ever felt in his 
 life before. 
 
 He found himself in along room which 
 ran the entire depth of the house, the par 
 titions having been removed. It had a 
 close, musty smell, in strong contrast to 
 the keen, frosty air without. Little day 
 light filtered through the unwashed win 
 dows; but the place was bright enough 
 with the garish brilliance of half-a-dozen 
 flaring gas-jets. To the left of the en 
 trance-door the view was obscured by a 
 couple of wooden screens, which served 
 to Wall off little spaces not unlike the 
 stalls in a confessional. These were for 
 the transaction of business with such cus-
 
 73 B Gale of tXwentE=fi\?e foours. 
 
 tomers as might feel a delicacy about ne 
 gotiating their loans in the bold public 
 ity of the main shop. Paul tried each of 
 these three sanctuaries in turn, but all 
 three of them were occupied. 
 
 Down the entire length of the room 
 ran an extremely broad counter of 
 cheaply-painted wood, stained and dirty, 
 and worn smooth at the edges by cling 
 ing hands. The wall behind it was com 
 pletely hidden by a succession of shelves, 
 filled to their utmost capacity with queer, 
 nondescript bundles. 
 
 "One coat and vest a dollar ninety ! " 
 
 Paul turned sharply in the direction of 
 the strident voice, and saw the whole 
 long vista of the pawnbroker s shop 
 stretching out before him in the gas-light, 
 the package-encumbered wall, the broad 
 brown counter, the various customers 
 dotted along it. Poverty s exchange was 
 doing a rushing business. 
 
 A tall and rather good-looking young 
 man was at the receipt of custom. He 
 had dark eyes, black, curly hair, and a 
 shapely, erect figure. As he deftly and 
 with a practised hand rolled up some
 
 B Cale of Cwentssfivc Ibours. 79 
 
 garments into a tight bundle, the glitter 
 of a particularly large, white diamond on 
 one finger caught Paul s eye. Could this 
 be Zalinski ? he wondered; and he rather 
 hoped it was. 
 
 "Now, don t let the moths get at them," 
 said a frowsy-looking man, who had just 
 it is to be hoped only temporarily 
 relinquished possession of the coat and 
 waistcoat. 
 
 The young man laughed lightly and 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "We can t afford to board no moths 
 here," he answered, as he stepped back 
 and took two small pieces of paper from 
 the clerk at the desk. "You ll find the 
 goods right enough when you come to 
 redeem them if you ever do," he added 
 in a lower tone, pinning a ticket to the 
 bundle, and adroitly tossing it into a nar 
 row vacant place on the crowded shelves 
 near the ceiling. Then he opened a 
 drawer, slapped a silver dollar, three 
 quarters, and a dime and a nickel loudly 
 on the counter, and pushed them across 
 to the frowsy man along with the other 
 ticket, on which the ink was still wet and
 
 so B Gale of Gwente=fiv>e Ibours. 
 
 shining through the sand that had been 
 sprinkled on it. 
 
 "A dollar ninety," he said. "Next." 
 
 "Sure an that s me," said a trembling 
 voice, and a young woman took her place 
 at the counter. Paul looked at her with 
 interest. Under more favorable circum 
 stances he might have thought her a 
 pretty girl, but now, with hollow cheeks 
 and large bright eyes with a thin, 
 slightly stooped figure, clad for this in 
 clement weather in nothing better than 
 an old calico gown, and a ragged shawl 
 pinned across her shoulders she seemed 
 pathetic enough. 
 
 "Ah, but it s well we re lookin the 
 day, Mr. Zalinski " (Paul started as he 
 heard the name), "an* as handsome an 
 fine as iver. Sure it s a treat for the 
 poor souls that does be comin here to 
 have the likes of yerself to dale wicl." 
 
 The young man was evidently not 
 averse from a few compliments. He 
 caressed his black mustache with the 
 diamond-decked hand, thereby at once 
 displaying the gem and concealing a 
 gratified smile.
 
 a Gale ot tTwentgsfive Ibours. 81 
 
 "Well, Mary, you give yourself the 
 treat pretty often. What is it to-day?" 
 
 "Only a thrifle, sir; it s " She 
 
 placed a bundle on the counter, and with 
 nervous fingers fumbled at the knots. 
 Stuyvesant noticed how her hand trem 
 bled, and how her dark eyes were raised 
 every moment in mute, despairing appeal 
 to the handsome, self-satisfied face of the 
 young pawnbroker. Her pitiful attempt 
 at humor had died out as the moment for 
 trying her last chance had come. 
 
 Zalinski lost patience. 
 
 "Come, hurry up," he said roughly. 
 "This isn t a thousand dollar job of 
 yours, I suppose. I can t waste all day 
 over it." 
 
 There were tears in her eyes, but she 
 managed to laugh. 
 
 " Oh, the sorra a thousand dollars, sir. 
 Sure that s for gintlemen like you, not 
 for the likes of me. I only want 
 
 She hesitated as the last knot yielded 
 to her hand. She needed so many things 
 that she wanted the last penny she could 
 secure as an advance; but it would be 
 absurd to ask too much, and terrible to
 
 82 a Gale of awentB=five f>our0. 
 
 ask too little. She spread out the con 
 tents of the bundle on the counter. 
 
 "I want forty cents on this shawl and 
 pair of shoes." 
 
 The poor shoes were cast back to her 
 with quick contempt; and, indeed, they 
 merited no better fate. Only despair 
 would have brought them to such a place. 
 
 "Call those things shoes! Take them 
 to a junk-shop. Let s see the shawl. 
 H m! I thought so. I wouldn t take 
 the whole outfit as a gift. Forty cents, 
 indeed!" 
 
 " Sure it s better nor this one I have on. 
 Ye ll let me have a quarter on it, anyhow ?" 
 
 "What d ye take this place for? A 
 rag-shop ? Take your shawl home and 
 cut the holes out of it, and then come 
 back and talk to me." 
 
 And then the young pawnbroker turned 
 away with an indignant sniff. 
 
 " Ochone, sir, sure ye 11 not be so cruel? 
 Listen, now! My man s got a job. He 
 goes to work Monday. Not a word of 
 lie in it! Indade he does; and sorra a 
 thing is there in the house neither bit 
 nor sup and the childer cryin an
 
 ale of Ewentgsffve Tbours. 83 
 
 tore the thin shawl from her 
 shoulders and added it to the other. 
 
 "Won t ye let me have twenty-five on 
 the two? Next week I ll redeem them. 
 They ll be no time wid ye. Ah, look at 
 them ag in, Mr. Zalinski. Ye ll niver be 
 after refusin me? " 
 
 But the pawnbroker was not even lis 
 tening to her. He had gone up to one of 
 the more secluded compartments, whence 
 a fairly white hand protruded across the 
 counter. From this hand he had just re 
 ceived a cluster ring, which he was ex 
 amining in every possible light. No 
 longer did Stuyvesant take comfort from 
 the prepossessing appearance of the man. 
 He was sorry that this was Zalinski. 
 
 Meanwhile, the poor Irishwoman had 
 gathered her paltry belongings from the 
 counter slowly and reluctantly. She was 
 weeping unrestrainedly now, and mur 
 muring broken words below her breath. 
 
 She did not attempt to make up her 
 bundle again, but placed both shawls 
 over her shoulders; one of them had a 
 gaudy red pattern, and the other was a 
 more sombre black, and as they were
 
 84 a Gale of awentB=five Ibours. 
 
 carelessly adjusted, and the colors in the 
 lower one showed through the holes in 
 the upper the effect was bizarre. She 
 took the shoes in her hand, and turned 
 toward the door. 
 
 Paul had never realized the existence 
 of poverty like this. Now and again he 
 had given a trifle to tramps and beggars, 
 always in violation of his principles, for 
 he was a sound theorist in political econ 
 omy. But here was a genuine case of 
 destitution and despair. He felt a lump 
 rising in his throat as he stepped forward 
 to address the woman. 
 
 At this moment the strident tones is 
 sued their order to the automaton at the 
 desk: 
 
 "Seventy-five dollars on a cluster dia 
 mond and ruby ring." 
 
 The announcement enchained the at 
 tention of every one in the shop. Evi 
 dently the transaction was of sensational 
 magnitude. 
 
 "What name?" was asked; and from 
 the obscurity of the partition a female 
 voice answered, with a little laugh: 
 
 "Cash, Brooklyn."
 
 of G\ventE=fiv>e Ibours. 85 
 
 And the clerk made his entry. 
 
 Meanwhile Stuyvesant had found a 
 moment to speak to the Irishwoman. 
 He had not inquired how she happened 
 to be reduced to such a plight; he had 
 not asked what was her husband s busi 
 ness; he had merely slipped into her 
 hand five dollars and his card. 
 
 " I am very sorry you are in such 
 trouble," he said. "There is a trifle 
 which may help you along till your hus 
 band gets to work. Don t be afraid; I 
 can afford it. And if you ll let me know 
 if there s anything further if any acci 
 dent should happen my address is on 
 that card. I think I know of some peo 
 ple who would inquire into your case, 
 and do more for you than I can." 
 
 He turned away from the poor crea 
 ture s tearful, wondering thanks. Leav 
 ing her to marvel what manner of angel 
 this might be who did good in pawnshops, 
 he faced the counter again. 
 
 He caught Mr. Zalinski s eye as that 
 worthy returned from depositing the 
 cluster ring in the safe. The young 
 pawnbroker at once accosted Paul, whose
 
 86 a Gale of a\vents=five 1bour0. 
 
 dress and appearance suggested another 
 possible transaction of similar impor 
 tance. 
 
 "What can I do for you, sir?" said 
 he politely, half leaning, half reaching 
 across the counter with a suggestive ges 
 ture. 
 
 Stuyvesant s watch-chain was visible, 
 and from it depended a locket, and in 
 that locket was a very good likeness of 
 Miss Vaughn. The pawnbroker s glance 
 seemed to have been attracted to it, and 
 his hand indicated and in a manner in 
 vited it. 
 
 Stuyvesant hastily fastened his coat, 
 which he had unbuttoned a moment be 
 fore to reach his card-case. Having thus 
 answered the gesture in the negative, 
 he proceeded to answer the question in 
 the affirmative. 
 
 "If you can spare me a moment, I will 
 tell you. You are Mr. Zalinski, I be 
 lieve?" 
 
 " That is my name," returned the young 
 man, slightly surprised. 
 
 As a rule, his customers did not trouble 
 themselves much about his identity, be-
 
 B Cale of vvents*fiv>e Dours. 87 
 
 ing often more occupied in concealing 
 their own. 
 
 "A week or so ago," began Stuyvesant 
 " just before Christmas, I suppose you 
 received, doubtless in the course of busi 
 ness, a check " 
 
 He hesitated a moment, uncertain how 
 to proceed; but the young man behind 
 the counter broke in impatiently: 
 
 " We receive a great many checks in 
 the course of business. Come to the 
 point at once. I am very busy." 
 
 " I am anxious to trace this check. It 
 was drawn by me to the order of a friend 
 of mine, and made payable by him to 
 you. From you it passed to James 
 Burt." 
 
 The pawnbroker looked at him sharply 
 and suspiciously. 
 
 " You seem to have traced it pretty 
 well already, " he said. "I don t know 
 any James Burt. Are you sure the check 
 passed through my hands ? " 
 
 "It was indorsed M. Zalinski; not a 
 very common name, surely," answered 
 Paul. 
 
 " Common or uncommon, it is not
 
 88 a (Tale of Cwents=fix>e Ibours, 
 
 mine. My name is Isaac," was the rough 
 reply. 
 
 "Your sign outside reads M. Zalinski," 
 pursued Stuyvesant. 
 
 "That s my father s name. This bus 
 iness does not belong to me." 
 
 " Can I see your father, then ? " asked 
 Paul eagerly. 
 
 Somehow, he was relieved to learn that 
 Charley s business did not lie with this 
 shrewd, handsome young fellow, who 
 seemed, like his own diamond, all glit 
 ter, without a soft spot anywhere about 
 him. 
 
 "Can you see my father?" the clerk 
 repeated slowly. "Well, I don t know; 
 I ll ask him." 
 
 He stepped back and took up a speak 
 ing-tube which hung at an angle of one 
 of the shelves, and evidently communi 
 cated with the regions above. He 
 whistled into it, and held it to his ear 
 waiting for a response. This was not 
 long in coming, for the young man speed 
 ily spoke into the tube. 
 
 Stuyvesant now listened to a curious, 
 one-sided dialogue: he could hear every
 
 a Gale of awentg=fiv>e Ibours. 89 
 
 word Isaac Zalinski said, but the replies 
 from above were inaudible. 
 
 " Gentleman wants to see you a minute, " 
 was the first message entrusted to the tube. 
 
 Then came a pause. The upper regions 
 were returning their answer. 
 
 "I don t know. Something about a 
 check. " 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 " Quite the swell. Talks smooth and 
 dresses well." 
 
 The unseen interlocutor apparently 
 took some time to consider this descrip 
 tion, and Paul realized that the New 
 York Fagin, behind his open door, was 
 not so accessible after all. 
 
 " I don t think so. Never saw him be 
 fore. Don t look as if he was on any 
 lay," was young Zalinski s next contribu 
 tion to the interview; and Stuyvesant in 
 ferred that the gentleman at the other 
 end had endeavored to connect him with 
 some of the crib-cracking fraternity. 
 
 After another application of the tube 
 to his ear, the young man turned: 
 
 "Say, young fellow, you re not from 
 Mulberry Street, are you?"
 
 90 a Cale of 
 
 Paul did not for a moment appreciate 
 the significance of the question. 
 
 "No: I live uptown," he answered 
 simply. 
 
 The other favored him with a pro 
 tracted stare. 
 
 "Well, there s no telling," he muttered 
 to himself, and then sent his voice upward : 
 
 Then, after a moment, he dropped the 
 tube. 
 
 "The old man ll see you in a minute," 
 he said, and at once returned to the 
 counter, the most eligible point of which 
 was now occupied by an old and portly 
 negro woman. 
 
 "Well, Aunt Hannah, what can I do 
 for you to-day ?" 
 
 There was a bulky bundle in front of 
 the woman. It was neatly pinned up in 
 two towels, which she now proceeded to 
 unfasten. 
 
 "Only a trifle, honey," she said. "I 
 hab pressin occasion fo a matter ob five 
 dollahs till Monday." 
 
 " Gig s coming up then, eh ? " said the 
 pawnbroker, with a laugh. "Well, let s 
 have a look at the collat."
 
 H Cale ot Cwentgsfive t>ours. 91 
 
 "Oh, it s a-comni" this time shuah," 
 said the negress, throwing back the tow 
 els. "I dreamed it, I did; an my ole 
 man, what s never knowed to go wrong, 
 he dreamed it the same as I did." 
 
 She took six shirts from the bundle. 
 Paul could see that they were of the finest 
 quality, with initials marked in embroid 
 ery, and most beautifully washed and 
 ironed. Zalinski counted them over care 
 lessly and with a disparaging air. 
 
 "Give you four dollars," he said at 
 last. 
 
 " Foah s no manner ob use to me, 
 honey; must hab five. Couldn t get 
 along wfth foah, nohow." 
 
 " Why, four s enough to gamble away 
 at policy in one week, isn t it? Or has 
 washing taken a boom, that you can 
 afford to plunge this way?" returned the 
 young man. 
 
 Paul gasped. This woman was a laun 
 dress, and she was actually pawning some 
 of her customers shirts to risk the money 
 in some obscure form of gambling! 
 
 "I tells you, chile, dis yar is shuah! 
 an I ain t a-gwine to go no little con-
 
 92 a Gale of Cvvent=five t>ours. 
 
 temptuous picayune stake on a shuah 
 thing. Not for Hannah! " persisted the 
 old woman. 
 
 Zalinski appeared to hesitate a mo 
 ment; then he cried: 
 
 "Five dollars on half a dozen cambric 
 shirts!" 
 
 Meanwhile, Paul was plunged in a most 
 unpleasant doubt as to whether his own 
 proper shirts and he was very particular 
 about his linen ever passed through an 
 experience like this. He employed a 
 colored washerwoman, and he had never 
 troubled his head to inquire what might 
 be the fate of this personal property from 
 the day he took it off till the day he 
 donned it again. It gave him a cold 
 chill to reflect on the possibility that his 
 shirts might have spent some of the in 
 tervening time in such an establishment 
 as this. His laundress lived uptown, it 
 was true, in one of the streets off Sixth 
 Avenue, as well as he could remember; 
 but then there were pawnshops every 
 where, and policy-playing was not con 
 fined to any particular locality. 
 
 A shrill whistle broke the thread of
 
 a Gale of Gwentgsfive ibours. 93 
 
 these unpleasant reflections. He looked 
 up. The sound had come from the tube. 
 
 The young pawnbroker was in the act 
 of slapping down five silver dollars and a 
 ticket before the negress. He looked up 
 and caught Stuyvesant s eye; then he 
 nodded. 
 
 "That s the old man," he said. "He ll 
 see you now. Go out in the passage and 
 go up one flight of stairs. Room over 
 this, second floor front." 
 
 Stuyvesant went out silently; and, fol 
 lowing these directions, he soon found 
 himself in front of a closed door at the 
 end of an extremely dark passage. He 
 knocked. 
 
 "Come in," said a voice. 
 
 As Stuyvesant entered, the sole occu 
 pant of the room, who was seated at a 
 desk, spun nimbly round in his revolving 
 chair and faced him: 
 
 "Veil, sir, and vot is it I shall haf the 
 bleasure to do mit you ? " 
 
 The speaker was a man who might be 
 anywhere between fifty and seventy years 
 of age. His thin hair and straggling 
 beard, though streaked with gray, were
 
 94 B ftale of awentysfive Tbours. 
 
 still dark ; and the heavy eyebrows, which 
 came down low over his eyes and nearly 
 met between them, were as black as jet. 
 But his face, as Paul could observe, even 
 in the dim half-light which prevailed, 
 was a perfect network of wrinkles; and a 
 curious twitch which elevated one side of 
 his upper lip at short intervals, after the 
 manner of a snarling dog, whether arising 
 from habit or from infirmity, added a 
 very peculiar character to the man s ex 
 pression. 
 
 By nature and habit, Stuyvesant was a 
 quick observer, and he had seen all that 
 there was to see at a glance. He drew 
 the only remaining chair closer to the 
 desk, and settled himself in it, without 
 waiting for an invitation. It was then 
 ihat he first noticed the convulsive snarl 
 of the other s lip. 
 
 "Mr. Zalinski," he began, "I will not 
 waste more of your time by apologizing 
 for my presence than I am compelled to 
 use. I want to ask you if you know any 
 thing of a Mr. Charles Vaughn ? " 
 
 " I thought it vos apout a sheck you 
 came?"
 
 B Cale of wentE=fiv>e iboura. 95 
 
 The old man spoke very rapidly, and 
 with a marked foreign accent, not exactly 
 German, but not unlike it. Paul had 
 some little difficulty in disentangling his 
 meaning from the thick, guttural tones, 
 with their strange inflection and hurried 
 enunciation. 
 
 " I am led to make this visit owing to 
 a check of mine which I paid to Mr. 
 Vaughn, and which has returned to me 
 with your indorsement and and that of 
 others upon it." 
 
 " Vds the sheck nicht goot?" asked 
 Zalinski quickly. 
 
 " Perfectly good, " answered Paul. " It 
 was my own check. I only wished to 
 know, as a matter of curiosity and to sat 
 isfy myself, how Charles Vaughn hap 
 pened to pay it over to you ? " 
 
 "Hein! and dot vos it all, eh? Und 
 bray vill you dell to me for guriosity 
 and zatisfaction, as you zay ish Mr. 
 Sharley Fawn a relative mit you ? " 
 
 "Not exactly," replied Paul. "At 
 present he is only a friend, but a very 
 dear one, and if he is in any trouble 
 
 Zalinski s lip twitched upward till it
 
 96 B (Tale of GvventE=fh>e "fcours. 
 
 showed his yellow teeth, as he inter 
 rupted : 
 
 Drupple! Votdrupple? Mr. Sharley 
 Fawn has peesness mit me peesness, 
 verstehtSie? Shentlemans who haf pees 
 ness mit me don t get into no drupples. " 
 
 " Not even Mr. James Burt ? " 
 
 It was so palpable a chance for a hit 
 that Stuyvesant could not forbear strik 
 ing, though he regretted his precipitancy 
 a moment after. Mr. Zalinski s heavy 
 brows came down, and his mobile lip 
 went up, till the rest of his face seemed 
 to vanish between the two, and he was 
 nothing but snarl and scowl. 
 
 " Zee here, young man " he rose from 
 his chair and towered over Stuyvesant; 
 he was an unusually tall man, and the 
 long-skirted frock-coat that he wore made 
 him appear even taller "zee here, young 
 man, if Shames Purt ish in drupples it 
 has nicht to do mit me! Nicht! Ver- 
 steht Sie? Un if you give shecks to Mr. 
 Sharley Fawn or Mr. Sharley Anypotty, 
 you must ogspect that they vill be bad 
 avay to oder beobles. If you vants to 
 know vy dot sheck vos to me baid, go un
 
 B Sale of a\ventE=fix>e flxmrs. 97 
 
 ask it of Mr. Sharley Fawn. I don t give 
 avay none of my gustomers peesness 
 
 Paul was on his feet too. There was 
 something threatening in the man s tone 
 and manner. 
 
 " Mr. Vaughn is a very intimate friend 
 of mine, and I cannot understand how he 
 comes to have business with a person like 
 you at all," he said. 
 
 "Hein! He ish, eh? Und you dinks 
 you knows all apout him, eh?" 
 
 "I think I do," was Paul s unhesitat 
 ing answer, though an uncomfortable con 
 viction of the unaccountability of some 
 of Charley s recent proceedings flashed 
 across him as he spoke. 
 
 "Veil, I dinks you don t; und if you 
 did, you vos a fool to vaste time goming 
 here to bump me," was the uncompromis 
 ing reply. " Und I dinks dot I know a 
 goot teal more about Mr. Sharley Fawn 
 as you do und a goot teal more as I vos 
 a-going to dell you. So!" 
 
 "In that case, I have nothing more to 
 detain me here, and I will wish you a 
 good-day," said Paul, turning toward the 
 door.
 
 98 B Cale ot Gwent=fiv>e fbours. 
 
 " Good-lay good-tay! Und dry und 
 find some peesness for yourself, und 
 maype you will letoder beoble s peesness 
 alone." 
 
 And the twitch of Mr. Zalinski s upper 
 lip might have been mistaken for a grin 
 of triumph as he spun round to his desk 
 again, muttering: 
 
 " Ikey vos right. No Mulperry Street 
 apout him. He vos no cop; not ing but 
 a tern fool." 
 
 And, though Paul set no special value 
 on Mr. Zalinski s good opinion, the last 
 words of that gentleman rung unpleas 
 antly in his ears as he descended the 
 stairs, and for once in his life he felt 
 strangely inclined to agree with a decid 
 edly unflattering estimate of himself.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT PUTS TWO AND 
 TWO TOGETHER. 
 
 trifling wound to his self- 
 love did not, however, rankle 
 very deeply in Paul Stuyve- 
 sant s breast. In the open 
 air, the irritation arising from his unsat 
 isfactory interview with Mr. Michael Za- 
 linski soon evaporated, and he ceased to 
 regard the old man save as a factor in 
 the problem he had undertaken to solve. 
 Reviewing the situation calmly, Stuy- 
 vesant was forced to the conclusion that 
 there had been passages of some kind be 
 tween the pawnbroker and his future 
 brother-in-law which neither party cared 
 to explain. He wished he had been more 
 explicit with Charley when the latter had 
 called on him that morning; but, after 
 all, at that time he had not been suspi 
 cious of anything; at most he had merely
 
 ioo B trale of Cwentgfive Ibours. 
 
 been puzzled. Now he was compelled to 
 acknowledge that he had serious misgiv 
 ings. Duncan, a shrewd, hard-headed 
 lawyer, who had the best possible means 
 of knowing whereof he spoke, had called 
 Zalinski a receiver of stolen goods. The 
 brief conversation Paul had just held 
 with Zalinski had not tended to raise the 
 old man in his estimation. Nor was the 
 transaction that had been brought prom 
 inently under his own notice an isolated 
 one. The "fence" evidently knew Char 
 ley well; indeed, it seemed to Stuyvesant 
 as though Zalinski had hinted that he 
 knew something of young Vaughn which 
 no one else knew. Of course, this might 
 have arisen from bravado, or from a mere 
 wish to be disagreeable; but, somehow, 
 Stuyvesant feared there was more behind. 
 He had the tangible fact, vouched for 
 by Duncan, that several checks bearing 
 Charley s signature had passed through 
 Zalinski s hands. 
 
 Why had this money been paid? Was 
 it hush-money? Did the pawnbroker 
 hold any dark secret as a sword over the 
 young man s head? And before Stuyve-
 
 & Cale of 3went*ff?e tbours. 101 
 
 sant a vision of that head arose up, always 
 erect, with smiling face and frank honest 
 eyes. With what dark mystery could 
 such a man as Charley Vaughn be mixed 
 up? The thing was melodramatic and 
 impossible. 
 
 And yet and yet the doubt would 
 obtrude itself. Paul Stuyvesant had read 
 too much and observed too much not to 
 be ready to acknowledge that because a 
 thing is improbable it is by no means im 
 possible, and, indeed, that it is the un 
 likely which is most constantly occurring. 
 In his own mind he ran over his morn 
 ing s talk with Charley. The young fel 
 low had been unlike himself; he had 
 been nervous and overwrought; his high 
 spirits had been palpably forced. All 
 this Paul had noticed before the incident 
 of the check had made any but the faint 
 est impression on him. And then the 
 story about the Bishop of Tuxedo! Kitty 
 had told him that the bishop was on his 
 way to San Francisco; so this was a 
 clumsily manufactured excuse. But 
 what, in the name of wonder, had Mi 
 chael Zalinski to do with it all?
 
 102 B Gale of awentE=five 1>our0. 
 
 Blackmail was a hideous word, but 
 when once it had occurred to him, Paul 
 could not get it out of his head. If 
 Charley had only confided in him! But 
 then the sufferers from blackmail never 
 confide in anybody. Like the victims of 
 cancer, the slaves of a hideous secret will 
 endure untold miseries to hide their agony 
 as long as possible from even the most 
 sympathetic friends. Paul had studied 
 his Gaboriau closely, and in theory he 
 knew a good deal about blackmailing. 
 
 Then his mind ran riot as to the pos 
 sible nature of the secret hold which Za- 
 linski might have on his friend. He 
 passed in review every crime in the dec 
 alogue, and could find none to fit Char 
 ley s case with any degree of plausibil 
 ity. Still, the boy was warm-hearted 
 and impulsive, and would go great 
 lengths to serve a friend. Perhaps the 
 key to the mystery might be found by 
 searching in this direction. Stuyvesant 
 did not attempt to call the roll of Char 
 ley s acquaintance: each lived his own 
 life, and each had many friends, un 
 known to the other even byname. Their
 
 B Gale of Cvvcntg=five Ibours. 103 
 
 circles touched at one point only, and 
 that point was Kitty. 
 
 Poor Kitty! How proud she was of 
 her brother, and how she loved him! 
 Paul had once or twice suffered from the 
 wayward temper of his promised bride, 
 and he had solaced himself with the 
 thought that so fond a sister could not 
 but make an affectionate wife. He shud 
 dered at the thought of Kitty s knowing 
 that her brother was in any way entangled 
 with a creature like Zalinski, or of her 
 guessing that he was in the power of such 
 a man. Then and there he registered a 
 vow that he would stand between her and 
 trouble, be the cost to him what it might. 
 
 And out of his own mental attitude he 
 fancied he had evolved a clew. Suppose 
 Charley were other than he was; suppose 
 he were a gambler, or a felon, or worse 
 the degrees of guilt were a little con 
 fused in Stuyvesant s mind would not 
 he (Paul) do anything pay hush-money, 
 if need be to keep the knowledge from 
 Kitty ? He felt that he would. Thus, 
 having imagined a case in which he him 
 self might be made a ready victim of
 
 104 B Gale of CwentE=fiv>e "toours. 
 
 blackmail, it was easy enough to believe 
 that Charley might have become enmeshed 
 quite as innocently. 
 
 Paul pitied the poor boy from the bot 
 tom of his heart. He resolved to help 
 him to the uttermost. He would invite 
 his confidence, he would suggest every 
 means that would make the secret easier 
 in telling, and he would pledge himself 
 to an inviolable silence. 
 
 He resolved to go straight to Charley s 
 studio. There was a chance of finding 
 him there, and having the matter out 
 with him. Afterward, if there were time, 
 he could keep his appointment with Kitty. 
 Yesterday he could have imagined no 
 duty for which he would have postponed 
 such an engagement; but now he recog 
 nized a prior necessity. He did not 
 forego the meeting without a pang, how 
 ever, and he even looked at his watch, in 
 the hope that he might find time enough 
 for both duty and pleasure. It was only 
 ten minutes past three. He would be able 
 to see Charley, and to meet Kitty after 
 ward. Late as he had gone out that 
 morning, it had been a long day already:
 
 B Sale of Gwents=fiv>e 1)our0. 105 
 
 time measures itself less by minutes and 
 seconds than by events and emotions. 
 
 He had boarded a Broadway car at 
 Bleecker Street, and, with frequent halts, 
 it was moving uptown. He would get 
 off at Twenty-sixth Street and go across 
 to Charley s studio. So deeply had his 
 mind been occupied that he had to look 
 out to assure himself that he had not al 
 ready passed that point. He was then 
 just opposite the Star Theatre; and he 
 laughed to himself as he found that he 
 could not recall the circumstance of step 
 ping on the car. 
 
 There was a halt at Fourteenth Street, 
 and a great influx of passengers broke 
 into the car by both doors, mostly ladies, 
 homeward-bound from shopping expedi 
 tions. The few vacant seats were quickly 
 filled up, and many were left standing. 
 Stuyvesant, always polite, rose and of 
 fered his seat to a young lady who was 
 clinging to a strap almost in front of him. 
 With a slight smile and a bow, she sat 
 down, murmuring: 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Stuyvesant. " 
 
 Paul had all his wits about him in a
 
 106 a {Tale of avvent=fiv>e fboura. 
 
 moment, and looked down at the young 
 lady. Before he had finished a few con 
 ventional words of disclaimer to her 
 thanks, he had taken a full mental inven 
 tory of her charms, which were neither 
 few nor slight. She was a tall, graceful 
 girl, with an exceptionally good figure, 
 dark brown eyes, a nose a little tip-tilted, 
 and ripe red lips, around which a couple 
 of dimples were playing, in pursuit of a 
 faint smile that vanished as he watched 
 it. Her most striking feature was her 
 hair, coiled in magnificent masses over 
 her shapely head, silken, luxuriant, and 
 of the color of a withered beech-leaf. 
 She was certainly a sufficiently remark 
 able-looking girl, and to be remembered 
 when once met; but Paul could not iden 
 tify her. She seemed to know him; but 
 who she might be he did not know, and 
 he could not venture to surmise. 
 
 " How inconveniently crowded these 
 cars always are! " he said, by way of say 
 ing something, as he looked down at the 
 pale, pretty face far prettier than Miss 
 Vaughn s, by the way, although Stuyve- 
 sant would never have acknowledged that.
 
 H Gale of {Twentgsflve Ibours. 107 
 
 Meanwhile, he was saying inwardly: 
 " Now, where on earth have I met that 
 girl? I seem to know her, too; but, for 
 the life of me, I can t find a name or a 
 circumstance to connect her with." 
 
 "I suppose the company likes that," 
 she said, answering the remark that met 
 her ears, but leaving Stuyvesant as hope 
 lessly as ever in the dark with regard to 
 the question that was troubling his mind. 
 
 "I suppose so," he said, awkwardly 
 enough ; and then there was a pause 
 which the conductor, pursuing fares 
 under difficulties, enlivened by treading 
 squarely on Stuyvesant s foot. 
 
 " Have you been in New York ever 
 since?" inquired the young lady, when 
 this incident was concluded. "I haven t 
 seen you." 
 
 Paul did not quite know how to answer. 
 So far as he knew, the uncertain interval 
 alluded to as " ever since" might have 
 been measured by years or by hours. 
 However, he had to say something. 
 
 "Oh, yes, ever since," he answered 
 feebly. 
 
 There are few of the minor embarrass-
 
 108 B Gale of Gwentgsfive tours. 
 
 ments of life at all comparable with that 
 of being unexpectedly addressed by some 
 one who knows you, but whom you do not 
 know and whom you are fully conscious 
 you ought to know; nor are the difficul 
 ties of the position lessened when the 
 person in question is a young and pretty 
 girl. 
 
 " If I was sure I had not seen her for 
 years," thought Paul, "I could remark 
 how much she is grown, for I don t be 
 lieve she can be twenty; but, as I may 
 have met her last week, I can t risk 
 that." 
 
 But a happy inspiration arose out of 
 the reflection. 
 
 " How well you are looking! " 
 
 "Thank you. So every one tells me. 
 
 Kitty Vaughn says Oh, by the way, 
 
 have you seen Kitty lately?" 
 
 "I see Miss Vaughn almost every day, " 
 answered Stuyvesant somewhat stiffly, not 
 altogether pleased that this fair incognita 
 chose to thread the mazes of his most 
 sacred emotions unrecognized. 
 
 "Of course you do; how stupid of me! 
 Well, give her my love, please, and tell
 
 B Cale of Cwentgsfive fxwrs. 109 
 
 her I think it s, real mean of her never to 
 come to see. me, often as, she has prom 
 ised. " 
 
 " Perhaps she has forgotten your ad 
 dress," hazarded Paul. If he could pin 
 this unsubstantial acquaintance down to 
 some definite locality, perhaps he might 
 find a name for her. But he was baffled. 
 
 "Nonsense! that s altogether too thin! 
 She has my address right enough; but 
 she s afraid of half an hour on the train 
 that s all that keeps her away." 
 
 So the young lady without a name lived 
 outside New York half an hour by train. 
 
 Paul was not much wiser. The local 
 ity thus vaguely indicated might be any 
 one of a dozen sylvan retreats in New 
 Jersey or on Long Island; or it might be 
 on one of the several roads running out 
 of the Grand Central station. 
 
 "You won t forget? You ll be sure to 
 tell her?" pursued the young lady. 
 
 " I won t forget," answered Paul, pledg 
 ing, himself to the possible as embodied 
 in the first part of her sentence, and ig 
 noring the impossible as embodied in the 
 last.
 
 no 8 Cale of CwentB*five 
 
 "Are you going uptown?" he asked, 
 when the conversation had languished so 
 long that the pause began to be awkward. 
 
 " As far as Forty-second Street, of 
 course," she answered, opening her brown 
 eyes. "I ve spent all my money, and 
 now I m going home again, as a good 
 little girl should do." 
 
 Paul laughed a little, as in duty bound. 
 
 Suddenly the young lady spoke again, 
 with a quickness that seemed bred of 
 apprehension: 
 
 "You re not going to the depot, 
 surely?" 
 
 He laughed again, this time with gen 
 uine amusement at her evident disquie 
 tude. 
 
 "No, I am not," he said. "Were you 
 afraid I was? " 
 
 She colored a little. 
 
 "How absurd! Of course not; but 
 I it seemed such an odd time for a gen 
 tleman to be going out of town." 
 
 "Do you think so?" he answered. 
 " Any day is a good day for that, if there 
 is a stronger attraction in the country 
 than in the city which is not my case."
 
 B Gale of G\ventE=fh>e fxmrs. m 
 
 She looked at him curiously. He be 
 gan to congratulate himself on having a 
 little puzzled this girl, who had puzzled 
 him so much. He went on: 
 
 " I am only going as far as Twenty-sixth 
 Street, and we re almost there. lam go 
 ing to call on a Mr. Vaughn, the brother 
 of the Miss Vaughn we were speaking of." 
 
 "Are you going to his studio?" she 
 asked, with a quick anxiety which mysti 
 fied Paul more than ever. This unac 
 countable girl knew Charley too. 
 
 "Certainly, to his studio," he answered. 
 " He is an artist, you know." 
 
 "Of course I know that! " she replied, 
 somewhat impatiently. " But are you go 
 ing by appointment or I mean, does 
 he expect you ? " 
 
 "Not that I know of," answered Stuy- 
 vesant, more mystified than ever. " I am 
 just going to drop in on chance. Why 
 do you ask?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing," she replied inconse- 
 quently, but with an obvious look of re 
 lief; and then a mischievous smile set 
 the dimples playing again round the cor 
 ners of her mouth.
 
 112 a Cale of awentgsffve 
 
 "Of all the riddles!" thought Paul; 
 "but I haven t time to solve it. Here s 
 Twenty-sixth Street." "I ll say good- 
 by," he added aloud, "and I hope you 
 won t find your half-hour in the train 
 tedious." 
 
 "Oh, I m sure I shan t, "she said, with 
 a bright laugh, at the same time frankly 
 extending her hand; "and if you find Mr. 
 Vaughn at home, I hope you will have an 
 immensely pleasant call." 
 
 And her merriment, as she spoke, took 
 on a mischievous tone. 
 
 Paul raised his hat and left the car. 
 
 "Confound the girl!" he thought, 
 "she s laughing at me, and I can t blame 
 her for it; but she was really scared when 
 she began to believe that I was going to 
 the station. If I had nothing better to 
 do, I d go there just for spite." 
 
 But Stuyvesant had something better 
 to do. The temporary diversion afforded 
 by this chance meeting soon faded out of 
 his thoughts when he turned eastward and 
 walked rapidly toward " The Rubens," as 
 the building was called in which Charley 
 Vaughn had his studio.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT INVADES " THE 
 RUBENS." 
 
 >N "The Rubens" one studio 
 resembles another, and to de 
 scribe one is to describe all. 
 It is a room of about twenty 
 feet square. Opposite the door is the 
 broad window which helps to give the ex 
 terior of the building its architectural 
 peculiarity. Opposite the window is a 
 gallery eight or nine feet wide, with a 
 balustrade which makes it look like a 
 balcony. Sometimes the gallery is a 
 dressing-room for the model, and a store 
 house of odds and ends of one kind or an 
 other, studio-properties, lay-figures, stud 
 ies, sketches, broken frames, and what 
 not, in a disorder problematically pictu 
 resque and indubitably dirty. 
 
 Paul mounted the stairs: he was an ac 
 customed visitor, and had long since
 
 114 a Gale of GwentB=fh>e fjours. 
 
 ceased to grumble at the ascent. Follow 
 ing the mute invitation of a painted 
 hand, he knocked at Charley s door. It 
 was opened by a man of about fifty a 
 man with the typical face of the comic 
 caricature of Irishmen, but preternatu- 
 rally grave. This face was acidulated by 
 a certain droop of the corners of the 
 mouth and a general twist of the features 
 into an almost vindictive expression of 
 sourness. 
 
 "Well, Barney, how are you?" 
 
 The old man was a recognized char 
 acter all over the studio-building, and 
 Stuyvesant knew him well as Charley s 
 particular retainer. 
 
 "Bad, sor. What wid the lumbago in 
 the small o me back, and the rheumatics 
 in me left shoulder, sorra wink o sleep 
 do I get night nor day." 
 
 "That s very bad, Barney," answered 
 Paul, too well acquainted with the old 
 fellow s habitual querulousness to humor 
 it by further sympathy. " Is Mr. Vaughn 
 in?" 
 
 " Indade an" I might have known that 
 it wasn t to ax after my health ye ve come
 
 B Cale of wentB*five fjours. 115 
 
 trapezin up all them stairs," Barney re 
 plied with an injured air. 
 
 "You certainly might," said Paul, 
 hardly able to repress a smile at the dis 
 contented look on the face of the old 
 Irishman. " I came to see Mr. Vaughn. 
 Is he in?" 
 
 " Indade an he s not, - began Barney. 
 By this time Stuyvesant had passed him 
 and entered the studio. " Oh, that s 
 right. Make a liar o me! What s the 
 good of yer axin me questions, if ye re 
 not goin to believe me whin I tell ye?" 
 expostulated Barney, following him into 
 the room. " But sarch, sarch, an wel 
 come. Sure there s the table he might 
 be under to say nothin of the gallery, 
 that ud hide a dozen like him. Sarch, 
 if ye want to. Don t be afeared of hurt- 
 in my feelin s; sure I m used to it." 
 
 " I don t doubt you at all, Barney; but 
 I am very anxious to see Mr. Vaughn, 
 and, as I have a few minutes to spare, I ll 
 wait, on the chance of his coming in." 
 
 And Stuyvesant pushed a richly-em 
 broidered robe from the most comfortable 
 chair in the room, and sat down.
 
 116 a Gale of a\vents=fiv>e t>our0. 
 
 Barney picked up the mass of drapery 
 and grumbled back with it to the recess 
 under the gallery. 
 
 "That s right," he said; "make hay 
 over the whole place. Divil a thing have 
 I to do but to follow the likes of ye round 
 an clean up yer messes, wid the lumbago 
 in the small o me back." 
 
 " Do you think he ll be in soon ?" called 
 Paul, when the muttering began to subside. 
 
 " Arrah, what time have I to think, 
 whin me heart s broke wid work ? Maybe 
 he will an maybe he won t; an that s 
 the nearest I can come to it, for there s 
 no dipindence out of what he says at all, 
 at all." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " demanded 
 Stuyvesant impatiently. 
 
 He knew that the old man was a good 
 servant, honest, faithful, and industrious, 
 and that his one fault was across-grained 
 temper, and yet he had often wondered 
 how Charley had endured him so long. 
 
 "What did he say, is it?" said Barney. 
 "Well, I ll tell ye that; an if ye believe 
 him, ye ve a better chance of heaven nor 
 I have, if faith ll save ye."
 
 a Gale of awentgsffve t>ours. in 
 
 Paul looked at the old man in surprise. 
 
 " Don t you think he was telling the 
 truth ?" 
 
 "I don t think any man s tellin the 
 truth until I see it proved; an thin I 
 doubt it," was the uncompromising re 
 joinder. 
 
 "Faith will never save you, Barney; 
 that s a fact," laughed Paul. " Now tell 
 me, without any more beating about the 
 bush, when Mr. Vaughn expected to re 
 turn. " 
 
 " He .$#/</ he d be back to-night." 
 
 "To-night! What did he mean by 
 that ?" Paul inquired at once. 
 
 The utter unreasonableness of expect 
 ing him to attach a meaning to any man s 
 words was plainly set forth on Barney s 
 expressive features; but he contented 
 himself with a grunt. Stuyvesant saw 
 the futility of expecting help from that 
 quarter; and so, without waiting for a 
 definite reply, he continued: 
 -"It is very provoking. I wanted to 
 
 see him particularly, and By Jove! 
 
 it s a quarter before four now, " he added, 
 glancing at his watch.
 
 118 a Cale of CwentBsfive flours. 
 
 "Want ll be yer master, I m thinkin , 1 
 muttered Barney below his breath. 
 "Well, I m goin home, "he added aloud; 
 " there s no call for me to be waitin here 
 till dark. If he comes he comes, an if 
 he don t come he stays away, an that s 
 all there is to it." 
 
 Does Mr. Vaughn spend much of his 
 time here now?" asked Paul, partly im 
 pelled by the wish to say something, and 
 partly on the alert to gain any possible 
 information which might have a bearing 
 on the mysterious business that had taken 
 him there. 
 
 Barney was putting on his overcoat, 
 and enveloping his neck in many folds of 
 a long knitted comforter, which somehow 
 had the effect of accentuating his native 
 ugliness to an almost incredible degree. 
 
 "No! " he answered, with an inflection 
 of supreme contempt. " He never does 
 be here. He s always off gallivantin ." 
 i The old man moved toward the door, 
 and stopped with his hand on the latch. 
 
 "If Mr. Charley comes in while ye re 
 waitin which he won t will ye show 
 him thim letters an things on the table
 
 H ale of ZTwentg*fix>e fjours. no 
 
 forninst ye? They came this mornin , 
 he said. 
 
 He turned the handle and hobbled out 
 on the landing, his querulous voice con 
 tinuing awhile, till it was abruptly cut 
 off by the closing of the door. 
 
 So Charley spent little time in his 
 studio, thought Stuyvesant. His work 
 would seem to have lost its charm for 
 him, who was once, as Paul well remem 
 bered, earnest, eager, and enthusiastic: 
 all this had changed with the other 
 changes that had come upon him. His 
 appetite was poor, too so Stuyvesant 
 had gathered from a remark of Barney s; 
 and a trouble or preoccupation which 
 will affect the appetite of a man of Char 
 ley s age must be serious indeed. Stuy 
 vesant set himself to think: occupied as 
 he had been lately with Kitty, he had 
 seen less of her brother. What the date 
 was when these alterations in his friend 
 had first begun to force themselves on his 
 notice, Stuyvesant could not say. It was 
 only this very morning that something 
 tangible had brought the matter prom 
 inently before him. He was conscious,
 
 120 B Gale of Gwents=fiv>e t>ours. 
 
 now that he looked back, of a hundred 
 trifles, unnoticed at the time, which 
 seemed to indicate a degree of preoccu 
 pation in the young artist. 
 
 He stopped before the table on which 
 lay the two or three letters and postal- 
 card to which Barney had drawn his at 
 tention before going out. His eye fell on 
 them mechanically. He started back 
 with an exclamation, and raised his arm 
 with the gesture with which a man depre 
 cates or seeks to ward off an impending 
 blow. 
 
 Exactly on the top of the little pile of 
 mail-matter lay a postal-card, with the 
 address downward. The face of the card, 
 containing less than two lines, written 
 in a bold mercantile hand, lay directly 
 under the eyes of the visitor. Stuyvesant 
 was not conscious of reading these two 
 lines, but unwittingly he had mastered 
 their meaning at a glance. It was as 
 though the words leaped out at him from 
 the paper, and struck him with a force 
 purely physical. 
 
 These were the words on the postal- 
 card:
 
 a Gale of CwentB*five "fcours. 121 
 
 " Look in and see me at your earliest con- 
 ^enience. M. Zalinski." 
 
 Stuyvesant fairly staggered. It seemed 
 to him as though proof was accumulating 
 on proof. This was the embodiment of 
 the hideous shadow that was darkening 
 over Charley s life. There was the hate 
 ful name again ; and at every step he took 
 he found it always linked with that of 
 Vaughn; and Vaughn was Kitty s name, 
 too. 
 
 He took up the card. It had nothing 
 more to tell. On the back were Charley s 
 name and address; on the face was the 
 line that had already burned itself into 
 Paul s brain. It had done its mission; 
 it had dealt its crushing blow; and it now 
 relapsed into seeming insignificance a 
 common, every-day postal-card. 
 
 The postmark told him it had been 
 mailed that morning. Therefore, when 
 Zalinski had refused to tell him anything 
 about Charley or their relations to eacn 
 other, he had already written to compel 
 his attendance at that den in Bleecker 
 Street. To compel ? Yes, to compel ;
 
 122 a Cale of wentg=fi\?e Ibours. 
 
 for, though the note was politely worded, 
 in Paul s eyes it breathed all the author 
 ity of an imperious mandate. 
 
 There came a sharp knock at the door. 
 
 Paul started, almost guiltify, and 
 dropped the card among the other letters. 
 This action, like his action in reading it, 
 was purely mechanical. Indeed, he was 
 so abstracted that it required a repetition 
 of the summons to enable him to recall his 
 wandering thoughts and bid the visitor to 
 enter. 
 
 A young fellow, not more than sixteen 
 or seventeen years of age, opened the 
 door and came in. His face was preter- 
 naturally sharp, and he had black eyes 
 and a swarthy complexion. He was 
 shabbily dressed; but his clothing was 
 by no means ragged or poverty-stricken. 
 His long overcoat, though shiny with 
 wear and faded into two or three different 
 colors, was a comfortable and seasonable 
 garment enough for the winter. He 
 wore an imitation sealskin cap, which he 
 pulled off as he entered. 
 
 "Beg pardon, bister," he began, speak 
 ing as if he were suffering from a bad cold
 
 B Cale of Gwentgsfive fjours. 123 
 
 in the head, "was you down to Bister 
 Zalinski s to-day? " 
 
 Zalinski again ! Was he about to learn 
 something at last? As this hope flashed 
 into his heart, Stuyvesant was obliged to 
 remain silent a moment before he could 
 command his voice to reply. 
 
 "Yes; I was there this afternoon." 
 
 "That s all right, then," said the boy; 
 " cos he expected you, and bade sure you 
 would cub sub tide to-day. He told you 
 about the frabes, I suppose ? " 
 
 " He told me nothing at all," Paul an 
 swered. "I couldn t get any satisfaction 
 from him." 
 
 "That s odd, too," said the other; 
 " cos he wanted you particular to look 
 in, and wrote you on purpose." 
 
 Paul perceived that the boy took him 
 for Charley Vaughn, of whose appearance 
 he was seemingly ignorant. Should he 
 undeceive the messenger? It did not 
 take him the tenth part of a second to 
 make up his mind in the negative. In 
 Charley s own interests, Stuyvesant would 
 learn what he could. 
 
 These reflections passed through his
 
 124 a Cale of tTwentEsfive Ibours. 
 
 mind like lightning; and, though the 
 boy continued his sentence with scarcely 
 a perceptible break, he had already de 
 cided. 
 
 "However," proceeded the messenger, 
 " vot he told me to tell you was this. He 
 has two frabes he d like you to look at, 
 both forty by twenty-four. One s bod- 
 ern, but very handsob ; and t other s the 
 regular antique." 
 
 "All right," said Paul, and as he was 
 speaking he was trying to think more 
 quickly than he had ever thought in his 
 life before. Was it possible that Char 
 ley s visits to Bleecker Street were only 
 in search of cheap picture-frames? Did 
 Zalinski deal in such articles? That was 
 likely enough. Pawnbrokers, so he had 
 heard, sold anything and everything. If 
 this were the innocent explanation of all 
 the strange circumstances, he had acted 
 in his suspicion most unwarrantably. 
 What right had he to question Zalinski, 
 and how could he justify to himself his 
 present assumption of Charley s identity? 
 
 But there were more suspicious circum 
 stances in the background still unac-
 
 {Tale of CwentEsfive Ibours. 125 
 
 counted for, as he knew, and he felt that 
 he must not jump at conclusions too 
 hastily. 
 
 "That s the dibensions you gabe, isn t 
 it?" the boy queried, producing a scrap 
 of paper from his pocket. 
 
 Paul took it from him. 
 
 "All right, then, " the boy continued. 
 " Bister Zalinski has two you can see any 
 time you call. They re just the size for 
 you. Either of them will do for the Bary 
 Bagdalen." 
 
 And before Paul could ask another 
 question the messenger of Zalinski was 
 gone.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT MAKES A DISCOV 
 ERY. 
 
 TUYVESANT was left alone 
 with a fresh dread at his 
 heart. "Handsome frame; 
 40x24; to suit an old mas 
 ter," he read. He simply nodded. His 
 thoughts were too busy. He could not 
 find words. He was conscious of a sud 
 den fear so portentous, so fraught with 
 terrible possibilities, so inexpressibly hid 
 eous, that he shrank from analyzing it. 
 
 The Mary Magdalen was the great 
 picture, the theft of which had come to 
 light only the previous day. And the 
 shadowy, unexplained connection be 
 tween two such dissimilar people as 
 Zalinski and Paul s future brother-in- 
 law took shape and substance over a com 
 mon point the missing picture! 
 
 Stuyvesant was fairly stunned. All
 
 Gale of wentB=five f>ours. 127 
 
 that he had feared, all that his most 
 gloomy previsions had hinted at, was as 
 nothing to this. 
 
 " Poor Kitty !" he murmured. A vague, 
 boundless pity for the woman he loved 
 filled his mind. In fancy he saw the 
 sunny head bowed down, the frank, (ear 
 less eyes abashed to the earth, in the 
 shadow of her brother s shame. He 
 dared not let his thoughts stray farther 
 in this direction. If ever he needed a 
 clear brain to plan, a steady hand to act, 
 he needed them now; and the vision of 
 Kitty he had conjured up unmanned him. 
 
 The Mary Magdalen ! The whole story 
 of its curious adventures, its loss and its 
 recovery, as it had been recounted in the 
 newspapers of the day partly authentic, 
 partly hypothetical came back to him. 
 And Charley had been one of the first to 
 light upon it in the shop of an obscure 
 Paris picture-dealer. The young painter 
 had discussed the discovery of the picture 
 with him that very morning. He had 
 asked Charley when he had seen the pict 
 ure last, and the question had remained 
 unanswered. Stuyvesant remembered too
 
 128 a Gale of Cwentgsfive fjours. 
 
 how ardent a longing the boy had ex 
 pressed to be the owner of the painting. 
 Could it be, as Duncan had said, that a 
 man of artistic temperament might covet 
 a masterpiece to such a degree that he 
 would steal it, though he could never reap 
 any satisfaction from his crime other than 
 a guilty enjoyment by stealth? He rec 
 ollected that at the news of the theft 
 Charley had not shown the indignation 
 which he had expected. The artist had 
 contented himself, as far as Paul s recol 
 lection served, with a slight expression 
 of surprise that it had not been found out 
 before. 
 
 And Charley had a Mary Magdalen 
 in his possession ! Zalinski s messenger 
 had said as much. Of course, there were 
 many Mary Magdalens in existence; but 
 here were the dimensions of the frame, 
 pencilled in Charley s own writing. 
 There was a copy of the Gotham Gazette 
 upon the table. Evidently Charley had 
 not taken time to open the paper before 
 going out that morning. Stuyvesant 
 hastily unfolded the sheet, and compared 
 the cabled figures which gave the pict-
 
 B Cale of Cwentg*ffve fjours. 120 
 
 ure s dimensions with the memorandum 
 in his hand. They were identical. The 
 measurement of the missing Titian was 
 forty inches by twenty-four. 
 
 Although doubt seemed no longer pos 
 sible, Paul still hoped against hope. He 
 asked himself what opportunity Charley 
 had had to take the picture. Two 
 months and more had elapsed since the 
 artist s return from Paris. The compari 
 son of dates was of little value here, 
 since Mr. Sargent had been absent from 
 Paris nearly seven months, and the pict 
 ure had not been missed until his return. 
 Any day or any night during seven 
 months might have been the day or night 
 when the picture was cut from its frame. 
 Charley had been in Paris, during Sam 
 Sargent s absence, for nearly three 
 months. 
 
 But it was absurd to believe that the 
 boy could have accomplished such a feat 
 alone and unassisted. Stay! Was it so 
 absurd? Charley had admitted, or he 
 had dropped hints that amounted to an 
 admission, that he had seen the Mary 
 Magdalen since its owner had seen it; he
 
 130 a Gale of awentB*fh?e fxwrs. 
 
 had remarked that locked-up apartments 
 were not impregnable, or words to that 
 effect. Paul remembered this part of the 
 conversation but vaguely. In any case 
 it was not necessary to assume that the 
 young man had acted alone. There was 
 a factor in the case which Paul never 
 forgot for an instant. There was M. 
 Zalinski. 
 
 This man was " notoriously crooked," 
 so Duncan had told him. He was a re 
 ceiver of stolen goods; quite likely he 
 was in communication with thieves in all 
 the capitals of the world. Stuyvesant 
 had no idea of the possible ramifications 
 of a business like Zalinski s, but he 
 thought it probable they were exten 
 sive. If the Jew had any part in the re 
 moval of the picture, or if he had any 
 knowledge of its removal, there was at 
 once an easy and a terrible explanation 
 of the hold he had over the artist black 
 mail! 
 
 So Stuyvesant s suspicions had not mis 
 led him, after all! If the old " fence " 
 were in possession of any such secret 
 about a young man in Vaughn s position,
 
 a Gale of awentB*fiv>e "fcours. 131 
 
 he was assured of a revenue to be meas 
 ured only by the latter s fortune and 
 possible professional earnings. As it 
 happened, the check which Paul had 
 given to Charley, and which had been 
 passed over to Zalinski the check which 
 had first started him on the trail of this 
 hideous secret was for a very small sum. 
 But it had not been an isolated transac 
 tion. Duncan had spoken of two other 
 checks bearing Vaughn s signature which 
 had reached him from the "fence;" Stuy- 
 vesant had not thought to inquire as to 
 their amount, but that mattered little. 
 If three of Charley s checks had been 
 paid by Zalinski to Duncan, dozens might 
 have passed through the same hands into 
 other channels. 
 
 But to think that a young man of such 
 position and surroundings, to think that 
 Kitty s brother could ever be guilty of 
 such a crime as robbery, was almost im 
 possible. Perhaps, though he had always 
 been inclined to scoff at the plea, there 
 might be reason to suggest kleptomania. 
 If Charley stole that picture, he must be 
 mad if ever a man was.
 
 132 a aale of ZEw>entB*fiv>e Douce. 
 
 If he stole it? Logically, the doubt 
 seemed hardly tenable; and yet Paul 
 clung to it. In the course of his reading 
 in preparation for his great work, he had 
 seen many an apparently perfect case, 
 perfect in the chain of circumstances 
 that constituted the evidence, fall to 
 pieces under the stronger light of direct 
 proof. Perhaps this case would so crum 
 ble away. Perhaps Charley could explain 
 all these seemingly inexplicable circum 
 stances. 
 
 If he could but see him! 
 
 He paced nervously to and fro. Per 
 haps Charley would not come; certainly 
 he would not come till late. Through 
 the mist of his general surliness, Barney s 
 opinion on that point had stood out in 
 bold relief, and Stuyvesant was inclined 
 to agree with him. At any rate, if he 
 stayed here any longer alone he felt as if 
 he should go mad himself. He glanced 
 at his watch. He was still in time to 
 keep his appointment with Kitty. He 
 would go. 
 
 Under the flaring gas-jet which lighted 
 the room now that night was settling
 
 B Gate of CwentE=ffv>e tbours. 133 
 
 down on the city, there was a table where 
 Charley kept pen and ink and paper. 
 
 Stuyvesant set his chair down before 
 this, and wrote a note hastily. Then he 
 read it over: 
 
 " DEAR CHARLEY: I want to see you 
 particularly. I have waited for you here 
 as long as I can. I am going out now, 
 but shall be back in my rooms by six 
 o clock. Come over there at once when 
 you get back. I shall not stir till I have 
 seen you, so you can be sure of finding 
 me in. Don t fail; this is most impor 
 tant. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 " PAUL STUYVESANT. 
 "January 3d, 4:15 P.M." 
 
 He placed the note conspicuously on 
 the table, where it would not fail to catch 
 the eye of any one entering the room. 
 Then he turned to go. 
 
 Suddenly a thought struck him. Sup 
 posing Charley to be the guilty possessor 
 of the picture, where would he keep it? 
 It was a thing to be guarded jealously 
 from any mortal eye, and nowhere else
 
 134 a Gale of CwentB=fiv>e txwrs. 
 
 could the young artist rqckon on the same 
 privacy as he could in his own studio. 
 
 Of course, it might be at Zalinski s, 
 but the idea that the young fellow would 
 steal the picture to sell again was not to 
 be entertained for a moment. No, if he 
 had it at all, he would keep it somewhere 
 at hand, so that he could look at it occa 
 sionally, and take such enjoyment of his 
 surreptitious treasure as his conscience 
 would permit him. 
 
 The gallery seemed the most promis 
 ing place of concealment, and Paul ac 
 cordingly mounted the steps. One end 
 was curtained off to serve as a model s 
 dressing-room; but a glance behind the 
 hangings showed Paul that it contained 
 nothing in the least resembling what he 
 sought. A pile of dusty canvases occu 
 pied one corner. Paul turned them over 
 one by one. They were some of Char 
 ley s earlier and cruder efforts the 
 sketches he had done before he had gone 
 abroad, stored during his absence, and 
 taken back, among other furniture and 
 litter, when he returned and rented this 
 studio. Stuyvesant remembered most of
 
 B Cale ot awentB=fiv>e f)ours. 135 
 
 them well, and smiled sadly as he thought 
 of the boyish triumph with which Char 
 ley used to refute the uninformed criti 
 cisms which Paul had offered, reluctantly 
 enough, and under strong pressure from 
 the artist. 
 
 There was nothing to detain him there, 
 and he descended. 
 
 This time he went under the gallery, 
 and examined the various hangings that 
 concealed Charley s finished and unsold 
 works. As he raised the curtain which 
 hid the corner farthest from the door, the 
 gaslight fell upon a painting from which 
 he reeled back with a cry of actual pain. 
 Hope itself could go no farther in the 
 face of such a proof. Before his eyes 
 leaned the lost picture Titian s Mary 
 Magdalen in all the glory of its matchless 
 beauty ! 
 
 The canvas was nailed to a stretcher; it 
 was unframed, and the ragged edges bore 
 plain marks of the hasty knife of the 
 spoiler. Paul was no art-critic he was 
 not even a connoisseur; but he could not 
 doubt the genuineness of the picture be 
 fore him. It had the rich, mellow tone
 
 136 B Gale of 
 
 which the years give to colors; it had all 
 the breadth and style of Titian s best 
 work; even Stuyvesant s unpractised eye 
 could detect and recognize the ear-marks 
 which had been discussed and insisted 
 upon by the experts in the various jour 
 nals while the authenticity of the Mary 
 Magdalen had been still a matter of de 
 bate. 
 
 Stuyvesant dropped the hangings and 
 came back into the main part of the 
 studio. He sank into a chair and asked 
 himself what he had best do. To what 
 purpose would he see Vaughn now ? To 
 reproach him? to concert measures of 
 safety with him ? He did not know. He 
 took up the note he had written, and was 
 about to tear it up; but on second thought 
 he laid it down again. It would be bet 
 ter to see the boy, better to hear what 
 he had to say for himself, better to help 
 him out of this scrape if help were to be 
 had under heaven. Charley was Kitty s 
 brother, and, for Kitty s sake, Paul would 
 stick to him still. For her sake, he 
 would go even to the length of compound 
 ing a felony.
 
 a Gale of wentB*ftoe f>ours. 137 
 
 Zalinski must be seen and settled with 
 somehow: on that point, at least, Char 
 ley could advise him. Then the picture 
 must be returned to the owner if possible. 
 Then arrangements must be made for 
 sending the young fellow away at once 
 to Europe somewhere, anywhere where 
 Kitty should never see him again. 
 
 As for himself, he never faltered in his 
 devotion. He thought and afterward 
 he smiled to himself at the quizzicality 
 of the conceit at such a moment he 
 thought that if Kitty had ten brothers, 
 each of whom had severally and collec 
 tively broken the ten commandments, it 
 could make no difference to him. She 
 was all his world, all his hope, all his 
 future; and his fidelity to her never 
 wavered. 
 
 Then he rose and turned down the gas. 
 
 It is strange how a methodical man 
 will continue to observe his ordinary 
 habits even when the hopes and ambitions 
 of his life are crashing in ruins around 
 him. He drew on his gloves, and took 
 up his hat and passed out into the hall. 
 
 The door, which fastened with a spring-
 
 138 B ale of CwentB=fiY>e t>our0. 
 
 lock, clicked behind him. He felt as he 
 remembered to have felt the day he re 
 turned from his mother s funeral. The 
 association of ideas was not inapt; for it 
 seemed to him that he was now, as he 
 had been then, turning his back on the 
 place where the dearest friendship of his 
 life lay buried.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT IS I.ATK FOR AN 
 APPOINTMENT. 
 
 S Paul Stuyvesant left " The 
 Rubens," a single stroke 
 from a neighboring steeple 
 told him that he would surely 
 be late in keeping his appointment with 
 Katharine Vaughn. It was at half-past 
 four that she had asked him to call for 
 her to take her to the New York Hospital. 
 ]>y rapid walking he would not keep her 
 waiting more than five or ten minutes. 
 He knew that her imperious character 
 would not brook his apparent neglect to 
 obey her behest. 
 
 There was a chill in the air, and a bit 
 ter wind swept across the city from river 
 to river. Stuyvesant quickened his pace. 
 "At last he stood before Mrs. Vaughn s 
 door; and then, for all he had hurried, 
 he hesitated. He did not know how to 
 face Kitty or what to say to her.
 
 140 B Gale of G\vent=fi\>c Ibours. 
 
 While he paused in embarrassment and 
 doubt, with his hand extended to pull 
 the bell, the door opened, and Kitty stood 
 before him. 
 
 "So there you are! " she cried. "At 
 last!" 
 
 "Am I late?" he asked, not knowing 
 what else to say, and glad almost to be 
 scolded if the reproof would keep his 
 thoughts from turning again to the dread 
 ful discovery he had made. 
 
 " Late ? " she returned. " Well, I should 
 smile if I wasn t too angry with you 
 ever to smile on you again." 
 
 "I hope not," he replied mechani 
 cally. 
 
 " You were so late that I had given you 
 up, and I was going without you," said 
 Kitty, as she closed the door of her house 
 and started down the steps. 
 
 Ordinarily there was nothing thatStuy- 
 vesant would have enjoyed more than this 
 brisk walk through the gathering dusk of 
 a winter day with the woman he loved. 
 Even her scolding was as music in his 
 ears generally; and to him it mattered 
 little what she said, so long as he might
 
 a Gale of {Twenty-five t)ours. ui 
 
 listen to her voice. But now the music 
 was all discord, and he had no heart for 
 the airy talk about trifles which was wont 
 to give him the greatest delight. 
 
 He tried to hide his perturbation from 
 her; but she soon saw that he was not as 
 bright or as lively as usual. 
 
 " How came you to forget your appoint 
 ment with me?" she asked. 
 
 " I did not forget it; I was detained." 
 
 " That s no excuse at all. You should 
 not let anybody detain you," Kitty re 
 turned. "Now, who was she?" 
 
 "Who was who?" asked Stuyvesant in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Who was the pretty girl who detained 
 you ? " she protested. 
 
 " But it wasn t a pretty girl who 
 detained me," Paul explained. "It 
 was 
 
 He checked himself. He could not 
 tell her how or why or where he had been 
 detained. 
 
 "Well?" she asked. 
 
 Then he saw an opening for a diver 
 sion of her attack. 
 
 " I was detained by some unexpected
 
 142 a Cale of Gtoent6*fft>e Ibours. 
 
 business; but I did meet a pretty girl 
 to-day 
 
 "Oh!" said Kitty. 
 
 Sometimes a monosyllabic interjection 
 may be fraught with a volume of mean 
 ing. 
 
 "And I wish you could tell me who 
 she is," continued Stuyvesant innocently. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you talk to 
 pretty girls without knowing who they 
 are?" asked she sharply. 
 
 "She spoke to me," Paul began to ex 
 plain. 
 
 "Then I am to understand that you let 
 pretty girls whom you don t know speak 
 to you ? " 
 
 And there was a certain acerbity in the 
 tone of Miss Vaughn s voice as she said 
 this. 
 
 "I will tell you the whole story, "Stuy 
 vesant answered, glad enough to find a 
 topic about which he could talk without 
 danger. 
 
 "Perhaps it would be best, "she replied 
 icily. 
 
 " I was riding up in a Broadway car 
 this afternoon, when a very pretty girl
 
 B Gale of CwentE*fix>e 1)our0. 143 
 
 got on, and of course I gave her my seat," 
 began Paul. 
 
 " Would you have given it to her if she 
 had been an ugly old washerwoman with 
 a basket?" interrupted Kitty. 
 
 "I hope I should have done so, " an 
 swered Stuyvesant. 
 
 "I have my doubts about it," Kitty 
 returned. " But go on. Your story in 
 terests me strangely, as they say in plays. 
 You gave her your seat and what hap 
 pened then ? " 
 
 "She thanked me, calling me by 
 name." 
 
 " So then she knew you ? " asked Kitty. 
 
 " So it seems," he answered. 
 
 " And you don t know her? " 
 
 "No," he replied; "at least, I have no 
 recollection of having seen her before. 
 Perhaps I may have met her somewhere 
 at dinner or at a reception, but I cannot 
 recall it." 
 
 "Oh!" said Kitty again ; and Stuyve- 
 sa nt was again conscious of a fall in the 
 temperature. 
 
 " What puzzled me most, " he continued, 
 " was that she seemed to know that we
 
 144 a Gale of wentE=five t>ours. 
 
 were engaged. In fact, she sent her love 
 to you." 
 
 " How was she dressed ? " asked Kitty. 
 
 "I don t know -- " began Stuyvesant. 
 
 "Of course not. You are a man," she 
 returned, with a commiserating glance. 
 "What was she like?" 
 
 " She was a pretty girl 
 
 But Kitty interrupted imperiously: 
 
 "You have already said that. What I 
 want to know is, what sort of a pretty 
 girl was she. Tell me all you happen 
 to have noticed ? I want the truth, the 
 whole truth, and nothing but the truth." 
 
 Thus admonished, Stuyvesant described 
 the lady as best he could, and he went 
 over his conversation with her as far as 
 he recalled it. 
 
 "A red-headed girl, who lives half an 
 hour out of town. Of course it was 
 Gladys Tennant, " cried Kitty, when he 
 had told his tale. 
 
 " Gladys Tennant ? " he repeated 
 vaguely. 
 
 "Yes," she replied; "don t you re 
 member? She lives in Yonkers. I asked 
 you to invite her to that theatre-party;
 
 Gale of GAveitt2*five t>ours. 145 
 
 and at supper she and Charley got up a 
 grand flirtation." 
 
 "I think I do recall her now," said 
 Stuyvesant. " And so she and Charley 
 flirted yes, I remember that too. Let 
 us hope she is not interested in him," he 
 added involuntarily. 
 
 " Why ? " asked Kitty sharply. 
 
 Paul saw his blunder, but it was too 
 late. 
 
 "I don t know," he said feebly. 
 
 "Don t you think the girl will be lucky 
 who gets Charley?" she continued. 
 
 Stuyvesant could not forget the facts 
 he had just found out. He could not 
 thrust out of his mind the strange secret 
 he had discovered in her brother s studio. 
 And before he could make ready an an 
 swer, she went on : 
 
 " Don t you think Charley is good 
 enough for any girl ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Stuyvesant hastily, 
 knowing how dear brother and sister 
 were to each other "oh, yes! I have 
 always said that Charley was a good 
 fellow." 
 
 "That s what you say about him, is
 
 14G a Gale of vvents=ff\>e t>ours. 
 
 it ? " asked Charley s sister. " And that s 
 how you say it?" 
 
 "I shall always stand up for him," 
 went on the unlucky Paul. " I hope he 
 will always find a friend in me." 
 
 Kitty withdrew her hand from Stuy- 
 vesant s arm. 
 
 " I see that you have some grievance 
 against Charley," she said coldly. " But 
 I think it would be more manly of you to 
 go to him and have it out than to make 
 insinuations to me! " 
 
 " Kitty! " cried Paul, astonished at this 
 outbreak. 
 
 " I have known Charley longer than I 
 have known you," she continued, "and I 
 know him better than you do." 
 
 "I do not doubt it," he returned; 
 "but " 
 
 He checked himself again. What 
 could he say? There was nothing to do 
 but to bear her reproaches in silence. 
 He could not justify himself. He could 
 not tell her what he knew about her 
 brother; he could not tell her that for 
 her sake he stood ready to do anything 
 in his power for Charley, if he might
 
 H Cale of C\ventE=fiv>e Ibours. n? 
 
 yet save the unfortunate and misguided 
 boy. 
 
 And so it was that they walked on in 
 silence, side by side, down Fifth Ave 
 nue to Fifteenth Street. 
 
 They turned the corner, and in less 
 than a minute they stood before the broad 
 portal of the New York Hospital. 
 
 " Here is where I am going," said Miss 
 Vaughn icily. "I will not trouble you 
 any further, Mr. Stuyvesant." 
 
 Paul started as she addressed him thus 
 formally, and he gave her a reproachful 
 glance. 
 
 " It is never a trouble to do anything 
 for you," he returned. "It is always a 
 pleasure to be with you." 
 
 Miss Vaughn had left him without 
 shaking hands, and she mounted the few 
 steps before the door. Then she turned: 
 perhaps she had caught his reproachful 
 glance; perhaps the sorrowful tones in 
 his voice touched her; at any rate, she 
 relented a little. 
 
 Standing on the steps above him, she 
 looked down and said: 
 
 "I shall be here until a quarter-past
 
 148 B Cale of CwentB*ftve 1>ours. 
 
 six. You may come back for me then, if 
 you like." 
 
 Before Stuyvesant could speak, he rec 
 ollected that he had left a note for Char- 
 l&y saying he would be at home after six, 
 and begging an immediate interview, the 
 importance of which forbade any post 
 ponement. 
 
 "I wish I could come; but he 
 began. 
 
 The chill smile swept over her face 
 again, as she interrupted him: 
 
 "Don t come, if you don t want to." 
 
 "But I do want to come, " he urged, 
 " if I had not an engagement 
 
 "You need not make any excuse," she 
 said frigidly. "Your excuses are not so 
 successful to-day that I care to hear 
 them." 
 
 Stuyvesant wished that he could tell 
 her that his engagement was with her 
 brother, and that for her brother s sake 
 he must keep it. But it was impossible. 
 
 "Good-evening," she said, as she 
 passed through the door, and the chill of 
 those last words smote Stuyvesant to the 
 heart. It was the first time that he and
 
 B ale of CwcntE=fix>e -fcours. 149 
 
 she had parted except in amity; and a 
 parting like this was hard to bear. 
 
 From the hospital he went directly to 
 the College Club. He did not know 
 when Charley would get his note, and 
 when he might expect to see the boy. 
 He must be prepared to wait, if need be, 
 without leaving his apartment. He fore 
 saw that he should have to forego his din 
 ner if Charley did not return to the studio 
 before night. Stuyvesant walked into 
 the club and ordered a dozen raw oysters, 
 as the food most easy to get and most 
 easy for him to eat just then, when he felt 
 as though a mouthful would choke him. 
 
 As he sat down at a table to give his 
 order, little Mat Hitchcock came in, a 
 man whom he detested. 
 
 " Hallo, Paul ! " he cried, with a famil 
 iarity as offensive as it was unwarranted, 
 "what s the matter with you? You look 
 off-color to-night? Has your best girl 
 gone back on you ? " 
 
 Under the strain on Stuyvesant just 
 then, this was more than he could stand. 
 
 He arose, and, facing Hitchcock, he 
 said calmly, and yet with force:
 
 i-">o 21 Cale of awent2=fiv>c t>ours. 
 
 "That is my business, Mr. Hitchcock, 
 and I suggest that you mind your own." 
 
 Little Mat Hitchcock started back. 
 
 " I didn t mean to offend you," he said 
 hastily. 
 
 "I think it likely," returned Paul 
 coldly, "that you cannot help being 
 offensive whether you mean it or not." 
 
 Hitchcock withdrew into the smoking- 
 room, where he spent the evening telling 
 everybody who chanced to come in how 
 he had been grossly insulted by that Stuy- 
 vesant man. 
 
 When Paul had hastily swallowed his 
 oysters, he left the Club and walked rap 
 idly back to his apartment.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT PASSES A DIS 
 TURBED NIGHT. 
 
 [HE quaint little clock on the 
 mantelpiece was chiming six 
 as Stuyvesant let himself 
 into his apartment and closed 
 the door behind him. At any moment 
 now Charley might be expected to make 
 his appearance in answer to the note, and 
 there was nothing for Paul to do but to 
 wait. He lighted the gas, and proceeded 
 to make up the fire, which had burned 
 low. 
 
 After changing his costume to the ease 
 of smoking- jacket and slippers, he filled 
 his pipe. 
 
 In truth, his nerves had need of a seda 
 tive. Never had his composure received 
 a ruder blow than it had that day. Now 
 only, in the quiet of his own room, after 
 he had in a measure recovered from the 
 first shock of the discovery, could he real-
 
 152 B Eale ot Gwents=fix>e 
 
 ize the full horror of the situation. On 
 the discovery of the damning evidence of 
 the picture, all possibility of doubt had 
 fled, and with it all hope. He groaned 
 inwardly, and strove to turn his thoughts 
 into a different channel. When Charley 
 came, the situation must be faced boldly. 
 Explanations must be given and received. 
 Shifts and expedients must be devised. 
 It was a sickening prospect. For the 
 moment surely he was entitled to indulge 
 in pleasanter reveries, if he could. 
 
 The little clock cut the silence with a 
 sharp, metallic voice. 
 
 Eight o clock. Even allowing Char 
 ley to have lingered over his dinner at 
 the Fried Cat or the Hole-in-the-Wall, 
 his favorite restaurants, where he met 
 many fellow-artists, long enough to have 
 smoked a cigar afterward, he could not 
 be much later now, unless he had gone 
 from his dinner straight to the theatre or 
 some place of amusement without stop 
 ping at his studio. How could he have 
 the heart to enjoy himself with Nemesis 
 on his track ? Stuyvesant felt a hot wave 
 of indignation against young Vaughn
 
 B Gale of Cwentfft>e foours. 153 
 
 roll across his mind. What right had 
 Charley to be out among those joyous 
 holiday throngs while he, Paul, was 
 stretched on a rack of vicarious appre 
 hensions? Was he to spend his evening, 
 when he might have been with Kitty, 
 when he should have been with Kitty, 
 waiting for that boy, who did not even 
 think it worth his while to return to 
 his studio to see if anything had hap 
 pened in his absence? "One would 
 think," muttered Paul irefully, "that 
 he would feel uneasy to-day, when the 
 loss of the picture has just been discov 
 ered. It seems to me that if I were in 
 his place I should not dare to leave that 
 studio for a moment, knowing what it 
 contains. But then if I had been in his 
 place the Mary Magdalen would be in Sam 
 Sargent s Paris apartments, where it be 
 longs, and there would be none of this 
 trouble at all." 
 
 Half-past twelve, within a minute or 
 two, it was, when he glanced again at his 
 watch. Was Charley never coming home ? 
 
 Was he And then for the first time 
 
 an appalling thought swept across Paul s
 
 154 a tlale of Cvvcntgsftve Ibours. 
 
 consciousness like a spectre, and he shiv 
 ered to his very marrow under the clutch 
 of his icy doubt. What if Charley never 
 came home again? What if he had 
 looked his last on the bright face that he 
 had learned to love so much ? What if 
 Charley were dead ? 
 
 No newspaper reader, no dweller and 
 worker in the busy hive of the metropolis, 
 is unfamiliar with the idea of suicide. 
 Like many another horror, it is a thing 
 to be lightly discussed and lightly dis 
 missed, till we are brought into actual 
 contact with it, till one of our friends 
 bursts with his own hands the lock which 
 guards the great mystery. Then, indeed, 
 we realize what self-murder is, and al 
 ways has been a terrible exception im 
 plying a burden of suffering, borne un 
 suspected until human nature could bear 
 it no longer, and flung aside then with 
 one rash gesture. And so it is that we 
 look on the suicide with the same pitying 
 wonder that we read of the tortures of the 
 Inquisition, and marvel that poor human 
 ity can endure so much, and endure it so 
 long.
 
 B ftale of wentE=fiv>e t>oui t s. 155 
 
 Of course Paul had no grounds to fear 
 that Charley had taken the fatal step 
 never to be retraced: he had misgivings 
 only; but these misgivings grew with 
 every moment that passed after the first 
 chilling doubt had smitten him. Char 
 ley must have been leading a fearful life 
 all these months, subjected to the exac 
 tions of a man like Zalinski, with the 
 sword of this undiscovered secret sus 
 pended over his head by a hair which he 
 could not but know must snap sooner or 
 later. At last the sword had fallen; the 
 secret had been discovered; and what 
 was more likely than that the poor boy 
 had accepted the swiftest and easiest so 
 lution of his difficulty, and had Paul 
 
 shuddered. He knew that he had heard 
 and read of many a suicide committed on 
 slighter grounds than these. 
 
 He tore off his smoking-jacket and 
 kicked off his slippers. He would go 
 out; he would solve this horrible doubt 
 if he could. But he paused even before 
 he had taken his boots in his hands. It 
 was long past one now. " The Ru 
 bens " would be locked up. Without a
 
 156 a ale of wents=fiY>e Ibours. 
 
 key to the outer door, he could not get 
 in; and he knew from experience that his 
 chance of rousing any of the inmates 
 would be small. Besides, there was a 
 chance, a dim ghost of a chance, that 
 Charley might yet come; and Stuyvesant 
 had no right to be absent. It was better 
 to wait till morning. He could act then; 
 to-night he could do nothing but wait! 
 
 Stuyvesant had lost all count of the 
 hours. The thronging thoughts that 
 filled his brain annihilated all perception 
 of time and space. He was like a man 
 under a dose of hasheesh. He did not 
 sleep, but he was conscious only in so far 
 as he felt the dominant impression. How 
 the long hours of that night wore away 
 Paul could never tell, nor could he ever 
 recall them without a shudder. 
 
 A piercing scream came up from the 
 street. Perhaps a fight was in progress, 
 or perhaps some poor creature had met 
 with an accident. The cry partly roused 
 Stuyvesant, and he stirred in his seat. 
 Something fell to the ground. He had 
 disturbed the manuscript of his book on 
 Circumstantial Evidence, and it had
 
 a Cale ot awentE=fiv>e "toours. 157 
 
 dropped from the table. The closely 
 written leaves lay at his feet in wild con 
 fusion. He did not move, but slowly 
 consciousness came back to him. He 
 was leaning his elbows on the table, and 
 was gazing intently on Miss Vaughn s 
 likeness. He had drawn the little cur 
 tains, but he had no recollection of the 
 act, nor could he even remember taking 
 that chair. Kitty had certainly not been 
 in his thoughts, and yet here he was and 
 here, for aught he knew, he had been for 
 hours staring at her picture. 
 
 The eyes of the faithful portrait were 
 looking into his, gently and pathetically. 
 With a little stretch of fancy he could 
 have imagined that they were filled with 
 tears. His own, no doubt, were dim and 
 weary. Poor Kitty! If it were indeed 
 as he feared if Charley, in his despair, 
 had taken his life she would never hold 
 her head up again. But why pause for 
 an "if"? Living or dead, there could 
 be" no doubt that Vaughn had stolen the 
 Titian, and in that act alone there was 
 measure enough of shame to bow his sis 
 ter s head in the dust forever.
 
 i. r >8 B Gale of awent=fiv>e tboure. 
 
 He glanced at the clock. It was ten 
 minutes before six, and the fire had 
 burned out to dull gray ashes. His first 
 feeling of consternation at the thought 
 that it was utterly hopeless to expect 
 Charley now was succeeded by a sense of 
 relief that the long night had worn itself 
 away at last. It was morning. 
 
 More and more figures appeared on the 
 street; and the lowering dawn broadened 
 into a murky day. New York was awak 
 ening. Paul turned from the window 
 and proceeded to get into his boots and 
 overcoat. "The Rubens" might be open 
 by this time. Still, he did not like to 
 leave his room where he had waited so 
 long. Suppose even now, by some un 
 foreseen chance, Charley should come and 
 find him absent? He would stay at his 
 post to the end. Then his eye bright 
 ened a little as he hit on a simple expe 
 dient.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT SPEAKS HIS MIND. 
 
 [TUYVESANT stepped out into 
 
 the little vestibule of his 
 apartment and rang the Dis 
 trict Messenger call which 
 was fixed at one side of the door. Then 
 he returned to his room and sat down to 
 his desk. He wrote a very urgent letter 
 to Charley. It was a relief to him to 
 write it; it seemed to give him an assur 
 ance that his friend was still in the land 
 of the living. He asked if his note of 
 the night before had not been received, 
 and begged Charley, if he was at home, 
 to come over without losing an instant. 
 "It is of the greatest importance," he 
 wrote, and he signed himself " Ever your 
 friend, Paul Stuyvesant." If Charley 
 were there to read it, he hoped that he 
 would understand that ever as conveying 
 an assurance that Paul would stand by 
 him to the end.
 
 160 B Gale of awentE=five Tbours. 
 
 In due course the messenger-boy re 
 turned. Paul s ashen lips could hardly 
 falter out the monosyllable "Well ?" for 
 he knew that the doubts and fears which 
 had possessed him during fourteen hours 
 of a mental strain such as he had never 
 before undergone were to be resolved now 
 for better, it might be ; it could scarcely 
 be for worse. But the boy seemed un 
 concerned enough. 
 
 "Gen leman was in bed," he said, and 
 he handed Paul a note. 
 
 " In bed ? " echoed Stuyvesant, as he 
 reeled into a seat with the unopened let 
 ter in his hand. " In bed ? " he repeated. 
 " When did he get home ? " 
 
 "Dunno," answered the boy, with a 
 grin ; and then Paul realized that the best 
 thing he could do would be to read the 
 answer, which was addressed in Charley s 
 handwriting. He tore open the envelope 
 and read the following, written in pencil 
 on the back of his own note: 
 
 "DEAR OLD POST SCRIPT: Of course 
 I found your note last night when I got 
 home; but as it was after midnight then,
 
 a Cale of Cwentg=fiv>e t>ours. 101 
 
 I never thought you would expect me till 
 the morning by the bright light. I d 
 have run around right off if I had sup 
 posed you would let me in. I hope you 
 haven t been getting into trouble with 
 the police, and want me to bail you out? 
 You can count on me every time. You 
 can even count on me this time, as soon 
 as I can hustle myself into a few gar 
 ments. I trust your business is not seri 
 ous; though I fear it is, since you rouse 
 me out of my beauty sleep so recklessly. 
 When you have said your say, I ve some 
 thing to tell you about myself which may 
 interest you. I think it will and I 
 know it will surprise you. 
 
 " Yours in the bath-tub, 
 
 " C. V. " 
 
 Paul dismissed the messenger with a 
 nod and stared at the letter in his hand 
 as if it were a cryptogram. What could 
 it mean? It was couched in the writer s 
 habitual tone of careless raillery. There 
 was nothing mysterious or morbid or 
 melodramatic about it: it was just such 
 a note as the boy might have written if
 
 162 B Sale of Zwcntv*five Ibours. 
 
 there were no Zalinski in the world and 
 if the Mary Magdalen still rested in its 
 proper frame. Could he have been 
 dreaming? Stuyvesant asked himself if 
 it was nothing but a nightmare springing 
 from the hideous watch he had kept. 
 He found no solace in this idea: he knew 
 his head was all right, even if his nerves 
 were shaken; and he turned to the letter 
 again with a profound bewilderment. 
 "I ve something to tell you about myself 
 which may interest you. I think it will 
 and I know it will surprise you." This 
 was the only sentence that seemed in the 
 least out of the common. These were 
 the only words that even hinted at a mys 
 tery. But that Charley would refer to a 
 matter of such gravity in such a banter 
 ing strain was impossible. 
 
 So his long night s vigil had been 
 wasted. Charley had returned home at 
 midnight, and then had thought it was 
 too late to come around. Paul grew 
 angry as he recollected how many wake 
 ful hours he had spent since twelve 
 o clock, and how there had not been one 
 of them in which Charley s appearance
 
 a ale of Gvve:ttE=fiv>e fjours. 163 
 
 would not have been hailed as a relief. 
 But Charley had been in bed and asleep 
 all the time; and he grumbled now be 
 cause he had been disturbed an hour too 
 early in the morning. 
 
 Paul s wrath waxed hotter and hotter, 
 and it was not far from the boiling-point 
 when the door opened and Charley walked 
 in. 
 
 He was neat, spruce, and well-dressed 
 as ever, rosy from cold water and the 
 January air. About him there were no 
 traces of a sleepless night and no signs 
 of a hurried toilet. Everything was in 
 place, even to a little hothouse flower in 
 his buttonhole, which might have been 
 culled that moment, so fresh and fragrant 
 did it look. 
 
 He came in jauntingly with his drip 
 ping umbrella in his hand and deposited 
 it carelessly in the corner. The water 
 ran clown and collected in a little pool 
 on the carpet. 
 
 4 Mornin-g, morning," he said. "Hal 
 loo! what s up? You look as if you had 
 been sitting up all night with your own 
 corpse. "
 
 164 a Cale of GwentE=ffve f>our0. 
 
 "I have not been to bed," answered 
 Paul. He could not go on. The young 
 fellow s appearance was in too sharp a 
 contrast to the fears that had been tortur 
 ing him. 
 
 "Dissipating, eh?" continued Charley 
 lightly, and then, noticing the other s 
 continued gravity: "What are you look 
 ing so cross about? Oh, I see! I ve 
 left my umbrella dripping! Well, I never 
 can remember." He took it up and stood 
 it in the rack. "I won t be guilty again. 
 Now, tell me what s the row?" 
 
 " Charley," said Paul, with an effort, 
 "I have something very serious to talk 
 about; but you mentioned in your note 
 that you had something to tell me. Per 
 haps it is the same thing. Go on. You 
 may tell me everything." 
 
 Charley stared at him with unfeigned 
 amazement. "I don t see how it can be 
 the same thing," he said. "You don t 
 know anything about it, unless you are a 
 sharper fellow than I take you for." 
 
 "Perhaps I am sharper than you take 
 me for, and clews have come to my hand
 
 of a\ventE=f!x>e txmrs. 
 
 which you never could have dreamed of. 
 So go on; let me hear all about it." 
 
 " Let s hear what s worrying you first, 
 old fellow," said Charley, with real con 
 cern. " Something has happened; I can 
 see that: you look as white as a ghost 
 with the dyspepsia. You haven t been 
 sitting up all night and sending off for 
 me at cockcrow for nothing. What s the 
 matter? Anything about Kitty ?" 
 
 Paul fired up at once. " Don t dare to 
 mention her name!" he said hotly. 
 
 "Come, that s cool," rejoined Charley. 
 " Pray, why mayn t I mention my own 
 sister s name? She isn t yours yet, and 
 I doubt if she ever would be if she heard 
 you talk to me like that." 
 
 " No trifling, " retorted Stuyvesant. " I 
 know all." 
 
 Charley s eyes opened wider, and the 
 corners of his mouth seemed twitching 
 with a desire to laugh; but he only said: 
 
 " The deuce you do ! What a lot you 
 must know, then!" 
 
 Paul had hard work to keep his temper. 
 To him this cavalier way of treating
 
 166 a Gale of Gwentg=fh>e 
 
 a serious matter was incomprehensible. 
 Steadying his voice with an effort, he 
 said: 
 
 " I am deeply pained to see you ap 
 proach this subject in so flippant a spirit. 
 I was in your studio yesterday." 
 
 " Yes, and you left a note there. I got 
 it. What s that to do with it?" 
 
 "While in your studio, I looked round 
 among the pictures; I searched every 
 where 
 
 "Cool of you; but, considering who 
 you are, I ll forgive you this time," said 
 Charley, who was engaged in lighting a 
 cigarette. 
 
 " In the farthest angle under the gallery 
 I came on the Mary Magdalen." 
 
 Charley s lips were puckered into a 
 whistle. 
 
 "Now, do you know," he said finally, 
 "I m sorry you found that, old man. I 
 hadn t intended you to see it at least, 
 not yet. I meant to have -- Well, no 
 matter; it s none the worse, I suppose." 
 
 Paul s astonishment at this reception 
 of his information was well-nigh ludi 
 crous. He almost gasped for breath, and
 
 of CwentE=five t>ours. 167 
 
 he stared at Charley as if the artist were 
 a being of some new and undescribed 
 species. 
 
 " How did you gain access to Mr. Sar 
 gent s apartments?" he at last found 
 voice to ask. 
 
 "With a silver key. I never met an 
 incorruptible concierge in my life," an 
 swered the young fellow, with a light 
 laugh. 
 
 " And can you speak of it in that tone? 
 Do you not realize what you have done? 
 Do you make no account of your mother 
 and sister the shame and misery you 
 may bring on them 
 
 "Come, come, Stuyvesant," said Char 
 ley quickly; "that s pitching it rather 
 too strong." 
 
 "I can t speak half as strongly as I 
 feel," answeerd Paul hotly. "I think the 
 whole transaction as mean and despicable 
 as anything I ever heard of. I 
 
 "Look here, Mr. Stuyvesant," inter 
 rupted the young man, rising and stand 
 ing before him, " you are going too far. 
 So just pull up short where you are, will 
 you ?"
 
 1G8 B Gale of GvventE=five Doura. 
 
 "What did you come here to tell me?" 
 asked Paul. " Be candid and above-board 
 now, and I ll do what I can for you." 
 
 "What I came here to tell you is pure 
 ly my own business," answered Charley 
 stiffly. "I should have been very glad 
 to tell you about it, but I don t think it 
 would possess the interest for you now 
 that once I had a fancy it would. At any 
 rate, after the words you have used to me, 
 I should have no pleasure in telling it." 
 
 The young man picked up his umbrella 
 and turned toward the door. Paul could 
 not suffer him to leave like this, with no 
 conception of the magnitude of the crime 
 he had committed. 
 
 "Don t go yet," he said. "You don t 
 seem to realize that this is a very serious 
 matter. Do you know that this is noth 
 ing more nor less than a theft you have 
 committed ?" 
 
 " I do not regard it in that light at all," 
 answered Charley, with his hand on the 
 lock of the door; "and, since you enter 
 tain that opinion of me, the less we see 
 of each other in the future the better. 
 Good-morning."
 
 B Gale of GwentE*five f>ours. 169 
 
 The door slammed with a viciour sound, 
 and Paul was alone. 
 
 An hour later Stuyvesant stood on a 
 street-corner with his watch in his hand, 
 wondering whether he could yet venture 
 to call on Miss Vaughn.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MR. PAUL STUYVESANT READS THE 
 "GOTHAM GAZETTE." 
 
 still lacked several minutes 
 of half-past ten more min 
 utes than he cared to count 
 when Stuyvesant stood on 
 the steps of Mrs. Vaughn s house and 
 pulled the bell. He had never before 
 called on Kitty at so early an hour, ex 
 cept by previous appointment, when it 
 had been arranged that he was to be her es 
 cort on some excursion demanding a start 
 betimes. But this morning he felt an im 
 perative need of seeing the girl he loved. 
 He wanted the solace of her presence, the 
 comfort of a few minutes conversation 
 with her, after his long night of agony 
 and his very peculiar interview with 
 Charley at the end of it. He felt that 
 he could not talk to her on the subject 
 that was uppermost in his thoughts. He
 
 & Gale of Cwentefive f>ours. l?l 
 
 was determined to work out her brother s 
 salvation alone, if that were possible; 
 and till the last moment he would keep 
 from the sister all knowledge of the terri 
 ble facts he had discovered. But he 
 wanted to see Kitty for another reason. 
 They had parted in coolness the night be 
 fore; and this was in itself no slight ad 
 dition to the burden he was called upon 
 to bear. He could not believe that she 
 was angry with him still; at any rate, a 
 complete humiliation on his part, and un 
 stinted apology, even without an expla 
 nation, would doubtless serve to smooth 
 the matter over. 
 
 When the servant opened the door, he 
 inquired for Miss Vaughn. Could he 
 see her? 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course; she is upstairs 
 now with Mr. Charles." 
 
 This was an unexpected embarrass 
 ment. Paul had no desire to meet Char 
 ley again at least, not just at present. 
 He hesitated for a full minute, and a 
 very little would have tempted him to 
 run away. However, Stuyvesant s was 
 not a shrinking nature, and he entered 
 
 12
 
 172 B Gale of GwentE=fiv>e fxwrs. 
 
 the house and sent a message to Miss 
 Vaughn. Would she see him alone for a 
 few minutes? 
 
 / He was shown into Kitty s special 
 room, the same in which he had waited 
 for her on the previous day the same in 
 which he had waited for her more times 
 than he could reckon, though every time 
 had its own sweet memories. The apart 
 ment was full of remembrances of her; 
 the evidences of the girl s dilettante art 
 were scattered around in picturesque 
 confusion. 
 
 Stuyvesant was at a loss to account 
 for Charley s early visit to his mother s 
 house, where of late he had not been a 
 frequent visitor at the best of times. 
 Just now one would have supposed that 
 he had enough to think of and to do, un 
 der present circumstances, without mak 
 ing morning calls. But Charley s con 
 duct in this crisis had been systematically 
 unaccountable. It was impossible to 
 predict what he would do or say, what he 
 would leave undone or unsaid. 
 
 The door opened, and Miss Vaughn 
 entered. She looked very dainty and
 
 B Sale of awents=fiv>e t>ours. 173 
 
 winsome in a fresh morning-gown; her 
 eyes were dancing with happiness and 
 health; and she had a bewitching smile 
 on her lips. She tried to frown as Paul 
 arose, but the smile was rebellious and 
 would not down, so she gave up her vain 
 assumption of displeasure and broke into 
 a merry laugh. 
 
 "Well, Bear," she said, "have you 
 come to apologize for your rudeness last 
 night ?" 
 
 This was just the reception Paul wished 
 for. He was willing to apologize. 
 Metaphorically speaking, he asked noth 
 ing better than to grovel at her little feet. 
 All he was unwilling to do was to ex 
 plain; and Kitty did not ask for an ex 
 planation. 
 
 He managed even to say, with a fair 
 attempt at a light manner: 
 
 " If you call me a bear, you must ex 
 pect to be hugged." 
 
 "Hands off!" she cried, retreating be 
 hind a chair. "I haven t forgiven you 
 yet for being cross." 
 
 "I throw myself on your mercy, " he 
 said, "and I beg you to believe that J
 
 174 a Gale of (Twentgsfive f>ours. 
 
 \vas the greatest sufferer by not being on 
 hand to walk home with you yesterday 
 evening." 
 
 "Of course you were," she answered. 
 " People who let their tempers get the 
 best of them are always the greatest suf 
 ferers in the long run. But, now you 
 have come back in a proper frame of 
 mind, you shall be forgiven, and I ll let 
 you take the kiss of peace." 
 
 And he took it at once. It seemed to 
 refresh him. 
 
 "The fact is," she went on, "I have 
 just heard something so interesting and 
 so exciting that it has driven everything 
 else out of my head, and it is impossible 
 for me to bear malice. You shall guess 
 what it is." 
 
 Paul could not guess. He had not the 
 spirits for badinage, and, after one or two 
 futile efforts under pressure of her insist 
 ence, he gave it up. 
 
 "Well, then," she said, "be prepared. 
 Catch hold of something. Charley has 
 been with me all the morning, and he has 
 made a full confession." 
 
 Kitty s recommendation to catch hold
 
 S Cale of awcntg-five -fcour0. 175 
 
 of something had not been unnecessary. 
 Paul fairly reeled under her announce 
 ment. Charley had told her; and now, 
 instead of Stuyvesant finding her crushed 
 and spirit-broken by the confession, she 
 met him with a laugh on her lips, and re 
 ferred to it as something " exciting and 
 interesting. " 
 
 " He has told you all ? " he gasped. 
 
 "Yes; everything. Isn t it just too 
 lovely? " 
 
 Paul .stared. 
 
 "It accounts for all that has been 
 puzzling us in his ways of late." 
 
 It certainly did account for Charley s 
 change of habits; but Stuyvesant could 
 not share Miss Vaughn s satisfaction. 
 
 "You don t seem pleased," she said 
 more coldly. " Perhaps you re jealous. 
 Oh, I haven t forgotten how you raved 
 about Gladys Tennant s beauty yester 
 day, when you met her in the street-car, 
 though you pretended you didn t know 
 her." 
 
 At any other time Paul would have 
 asked no better pastime than to combat 
 this pretty, unreasonable pique; but now
 
 176 B Sale of Cwent=fiv>e Ibours. 
 
 all his faculties were absorbed in a 
 boundless bewilderment. What Miss 
 Tennant had to do with the matter he 
 tried vainly to guess. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you look very innocent 
 and unconscious," pursued Kitty. "But 
 there, I am too happy; I can t be angry 
 with you, even when you deserve it. 
 Why, you dear old stupid, when you met 
 Gladys she was on her way to take the 
 3:30 train home to Yonkers. She had 
 very good reason to suppose Charley 
 might happen to be on the same train; 
 and sure enough he was on it ; and the 
 whole thing was settled as they walked 
 from the station to her house; and he 
 dined and spent the evening at Mr. Ten- 
 nant s in the character of in what char 
 acter, do you suppose?" 
 
 Paul could not hazard an opinion. 
 
 "How perversely stupid you are this 
 morning! " she said, with a frown of im 
 patience. " Haven t I told you as plainly 
 as words could say it that Charley pro 
 posed to Gladys Tennant yesterday, and 
 was accepted, and What s the mat 
 ter now? "
 
 & Gale of C\vent=five Ibours. ITT 
 
 "Is that all Charley told you?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes, that is all; and a very sufficient 
 piece of news it is, too, for a rainy morn 
 ing, I should think," she retorted. 
 
 Paul breathed again. The fatal secret 
 was still unsuspected by Kitty. 
 
 " You are not very profuse in your con 
 gratulations," she went on, after a mo 
 ment s pause. Then she looked at him 
 more closely. " What s the matter, 
 Paul? You look tired and troubled; you 
 are not yourself this morning. Aren t 
 you well, dear? " 
 
 There was a note of infinite tenderness 
 and feeling in her voice, and Paul caught 
 the hand that she passed caressingly over 
 his brow and pressed it to his lips. 
 
 " There s nothing the matter with me," 
 he said. " I had a rather disturbed night, 
 that s all. Some something s happened 
 to worry me. Tell me, though: this en 
 gagement it s rather sudden, isn t it? 
 I didn t know that Charley was paying 
 attention in that quarter." 
 
 "Neither did I. None of us did," an 
 swered she. " He has been most preter-
 
 173 a Gale of G\vents=fiv>e ibours. 
 
 naturally sly about it, hasn t he? You 
 see, it seems he has been in love quite a 
 while. As far as I can make out, she 
 took him into camp on the boat; you 
 know they came back from Europe on the 
 same steamer last fall, and he has been 
 sinking deeper and deeper into love ever 
 since, until now he is over head and ears. 
 But he had an idea that Gladys was fond 
 of some other fellow, and it has made 
 him very miserable. He never hoped 
 that anything would come of it, so he 
 never told a soul a word about it. Fi 
 nally, he made up his mind that some 
 thing had to be done in a hurry; so he 
 took the plunge yesterday, and he found 
 out that Gladys has been sighing for him 
 as long as he has been dying for her, and 
 now everything is lovely." 
 
 "I see," said Paul slowly. 
 
 He understood now the nature -of the 
 communication which Charley had in 
 tended to make to him that morning. 
 He saw they had been at cross-purposes. 
 He thought that the young artist had 
 chosen a very inopportune moment for 
 his wooinsr. The selfishness which Char-
 
 of GAV>ent=ffve ibours. no 
 
 ley displayed in drawing a young girl s 
 bright life into the shadow of his own 
 struck Paul painfully. It was of a piece 
 with the incomprehensible indifference 
 and levity with which he had treated the 
 whole transaction. 
 
 "Well, you are not very enthusiastic," 
 said Kitty, after a pause. 
 
 "Of course I wish him all possible 
 happiness," said Paul with an effort, for 
 the words seemed to stick in his throat. 
 
 "You shall say it to his face, then," 
 said Miss Vaughn, running to the door. 
 
 She was in the hall in an instant, and 
 calling with her clear, high-pitched 
 voice: 
 
 "Charley, Charley! Come here a min 
 ute ; I want you. " 
 
 " Kitty, I beg of you Paul cried, 
 
 springing to his feet. 
 
 But the summons had already gone 
 forth. It was impossible to check this 
 young lady in any course she had re 
 solved on ; and Paul had no possible ex 
 cuse for his unwillingness to meet her 
 brother. It was evident that Charley had 
 told her nothing of their quarrel in the
 
 180 a Calc of awentgsfire Ibours. 
 
 morning. Stuyvesant could only remain 
 passive, and let things take their course. 
 
 Presently Charley entered, light-hearted 
 and lively as ever, without the trace of a 
 care on his face. Paul, in his embarrass 
 ment, had withdrawn into the recess of 
 the window. 
 
 "Well, Kit, what is it?" said the 
 young fellow as he came in. 
 
 "Oh, I ve just called you down to re 
 ceive Paul s congratulations. I ve told 
 him all about it -- "U T hy, where is 
 he?" 
 
 "Thanks, I ll take Stuyvesant s felici 
 tations for granted," said Charley coolly. 
 "You see, they probably would not be 
 exuberantly overflowing. He s been en 
 gaged long enough himself to have found 
 out that it isn t a subject for unmixed 
 congratulations! " 
 
 Kitty s quick eye detected something 
 strained in the situation. 
 
 "What s the matter with you two?" 
 she said. " Have you been quarrelling? " 
 
 "Well, it s this way," said Charley. 
 " Stuyvesant has just found out about the 
 Mary Magdalen ; and the manner in which
 
 B Gale of C\vents=fiv>e t>ours. 181 
 
 I secured it seems to have jarred with his 
 fine sense of honor." 
 
 Paul nearly fainted. So her brother 
 had told Kitty the whole business, after 
 all. There was nothing more to conceal. 
 He came forward from the window, just 
 as Kitty answered: 
 
 "Well, you know, Charley, I did not 
 think it exactly nice myself." 
 
 Was the whole Vaughn family desti 
 tute of the moral sense? The girl he 
 was engaged to referred to a felony as 
 not " exactly nice! " 
 
 "That s a matter of opinion," said 
 Charley calmly. 
 
 Paul disagreed with him, but he said 
 nothing. 
 
 " If a man chooses to hide away a mas 
 terpiece like that, the outside world 
 must get at it as they can," the artist 
 said. 
 
 Paul still remained silent. 
 
 "Well, there s something in that, "said 
 Kitty, appealing to him. 
 
 "Perhaps there is," said Stuyvesant 
 stiffly. " I can t see it myself. To take 
 away Mr. Sargent s picture without his
 
 182 B dale of awentE*fiv>e tours. 
 
 knowledge is, in my eyes, nothing more 
 nor less than a theft." 
 
 "Since Mr. Sargent has been lucky 
 enough to recover his Titian," said Char 
 ley, "I think he will be charitable enough 
 to find a milder word for my very petty 
 larceny." 
 
 "Recovered his Titian?" cried Paul 
 in amazement. " How can that be?" 
 
 "By the exertions of the very intelli 
 gent and efficient police of the good city 
 of Paris," answered Charley. 
 
 " Haven t you read the papers yet ? " he 
 continued. "You were up early enough 
 this morning." 
 
 "No: I have I have been thinking of 
 something else," said Paul, producing 
 the Gotham Gazette from his pocket, 
 still folded as he had taken it from his 
 table. 
 
 Charley took the paper from him and 
 opened it. 
 
 "Read that," he said, indicating a 
 paragraph in the cable news. 
 
 With growing amazement, Paul read 
 this despatch:
 
 Sale of awent=fiv>e Tbours. 183 
 
 A PICTURE RESTORED- 
 "TO ITS OWNER! 
 
 MR. SAM SARGENT RECOVERS HIS MARY 
 MAGDALEN. 
 
 " PARIS, January 3. The Parisian 
 police have done a bit of detective work 
 worthy of the real Vidocq or the fabled 
 Lecoq. They have caught the man who 
 cut Mr. Sargent s Titian from its frame 
 yesterday, and they have got back the 
 picture itself. As I telegraphed you last 
 night, they had a clew; and so adroitly 
 did they follow it up, that they laid hands 
 on the thief within twelve hours after 
 the robbery had been discovered. The 
 theft was committed by a single man, an 
 employee of the low curiosity-shop where 
 the picture was discovered two years ago. 
 He bribed the concierge of Mr. Sargent s 
 apartments yesterday morning, and the 
 painting was cut from its frame only an 
 hour or two before the owner returned. 
 The rascal has made a full confession, in 
 which he acknowledges that his motive 
 was to hold the Mary Magdalen to ran 
 som, and to strike the American owner
 
 184 B Gale of awentB=fiv>e fjours. 
 
 for a hundred thousand francs. Luckily, 
 a sharp-eyed detective remarked the un 
 easiness of the concierge when Mr. Sar 
 gent announced his loss. Under pres 
 sure, the concierge supplied a description 
 of the thief, and the police ran him down 
 at once. Mr. Sargent has sent ten thou 
 sand francs to the Hotel-Dieu to endow a 
 special bed for the detective department 
 of the police." 
 
 " So, you see, Mr. Sam Sargent is in far 
 too good a humor this morning to be very 
 angry with me," said Charley, when he 
 had finished. 
 
 "The Mary Magdalen recovered? In 
 Paris?" Paul was stupefied with amaze 
 ment. "Then what was it I saw in your 
 room yesterday ? " 
 
 Charley stared at him blankly. Grad 
 ually a light seemed to dawn on his mind, 
 and the hard lines of his face thawed out. 
 Finally, the whole situation burst upon 
 him at once, and he fell back on the sofa, 
 where he rolled helplessly in uncontrol 
 lable merriment. 
 
 " Why, you don t mean to say you
 
 B Gale of Cwentg=fix>e l)ours. 185 
 
 thought that was the original?" he 
 gasped, as soon as he could recover his 
 breath. 
 
 "I certainly did," said Paul gravely. 
 
 The humor of the affair had not yet 
 dawned upon him. 
 
 " Oh, this will be the death of me ! " said 
 Charley, in the intervals of his merriment. 
 " Here is an unlooked-for testimonial to 
 the merits of my medium! I shall pub 
 lish it, Paul I certainly shall; and then 
 I ll take a big studio and turn out old 
 masters by the gross." 
 
 He was obliged to stop, choking with 
 laughter. 
 
 " I do not understand," said Kitty. 
 
 "Why, it s this way," continued 
 Charley, who had temporarily regained 
 command of his voice. " As I told you, 
 I bribed the concierge and made a copy 
 of Sargent s Mary Magdalen. Sargent 
 is a good friend of mine, but I couldn t 
 get at him to ask his permission; so I 
 just did without it. I knew that there 
 wasn t a government in Europe that 
 wouldn t let me go through its galleries 
 and copy what I liked. I primed my own
 
 186 B Gale of awentg=fiv>e "toours. 
 
 canvas, as I always do, and I used my 
 famous medium; and really it made a 
 very respectable old master indeed. It 
 would pass muster anywhere wouldn t 
 it, Paul ? " 
 
 There was a fresh explosion of laughter, 
 and then the young fellow resumed: 
 
 " I kept it as shady as I could, for I 
 intended it as a wedding-present for you 
 two; but Master Paul, here, must go 
 hunting after a mare s nest, and find one 
 with an addled egg in it. When he got 
 pitching into me about the theft, and so 
 forth, I supposed he was referring to the 
 underhand way in which I secured my 
 copy, and for which my conscience has 
 pricked me a little more than once, I con 
 fess; but I ve written the whole story to 
 Sargent, and I m sure he ll say it s all 
 right. But Paul actually thought I had 
 gone in with a crape mask and an ink- 
 eraser, and cut the picture out of the 
 frame! Oh, I shall die of this, I know 
 I shall!" 
 
 "And did you think my brother capa 
 ble " began Kitty indignantly. 
 
 "Oh, don t, Kit! Don t scold him,"
 
 a Gate of Cwentg=fiv>e fjours. 187 
 
 said Charley. "The poor fellow has had 
 the worst of it all through." 
 
 Stuyvesant looked from one to the 
 other in silence. 
 
 "Tell me, Paul," Charley continued, 
 " how did you ever get on the track of the 
 Mary Magdalen at all? Did you find it 
 by accident?" 
 
 "No," said Paul. His mind was still 
 whirling with the astonishing develop 
 ments of the morning, and he could not 
 force his ideas out of the beaten track. 
 "No," he said, "I learned that you had 
 been paying money at different times to 
 a man named Zalinski, who turned out 
 to be " 
 
 "A pawnbroker," interrupted Charley. 
 "One by one my cherished secrets shrivel 
 up under the eagle eye of my future 
 brother-in-law. I have dealt with Zalin 
 ski; I buy most of my curios and studio 
 properties from him. I got that guillo 
 tine-knife that hangs in your sitting-room 
 from Zalinski, and the bowie-knife too. 
 I have even left him a standing order to 
 let me know whenever he comes across 
 anything that may appeal to my outland- 
 13
 
 188 a Gale of Cwents=fit>e flxwrs. 
 
 ish taste; but I don t tell people of it. 
 For one thing, it looks shady to deal at a 
 pawnshop; and for another, if the rest of 
 the boys tumbled to my racket, Zalinski s 
 prices would go up, and there wouldn t 
 be so much left for me. " 
 
 "Charley," said Paul, advancing with 
 outstretched hand, " I have made a great 
 fool of myself, and my doubt of you was 
 an outrage. Can you forgive me?" 
 
 "With all my heart, old boy, espe 
 cially as you ve given me the best laugh 
 I ve had for years." 
 
 "And you, Kitty?" said he, turning to 
 Miss Vaughn. 
 
 "I don t know. I ll consider it. 
 You ve no business to be so suspicious," 
 she anwered, putting her hands behind 
 her. 
 
 "I ll try and be less so in the future," 
 he answered humbly. 
 
 "And you d better look out and walk 
 the matrimonial chalk-line without wob 
 bling, Miss Kitty," said her brother; 
 "for you ll have a husband that could 
 give Vidocq long odds and beat him." 
 
 "I think, on the whole, as you are
 
 B Cale of Cwentg=fiv>e t>ouis. 189 
 
 penitent, I ll forgive you," said Kitty 
 gravely, wholly ignoring her brother s 
 irreverent observation. "Now I m going 
 to Yonkers with Charley to kiss Gladys 
 Tennant. You can come if you want." 
 
 "You can come, but you can t kiss," 
 interjected Charley. 
 
 "I d like it of all things," said Paul 
 eagerly. 
 
 "You ll see how nice she is to talk to 
 when you know who she is," said young 
 Vaughn mischievously; "and when you 
 get back you can sit down and write a 
 nice long chapter on the fallacies of cir 
 cumstantial evidence, as exemplified in 
 the personal experience of the author." 
 
 THE END.
 
 D. APPLETON & CO. S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 APPLETONS SUMMER SERIES, 1891. 
 *J~OURM ALINES TIME CHEQUES. By F. ANSTEY, 
 * author of " Vice Versa," " The Giant s Robe," etc. 
 
 " Its author has struck another rich vein of whimsicality and humor. " 
 San Francisco A rgonaut. 
 
 " His special gift is in making the impossible appear probable." St. 
 Louis Republic. 
 
 "A curious conceit and very entertaining story." Boston Advertiser. 
 
 " Each cheque is good for several laughs." New York Herald. 
 
 " Certainly one of the most diverting books of the season." Brooklyn 
 Times 
 
 " Sets a handsome example for the Summer Series, with its neat and 
 portable style of half cloth binding and good paper and typography." 
 Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 T^ROM SHADOW TO SUNLIGHT. By the MAR- 
 
 * QUIS OF LORNE. 
 
 " In these days of princely criticism that is to say, criticism of princes 
 it is refreshing to meet a really good bit of aristocratic literary work, al 
 beit the author is only a prince -in-law. . . . The theme chosen by the 
 Marquis makes his story attractive to Americans." Chicago Tribune. 
 
 " A charming book." Cincinnati Enquirer. 
 
 ADOPTING AN ABANDONED FARM. By KATE 
 ** SANBORN. 
 
 "It may be mythical, but it reads like a true narrative taken from a 
 strong memory that has been re-enforced by a diary and corrected by the 
 parish register. It is not only as natural as life, but, as Josh Billings used 
 to say, even more so. " New York Journal oj Commerce. 
 
 " A sunny, pungent, humorous sketch. ... A bright, amusing book, 
 which is thoughtful as well as amusing, and may stimulate, somewhere, 
 thinking that shall bear fruit in some really effective remedial action." 
 Chicago Times. 
 
 /^V THE LAKE OF LUCERNE, AND OTHER 
 ^ STORIES. By BEATRICE WHITBY. 
 
 "Six short stories carefully and conscientiously finished, and told with 
 the graceful ease of the practiced raconteur." Literary Digest. 
 
 "The stories are pleasantly told in light and delicate vein, and are sure 
 to be acceptable to the friends Miss Whitby has already made on this side 
 of the Atlantic." Philadelphia Bulletin. 
 
 " Very dainty, not only in mechanical workmanship but in matter and 
 manner." Boston Advertiser. 
 
 Each, i6mo, half cloth, with specially designed cover, 50 cents. 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., i, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
 
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 RECENT ISSUES IN APPLETONS* TOWN AND COUNTRY LIBRARY. 
 STEPHEN ELLICOTT S DAUGHTER. By Mrs. 
 ^ J. H. NEEDKLL, author of "The Story of Philip 
 Methuen." I2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " I am desirous to bear my humble testimony to the great ability and 
 high aim of the work." Hon. W. E. GLADSTONE. 
 
 "From first to last an exceptionally strong and beautiful story." 
 London Spectator. 
 
 r\NE REASON WHY. By BEATRICE WHITBY, au- 
 
 ^^ thor of " The Awakening of Mary Fenwick," " Part of 
 
 the Property," etc. I2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "A remarkably well-written story. . . . The author makes her people 
 speak the language of every-day life, and a vigorous and attractive realism 
 pervades the book, which provides excellent entertainment from beginning 
 to end." Boston Saturday Lvening Gazette. 
 
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 HE TRAGEDY OF IDA NOBLE. By W. CLARK 
 RUSSELL, author of " The Wreck of the Grosvenor," 
 etc. I2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "The best sea-story since The Wreck of the Grosvenor. It shows a 
 determination to abandon the well-worn tracks of fiction and to evolve a 
 new and striking p ot. . . . There is no sign of exhausted imagination in 
 this strong tale." Philadelphia Public Ledger. 
 
 T HE JOHNSTOWN STAGE AND OTHER 
 
 * STORIES. By ROBERT H. FLETCHER, author of " A 
 
 Blind Bargain," etc. I2mo. Paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " A collection of as charming short stories as one could wish to find, 
 most of them Western in scene." San Francisco Argonaut. 
 
 " Nine real stories, not studies of character, but narratives of interest. 
 . . vivaciously and pleasantly told." Boston Pitot. 
 
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 WIDOWER INDEED. By RHODA BROUGHFON 
 and ELIZABETH BISLAND. 121110. Paper, 50 cents ; 
 cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " Done with masterly skill. The whole work is strong and well worth 
 reading." New York Journal of Commerce. 
 
 " The story is written with great strength, and possesses a powerful in 
 terest that never flags." Boston Home Journal. 
 
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 THE FLIGHT OF THE SHADOW. By GEORGE 
 * MACDONALD, author of " Malcolm," " Annals of a 
 
 Quiet Neighborhood," etc. I2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; 
 
 cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " It is extremely entertaining, contains a charming love-story, and is 
 beautifully written, like everything from Mr. MacJJonald spen." Sc. J aul 
 Pioneer-Press. 
 
 T OVE OR MONE Y. By KATHARINE LEE, author of 
 ^ " A Western Wildflower," " In London Town," etc. 
 I2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "In point of cleverness this novel is quite up to the standard of the ex 
 cellent Town and Country Library in which it appears. Most of the char 
 acters are well drawn, and there are some singularly strong scenes in the 
 book." Charleston Mews and Courier. 
 
 ATOT ALL IN VAIN. By ADA CAMBRIDGE, author 
 of " The Three Miss Kings," " My Guardian," etc. 
 I2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " A worthy companion to the best of the author s former efforts, and in 
 some respects superior to any of them." Detroit Free Press. 
 
 " A better story has not been published in many moons." Philadelphia 
 Inquirer. 
 
 TT HAPPENED YESTERDA Y. By FREDERICK 
 MARSHALL, author of "Claire Brandon." I2mo. 
 Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " An odd, fantastic tale, whose controlling agency is an occult power 
 which the world thus far has doubted and wondered at alternately ratl.er 
 than studied." Chicago Times. 
 
 "A psychological story of very powerful interest." Boston Home 
 Journal. 
 
 1\/T Y GUARDIAN. By ADA CAMBRIDGE, author of 
 "The Three Miss Kings," "Not All in Vain," etc. 
 I2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " A story which will, from first to last, enlist the sympathies of the 
 reader by its simplicity of style and fresh, genuine feeling. . . . The author 
 is an fait at the delineation of character." Boston T>anscript. 
 
 "The Mnouinent is all that the most ardent romance-reader could 
 desire. Chicago Evening Journal. 
 
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 HE FAITH DOCTOR. By EDWARD EGGLESTON, 
 author of " The Hoosier Schoolmaster," " The Circuit 
 Rider," etc. I2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "An excellent piece of work. . . . With each new novel the author of 
 The Hoosier Schoolmaster enlarges his audience, and surprises old friends 
 by reserve forces unsuspected. Sterling integrity of character and hi^h 
 moral motives illuminate Dr. Eggleston s fiction, and assure its place in the 
 literature of America which is to stand as a worthy reflex of the best thoughts 
 of this age." New \ ork World. 
 
 "One of the novels of the decade." Rochester Union and Advertiser. 
 
 " It is extremely fortunate that the fine suhjcct indicated in the title 
 should have fallen into such competent hands." Pittsburgh Chronicle- 
 1 elegraph. 
 
 " Much skill is shown by the author in making these fads the basis of 
 a novel of great interest. . . . One who tries to keep in the current ol good 
 novel-reading must certainly find time to read The Faith Doctor. " 
 Buffalo Commercial. 
 
 " A vivid and life-like transcript from several phases of society. Devoid 
 of literary affectation and pretense, it is a wholesome American novel well 
 worthy of the popularity which it has won." Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 "The author of The Hoosier Schoolmaster has enhanced his reputa 
 tion by this beautiful and touching study of the character of a girl to love 
 whom proved a liberal education to both of her admirers." London Athe- 
 ntetim. 
 
 AN UTTER FAILURE. By MIRIAM COLES HARRIS, 
 ** author of " Rutledge." I2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 "A story with an elaborate plot, worked out with great cleverness and 
 with the skill of an experienced artist in fiction. The interest is strong and 
 at times very dramatic. . . . Those who were attracted by Rutledge will 
 give hearty welcome to this story, and find it fully as enjoyable as that once 
 immensely popular novel." Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 " The pathos of this tale is profound, the movement highly dramatic, the 
 moral elevating." New York World. 
 
 " In this new story the author has done some of the best work that she 
 has ever given to the public, and it will easily class among the most meri 
 torious and most original novels of the year." Bostcn Hotne Journal. 
 
 " The author of Rutledge does not often send out a new volume, but 
 when she does it is always a literary event. . . . Her previous books were 
 sketchy and slight when compared with the finished and trained power 
 evidenced in An Utter Failure. " New Haven Palladium. 
 
 "F.xhibits the same literary excellence that made the success of the 
 author s first book." San Francisco Argonaut. 
 
 " American girls with a craving for titled husbands will find instructive 
 reading in this story." Boston Traveller. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., i, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
 
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 INLINE VERB. By Louis COUPF.RUS. Translated 
 -^ from the Dutch by J. T. GREIN. With an Introduc 
 tion by EDMUND GOSSE. Holland Fiction Series. 
 I2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " The established authorities in art and literature retain their exclusive 
 place in dictionaries and hand-books long after tlie claim of their juniors to 
 be observed with attention has been practically conceded at home. For this 
 reason, partly, and partly also because the mental life of Holland receives 
 little attention in this country, no account has yet been taken of the revolu 
 tion in Dutch taste which has occupied the last six or seven years. I believe 
 that the present occasion is the first on which it has been brought to the 
 notice of any English-speaking public. . . . Eline Vere is an admirable 
 performance." EDMUND GOSSE, in Introduction. 
 
 " Most careful in its details of description, most picturesque in its color 
 ing." Boston Post. 
 
 " A vivacious and skillful performance, giving an evidently faithfu 
 picture of society, and evincing the art of a true story-teller." Philadelphia 
 Telegraph. 
 
 " Those who associate Dutch characters and Dutch thought with ideas 
 of the purely phlegmatic, will read with astonishment and pleasure the oft- 
 times stirring and passionate sentences of this novel." Public Opinion. 
 
 "The de iLoiinient is tragical, thrilling, and picturesque." New York 
 World. 
 
 " If modern Dutch literature has other books as eood as this to offer, we 
 hope that they will soon find a translator." Chicago Evening Journal. 
 
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 PURITAN PAGAN. By JULIEN GORDON, author 
 of "A Diplomat s Diary," etc. I2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " Mrs. Van Rensselaer Cruger grows stronger as she writes. . . . The 
 lines in her story are boldly and vigorously etched." New York Times. 
 
 "The author s recent books have made for her a secure place in current 
 literature, where she can stand fast. . . . Her latest production, A Puritan 
 Pagan, is an eminently clever story, in the best sense ot the word clever." 
 Philadelphia. Telegraph. 
 
 " Has already made its mark as a popular story, and will have an abun 
 dance of readers. ... It contains some useful lessons that will repay the 
 thoughtful study of persons of both sexes." New York Journal of Com 
 merce. 
 
 "This brilliant novel will without doubt add to the repute of the writer 
 who chooses to be known as Julien Gordon. . . . The ethical purpose of 
 the author is kept fully in evidence through a series of intensely interesting 
 situations." Boston Beacon. 
 
 "It is obvious that the author is thoroughly at home in illustrating the 
 manner and the sentiment of the best society of both America and Europe. " 
 Chicago Times. 
 
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 N THE PLANTATION, By JOEL CHANDLER 
 HARRIS, author of " Uncle Remus." \Vith 23 Illus 
 trations by E. W. KEMBLE, and Portrait of the Author. 
 I2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "The book is in the characteristic vein which has mnde the author so 
 famous and popular as an interpreter of plantation character." Rochtstir 
 Union and Advertiser. 
 
 "Those who never tire of Uncle Remus and his stories with whom we 
 would be accounted will delight in Joe Maxwell and his exploits." 
 London Saturday Review. 
 
 "Altogether a most charming book." Chicago Times. 
 
 " Really a valuable, if modest, contribution to the history of the civil 
 war within the Confederate lines, particularly on the eve of the catastrophe. 
 Two or three new animal fables are introduced with effect; but the history 
 of the plantation, the printing-office, the black runaways, and white de 
 serters, of whom the impending break-up made the community tolerant, the 
 coon and fox hunting, forms the serious purpose of the book, and holds the 
 reader s interest from beginning to end." New York Evening Post. 
 
 u 
 
 \VCLE REMUS: His Songs and his Sayings. The 
 Folk-lore of the Old Plantation. By JOEL CHANDLER 
 HARRIS. Illustrated from Drawings by F. S. CHURCH 
 and J. H. MOSER, of Georgia. I2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "The idea of preserving and publishing these legends, in the form in 
 which the old plantation negroes actually tell them, is altogether one of the 
 happiest literary conceptions of the day. And very admirably is the work 
 done. ... In such touches lies the charm of this fascinating little volume 
 of legends, which deserves to be placed on a level with Kciiicke Fuchs for 
 its quaint humor, without reference to the ethnologic*! interest possessed 
 by these stories, as indicating, perhaps, a common origin for very widely 
 severed races." London Spectator. 
 
 " We are just discovering what admirable literary material there is at 
 home, what a great mine there is to explore, and how quaint and peculiar 
 is the material which can be dug up. Mr. Harris s book may be looked on 
 in a double light either as a pleasant volume recounting the stories told by 
 a typical old colored man to a child, or as a valuable contribution to our 
 somewhat meager folk-lore. . . . To Northern readers the story of Brer 
 (Brother Brudder) Rabbit may be novel. To those familiar with planta 
 tion life, who have listened to these quaint old stories, who have still tender 
 reminiscences of some good old mauma who told these wondrous adventures 
 to them when they were children, Brer Rabbit, the Tar Baby, and Brer Fox 
 dime back again with all the past pleasures of younger days." New York 
 Times. 
 
 " Uncle Remus s sayings on current happenings are very shrewd and 
 bright, and the plantation and revival songs are choice specimens of their 
 sort. " Boston Journal. 
 
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 THE LAST WORDS OF THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 * Including IVotton Reinfred, Carlyle s only essay in 
 
 fiction ; the Excursion (Futile Enough) to Paris ; and 
 
 letters from Thomas Carlyle, also letters from Mrs. 
 
 Carlyle, to a personal friend. With Portrait. I2mo. 
 
 Cloth, gilt top, $1.75. 
 
 "The interest of Wotton Reinfred to me is considerable, from the 
 sketches which it contains of particular men and women, most of whom I 
 knew and could, if necessary, identify. The story, too, is taken generally 
 from real life, and perhaps Carlyle did not finish it, from the sense that it 
 could not be published while the persons and things could be recognized. 
 That objection to the publication no longer exists. Everybody is dead 
 whose likenesses have been drawn, and the incidents stated have long been 
 forgotten." JAMES ANTHONY FKOIJUE. 
 
 " Wotton Reinfred is interesting as a historical document. It gives 
 Carlyle before he had adopted his peculiar manner, and yet there are some 
 characteristic bits especially at the beginning in the Sartor Kesartus 
 vein. I take it that these are reminiscences of Irving and of the Thackeray 
 circle, and there is a curious portrait of Coleridge, not very thinly veiled. 
 There is enough autobiography, too, of interest in its way." LESLIE 
 STEPHEN. 
 
 "No complete edition of the Sage of Chelsea will be able to ignore these 
 manuscripts." Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 MINES, AXD AA T IMALS IN SOUTH 
 AFRICA. By Lord RANDOLPH S. CHURCHILL. 
 With Portrait, Sixty five Illustrations, and a Map. 
 8 VO - 337 pages. Cloth, $5.00. 
 
 "The subject-matter of the book is of unsurpassed interest to all who 
 either travel in new countries, to see for themselves the new civilizations, 
 or follow closely the experiences of such travelers. And Lord Randolph s 
 eccentricities are by no means such as to make his own reports of what he 
 saw in the new states of South Africa any the less interesting than his active 
 eyes and his vigorous pen naturally make them." Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 "Lord Randolph Churchill s pages are full of diversified adventures and 
 experience, from any part of which interesting extracts could be collected. 
 ... A thoroughly attractive book." London Telegraph. 
 
 "Provided with amusing illustrations, which always fall short of cari 
 cature, but perpetually suggest mirthful entertainment." Philadelphia 
 Ledger. 
 
 "-The book is the better for having been written somewhat in the line of 
 journalism. It is a volume of travel containing the results of a journalist s 
 trained observation and intelligent reflection upon political affairs. Such 
 a work is a great improvement upon the ordinary bo< k of travel. Lord 
 Randolph Churchill thoroughly enjoyed his experiences in the African bush, 
 and has produced a record of his journey and exploration which has hardly 
 a dull pa^e in it." New York Tribune. 
 
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 T IFE IN ANCIENT EGYPT AND ASSYRIA. 
 
 ~^ By G. MASPERO, late Director of Archaeology in Egypt, 
 
 and Member of the Institute of France. Translated 
 
 by ALICE MORTON. With 188 Illustrations. I2mo. 
 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " A lucid sketch, at once popular and learned, of daily life in Egypt in 
 the time of Rameses II, and of Assyria in that of Assurbanipal. . . . As an 
 Orientalist, M. MaspeVo stands in the front rank, and his learning is so well 
 digested and so admirably subdued to the service of popular exposition, that 
 it nowhere overwhelms and always interests the reader." London Times. 
 
 " Only a writer who had distinguished himself as a student of Egyptian 
 and Assyrian antiquities could have produced this work, which has none of 
 the features of a modern book of travels in the East, but is an attempt to 
 deal with ancient life as if one had been a contemporary with the people 
 whose civilization and social usages are very largely restored." Boston 
 Herald. 
 
 " The ancient artists are copied with the utmost fidelity, and verify the 
 narrative so attractively presented." Cincinnati 7iines-^iar. 
 
 HE THREE PROPHETS: Chinese Cordon; Mo- 
 hammcd-Ahmed ; Araby Pasha. Events before, dur 
 ing, and after the Bombardment of Alexandria. By 
 Colonel CHAILLE-LONG, ex-Chief of Staff to Gordon 
 in Africa, ex-United States Consular Agent in Alex 
 andria, etc. With Portraits. i6mo. Paper, 50 cents. 
 
 " Comprises the observations of a man who, by reason of his own military 
 experience in Egypt, ought to know whereof he speaks." Washington 
 Post. 
 
 " Throws an entirely new light upon the troubles which have so long 
 agitated Egypt, and upon their real significance." Chicago Times. 
 
 n^IIE MEMOIRS OF AN ARABIAN PRINCESS. 
 
 * By EMILY RUETE, n& Princess of Oman and Zanzibar. 
 
 Translated from the German. I2mo. Cloth, 75 cents. 
 
 "A remarkably interesting little volume. . . . As a picture of Oriental 
 court life, and manners and customs in the Orient, by one who is to the 
 manner born, the book is prolific in entertainment and edification." Boston 
 Gazette. 
 
 "The interest of the book centers chiefly in its minute description of the 
 daily life of the household from the time of rising until the time of retiring, 
 giving the most complete details of dress, meals, ceremonies, feasts, wed 
 dings, funerals, education, slave service, amusements, in fact everything 
 connected with the daily and yearly routine of life." Utica (N. V.) Herald. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., i, 3, & 5 Bond Street.