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[Illustration: "I ARREST YOU FOR THE MURDER OF VICTORIA VANE."]

FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD

BY FRANK PINKERTON

1886

CHAPTER I.

THE TRAMP.

"Will you give me a glass of water, please?"

A ragged, bearded tramp stood before the door of a cottage near the outskirts of a country village, and propounded this question to a pretty girl who stood in the door.

"In a moment."

The girl disappeared, soon returning with a pitcher.

She went to the pump near, and soon had the pitcher running over with sparkling water.

"I will bring a cup."

"Needn't mind."

The tramp lifted the pitcher and quaffed the water as though he enjoyed it.

His eyes were not pleasant as he turned them keenly on the pretty face of the girl.

"Folks at home?"

"No."

"All alone, eh?"

"Yes; but Ransom will be around soon—my brother."

The eyes of the tramp glittered. He seemed to delight in reading the fresh young face before him.

"Nobody at home, eh?" he grunted. "Mebbe I'd better go in and rest a bit.
Any objections?"

"Yes. If you are hungry I'll bring you food out here."

It was a pleasant day, and the sun was warm without being hot, a rare enjoyable day in June.

It seemed to the girl that there could be no excuse for a stout man like the one before her tramping and begging through the country.

"Why do you not work?" she said.

"I wasn't born that way," and he chuckled unpleasantly.

The girl hurried into the house.

His Trampship followed.

She was not a little alarmed at finding the ill-looking fellow close at her heels. She feared and dared not anger him.

Placing a chair at a table, she bade him be seated, and then she hastened to set before him bread, milk and cold meat.

"The best the house affords, eh?" he chuckled, as he sat up to the repast. "The very best."

"And it's good enough for a king."

Then he fell to and ate ravenously.

The girl walked to the door and gazed uneasily down the road.

"Brother comin'?"

"I do not see him."

"What's your name?"

The tramp was inquisitive.

"Vane."

"Eh? Is that a fact?"

The stout fellow started and regarded the girl fixedly.

"Is the name a familiar one?" questioned the girl after a moment, anxious to conciliate the man. Her nearest neighbor was at least a quarter mile distant, and the house was concealed by a clump of trees, so that the girl felt that she was at the mercy of this burly, ill-looking stranger, should he attempt violence.

"Vane, Vane," he muttered. "Reckon I've heard the name before. And you're
Victory, I reckon?"

"Victoria."

"Exactly. Sister to Rance Vane. I know'd that chap onct, and I found him not a man, but a scamp. I never liked the Vanes, father'n son. The old man's dead, I s'pose?"

"Yes."

"How long sense?"

"More than a year."

"Good 'nough. He wa'nt o' much account."

The tramp's eyes seemed to become suddenly bloodshot. He shoved from the table, and rose to his feet.

The girl hoped to see him go, but he made no move to do so.

"You live alone with your brother?" he queried, suddenly.

"Most of the time."

"Victory, did ye ever hear Rance speak of Perry Jounce?"

The man leered at her in a way that sent a chill over her.

"Never."

"No? Wal, he didn't like me. I reckin I'll hev a kiss afore I go, anyhow."

He began to move toward her. She started to escape through the open door, but was not quick enough. The man's hand grasped her arm and she felt herself drawn toward him.

Then Victoria Vane uttered a piercing scream.

"Stop that yellin', you fool!" hissed the tramp. He drew her to him and bent to press his bearded lips to her cheek.

On the instant another person appeared upon the scene.

A bunch of bones collided with the bull neck of the tramp, sending him reeling across the floor.

Victoria darted to the arms of the new-comer, a young man, tall, slender and of prepossessing appearance, clad in hunter's costume.

"Oh, August, save me!" screamed the girl.

"Scoundrel!" cried the young hunter, presenting a rifle at the breast of the tramp. "What do you mean by this assault on a lady?"

There was a horrible expression in the eyes of the tramp, and on the instant he slipped from concealment a large knife to his hand.

"Stand aside, Miss Vane," the hunter said to the girl. "I will learn this scoundrel a lesson."

Victoria obeyed, standing back against the wall, pale and frightened, while the last comer confronted the burly tramp with his rifle cocked for instant use.

"Let me go out, August Bordine."

So the tramp seemed to recognize the youthful hunter.

"I ought to turn you over to the authorities for punishment," declared the young man, sternly.

"'T won't do you no good," grunted the tramp, "I hain't done nothing."

"I will leave it to Miss Vane."

Then he glanced at the girl.

The tramp began to glide toward the door.

"Stop!" thundered August Bordine. Then to the girl, "Miss Vane, I await your decision."

"Permit him to go then. I wish no further trouble," said Victoria.

"But he really ought to be punished. He certainly deserves ninety days in prison at the least," declared the young hunter.

"Let me go, Miss, I didn't mean nothin' wrong," whined the man who had called himself Perry Jounce.

"Let him go," said Victoria.

The hunter lowered his gun and the tramp passed into the outer air. He hurriedly left the vicinity, but before he had passed from sight, he turned his face toward the cottage, and shook a chinched hand toward the open door in which stood two forms—Victoria and August Bordine.

"Curse you, August Bordine!" hissed the coarse lips. "I'll make you repent this interference, I swear I will. You shall swing some day, and I'll be there to hear your neck crack!"

Then he turned about and disappeared in a clump of trees beside the road.

Victoria Vane and the young hunter were near enough to notice the movement of the baffled tramp, but neither heard his vindictive words. It might have been well for them had they done so.

Victoria clung to the young hunter's arm after the departure of Jounce, and seemed a long time in recovering from her fright.

"There's no further danger," declared Bordine, "so just calm your fears.
I will remain until your brother returns."

"You are very kind, August."

After a little the young man quietly disengaged her hands from his arm and led her to a seat.

"There, rest yourself, Victoria, while I look about the premises."

He snatched his gun and moved toward the door.

"Don't leave me, August."

"There is not the least danger now. That tramp will not return."

"He may."

"I will not be far away. If you were so fearful why did you not permit me to take him to prison?"

"I don't know. I did not wish to appear against him, I suppose."

August Bordine smiled at the look that came to the face of the girl.

He had known Victoria Vane and her brother for several months. He was never prepossessed in favor of her brother, and he often thought her "soft," to use a vulgar expression.

"I do believe the girl would make love to me if I would permit it, by giving her the least encouragement. The Vanes are queer and no mistake," remarked Bordine, to a young lady of his acquaintance, living in an adjoining town.

Rose Alstine was plain and sensible, and took no offense at her lover's referring to Miss Vane. Why should she? She knew that genial August Bordine was true as steel and generous and sympathetic to a fault.

Trouble was coming, however, that was to try the young girl's faith as it had never been tried before.

Back of Ridgewood village was a forest of large extent, bordering on a narrow stream. This woods was owned by an Eastern capitalist and he had as yet permitted no woodman's ax to resound in its depths.

Game abounded, and the woods was the frequent resort for amateur hunters, among them the young civil engineer, August Bordine.

It was his frequent visits to Eastman's woods with gun and game-bag that brought him in frequent contact with the Vanes, and especially Victoria, who, during the short space of a few months, had become violently smitten with the handsome face and gentlemanly bearing of the young engineer.

It was this fact that determined Bordine to shorten his stay at the cottage on the day in question.

"There isn't the least danger," assured August, as he lifted his gun to the hollow of his arm and prepared to depart from the Vane cottage.

"Then you will not stay?"

Tears actually stood in the blue eyes of Miss Vane.

"Good gracious! Vic, what a baby," and he laughed aloud.

He stepped to her side, however, and as her face pale, pretty, even though babyish, was upturned to his he could not resist the temptation, and he bent and kissed her full upon the pouting lips.

Then a pair of soft arms were wound quickly about his neck, and a voice whispered softly:

"Why can't you stay with me always, August?"

He tore himself loose instantly, a guilty feeling entering his heart. He was acting the hypocrite with a vengeance, and it did not agree with his honorable nature.

"Confound it, Miss Vane, what a tease you are. There comes your brother now, and I must away."

"You will call when you return from your hunt?"

"Perhaps."

He then passed outside.

A single horseman was riding slowly down the forest road toward the village.

He must needs pass the cottage.

August Bordine had called the traveler Victoria's brother. He saw his mistake as he passed out, but did not deem it necessary to rectify it.

He swung his rifle to his shoulder, and moved, with a long stride, toward the nearest point of woods.

Vaulting a fence, he crossed a bit of clearing and entered a clump of trees.

Here he paused and looked back.

The strange horseman had halted at the cottage, and was conversing with
Victoria.

Bordine saw him lift his hat politely, and knew that it was no tramp this time who craved favor at the cottage.

"I don't think the girl will require my presence this time," muttered the young engineer.

She did, however, as the sequel proved.

Bordine, whistling softly, turned away and plunged deeply into the forest.

CHAPTER II.

MURDER.

For several hours August Bordine scoured the woods in search of game. His hunt proved unsuccessful, however, and with weary limbs and anything but pleasant mood he retraced his steps.

At length he stood in the road within sight of the Vane cottage.

Everything looked quiet and peaceful about the place.

No smoke curled up from the kitchen chimney, although the sun was low in the western heavens.

"Vic hasn't begun to prepare supper it seems," muttered Bordine. "Wonder if I had best go up that way and call. Of course Ransom has returned. I believe I will and inquire who the gentleman was who called just as I was entering the woods."

And so Bordine turned his steps in the direction of the Vane cottage. The front door was closed, and a dead silence reigned over the place as he came up.

"Wonder if the folks are gone."

Bordine rapped.

No answer was vouchsafed.

He rapped again.

Silence profound as the grave.

"Well, there seems nobody at home. Vic sometimes occupies the back porch with the cat and her book; I will see."

He walks swiftly around the house.

He came to a sudden stand as he gained the broad side porch of the cottage.

He stood staring, struck dumb with an awful, deadly fear. Then he moved forward a step.

His eye fell on the interior of the porch, and he started and stopped.

What was it that held his steps?

[Illustration: HIS EYE FELL ON THE INTERIOR OF THE PORCH, AND HE STARTED
AND STOPPED.]

An object on the ground—Victoria Vane, lying at full length, with open, staring eyes, her masses of yellow hair stained a horrible crimson.

She lay within the porch, while at her side was a basket overturned, its contents scattered about, as though she had been holding it in her lap at the time of the accident.

Was it an accident?

As soon as he could recover his self-possession, August Bordine sat down his gun and bent over the prostrate girl.

There was a subdued horror in his eyes as he gazed.

Blood had trickled out in a little pool from a wound in her neck, that wound had proved the death of poor Victoria Vane.

Who had made it?

Suicide!

This was the young man's first thought—yet he soon convinced himself that this was not likely.

A letter, torn and blood-stained, lay near. August picked it from the ground and examined it. It proved to be from a gentleman, and was written in a friendly, not to say lover-like strain. At the bottom was signed a name, "A. Bor——"

The latter part of the name was completely obliterated by a blot of blood.

While the young engineer stood in an attitude of shocked irresolution, a step sounded on the gravel behind him.

He turned to look into the face of a young man whose countenance showed resemblance to the dead girl.

"My God! what is this?"

The new-comer darted forward, gazed for a moment into the dead face of poor Victoria, then staggered back, clutching the arm of August Bordine to save himself from falling.

"Suicide, I fear," answered Bordine for lack of words.

"Suicide! My soul, is Victoria dead?"

Then the last comer knelt down beside the prostrate girl, and lifted her golden head to his knee.

His cries and moans were heartrending.

In vain Bordine tried to soothe the young man, but he found that a brother's grief was beyond assuagement.

For many minutes Ransom Vane sat and moaned and wept beside his dead sister.

Then he became calm suddenly, and sprang to his feet, glancing about him in a way that caused Bordine to fear for his reason.

"Suicide you said?" turning fiercely upon August Bordine.

"I said it might be."

"It is not. Vic was happy; why should she take her own life?"

"I do not know."

"She was murdered."

"It may be so."

"You know it is. Look! See where the steel of the assassin entered her poor neck, and cut to the life. Oh, Vic, my poor darling! you shall be avenged. I will go to the ends of the earth but I will find your slayer and have his life."

Ransom Vane was white as death, and trembled like a leaf.

"I will go for a doctor," said Bordine.

"A doctor? See the life-blood there. Think you a doctor can be of service?" groaned the young brother.

"No, but it is customary in such cases, and the coroner must be notified."

August Bordine turned to depart.

"Stop!"

Ransom Vane laid a detaining hand on the arm of the young engineer.

"See; what is that?"

It proved to be a spot of blood on the hand and sleeve of the young engineer's shirt, a point of which peered below his outer sleeve.

"It came from this," explained August, holding out the letter.

"Where did you get that?"

Vane took the stained and torn letter from the hand of Bordine.

"I found it on the porch."

Ransom Vane read the note hurriedly.

"MY DEAR:—Expect me on the 10th of June. I have been anxious to see you for a long time, dear girl, and I know you will forgive me when you hear what I have to say. If you cannot, then we must part forever, unless—but I will tell you more when I see you. Till then, good by, dear.

"Your faithful

"A. BOR——"

Quickly Ransom Vane turned upon the man before him, casting a fierce look into his face.

"This letter is yours—"

"No; you may keep it," answered Bordine quickly. "It may lead to some clew."

"But I say the letter is yours. You wrote it."

"Certainly not." "But see here;" and Vane pointed to the mutilated signature.

Bordine started when he saw how closely the name resembled his own.

"Do you deny that you wrote that?" demanded Ransom Vane, fiercely.

"Certainly; I did not write it."

"By heaven, you did, and it is you who murdered my sister!" hissed young Vane, trembling with the maddest emotions that ever whelmed a human breast.

"Vane clutched the arm of young Bordine, and glared furiously into his face.

"Calm yourself, my dear Ransom," urged the engineer. "You are beside yourself now. I had no quarrel with Victoria. In fact, we were the best of friends, and I parted from her this morning on the best of terms. I—"

"But this letter?" demanded Vane, fiercely.

"I know no more about it than you do, Ransom. I found it there on the porch."

"But it is yours?—you wrote it?"

"No; a thousand times no," articulated August Bordine, in a convincing tone.

Ransom Vane groaned and reeled against a post, the letter falling from his nerveless hand to the ground.

For some moments not a word passed between the two. Both were evidently thinking.

The thoughts of Bordine were not pleasant ones. He remembered the tramp who had that morning made himself so disagreeable to Victoria. It must be that he was the author of this horrible crime.

Another figure too came up before the vision of the young engineer, the man on horseback who sat with lifted hat, bowing to Victoria Vane, just as he (Bordine) entered the woods.

One of these men had committed the deed. Which one? Most likely the tramp.

Such were the thoughts that passed through the brain of August in the five minutes that he stood silently regarding vacancy.

"August."

The voice of the sorrowing brother fell sadly on the ear of the engineer.

"Well, Ransom."

"Assist me to carry poor Vic—"

He could go no further, but moved with tear-dimmed eyes toward the dead.

August bent to the work without further speech, and assisted the brother to move the body into the house to the pleasant front bed-room, the especial resort of the poor girl in life. Here they placed her on the low, neatly-covered bed, and then Bordine turned away, leaving brother and sister in solemn, silent companionship.

That was the saddest moment of August Bordine's life.

Not even when his own sister died six years before had he felt the solemn weight of sadness more deeply. Victoria had been his friend. She was not over-bright, yet she was kind and tender of heart. He felt her death deeply, and found himself wondering who could have been so wicked as to murder a pretty girl, who he believed, had not an enemy in the wide world.

There was something of mystery about the affair.

Once outside Bordine examined the ground closely. He saw nothing of the letter, and was about to move away, when a shadow fell athwart the grass giving him a sudden start.

CHAPTER III.

ALL A MYSTERY.

"I beg your pardon, but does Mr. Vane live here?"

A man of small stature, smooth face and the keenest eyes Bordine had ever seen in human head, stood before him. He lifted a broad-brimmed straw hat and fanned himself as though heated, although the air was quite cool for the season.

"Do you mean Ransom Vane?"

"Yes, sir."

"He lives here."

"Very good—"

"But, sir," interrupted Bordine, "he is in no mood to receive visitors now."

"Indeed?"

"A terrible thing has happened."

Then glancing down, the small stranger caught sight of the blood. He did not shrink, but an interested look at once came to his face.

"A tragedy?" he questioned, quickly.

"Yes. Victoria Vane is dead."

"How?"

"It seems to be either murder or suicide."

"This is bad. When did it happen?"

"Some time to-day."

"No witnesses to the deed?"

"None who have yet appeared."

Just then Ransom Vane appeared on the porch. The moment his gaze rested on the face of the new-comer he uttered a glad cry and extended his hand.

"Of all men in the world you are the one I most desire to see," exclaimed
Vane. Then he turned to Bordine. "Mr. Bordine, this is my old friend from
Newport, Silas Keene. You may have heard me mention his name."

"Yes. I have read of him as well. I am happy to clasp the hand of the most noted detective of Gotham."

This was no flattery.

Silas Keene was not a secondary man. He was first in everything pertaining to matters criminal. He had traced down more crime perhaps than any man of his age in Gotham, and he was verging on forty.

It was opportune indeed, the great detective coming at this time.

Ransom Vane had known the man for years, and the twain had been bosom friends.

"I cannot remain with you, Ransom," said Bordine, "but I will come again soon. If you require any help from me, you know, you have only to call on me."

"Certainly."

A minute later the man in hunter's costume had disappeared.

Sile Keene went in to look at the dead girl, then he examined the ground closely, the porch, the letters, and finally investigated the extent and shape of the death-wound.

It proved to be narrow but deep, evidently made with a dirk or blade with two edges.

Then, after the house was searched and it was discovered that a bureau had been rifled of several hundred dollars left there by Ransom, the young cottager placed the torn, blood-stained letter he had found in Bordines' possession, in the hand of the detective.

"Where did you get this?" questioned Keene, after he had read the short epistle.

"It was found near my poor sister, on the porch."

"You found it?"

"No, Bordine."

"By the way, who made the discovery of the tragedy first?"

"Mr. Bordine. He was standing over Victoria, with this letter in his hand, when I arrived."

"He is your friend?"

"Well, yes, I have supposed him to be."

"What is his full name?"

"August Bordine."

The detective glanced at the letter, then gave vent to a low whistle. This was natural with him at times, especially when he had made a gratifying discovery.

"Now you must be frank with me," proceeded Keene. "Tell me truly, what relation this man, Bordine, bore to your sister."

"They were friends."

"Nothing more?"

Detective Keene eyed his companion sharply.

"Well, I suppose it possible that they might have enjoyed a nearer relation had Victoria lived," said Ransom Vane in an unsteady voice.

"You think they were lovers?"

"Yes."

"How did he seem to take this tragedy?"

"I cannot tell, I don't think he was unduly agitated, however."

"Hum."

Then the detective fell to thinking deeply. He folded the note carefully, and placed it in an inner pocket.

"I will retain that," he said. "Of course the coroner must be notified. This is indeed a sad case. I had no thought of such a thing when I left the depot to visit you. This will astound the neighborhood. I came from New York intending to visit Chicago, where it is thought a forger has found a hiding place. I was not employed to run him down, but thought I would place the case in the hands of the Pinkertons."

"You will not desert me in the hour of my trouble, Silas?"

"No, I will not."

"You will remain to hunt down the murderer of poor Vic?"

Emotion choked the young man's utterance then, and he turned his haggard face away to hide his feelings.

"I hoped for a brief rest, and an enjoyable visit, old friend," returned
Keene.

"It seems that it is not to be. I seem destined to be forever on the trail of some criminal. Poor little Victoria. When I saw her last she was a pretty, playful child. I cannot conceive of a heart wicked enough to take such an innocent life."

"It was done for plunder?"

"Do you think so?"

"I had two hundred dollars in the bureau. That was taken."

"Yes."

"That convinces me that my poor sister was murdered so that the villain could rob the house."

"I am not sure of that."

"No?"

"This robbery may be only a blind."

"Do you think so?"

"I will not say that. It will never do to jump at conclusions. My suspicions, if I have any, turn toward that man who just left us."

"August Bordine?"

"Yes. He evidently wrote that letter. In a fit of jealousy, he may have struck the blow."

Ransom Vane was silent.

He had thought of this himself, and yet it did not seem possible that his friend could be such a demon. The detective must be left to take his own course, however.

"They seemed always on friendly terms," said Ransom, at length, "but of course there may have been secrets kept from me."

"True, I will investigate thoroughly." The detective hastened away, and a little later the coroner appeared. A jury was summoned and an examination had. This was on the morning following the tragedy.

August Bordine had been summoned by telegraph, and was the most important witness in the case.

When he told the story of the tramp the silence was oppressive.

"Did you know the fellow?"

"I did not; I believe, however, that Miss Vane stated that he had called himself Perry Jounce."

At the mention of this name young Vane started.

He plucked at his blonde mustache and seemed exceedingly nervous.

Nothing of grave importance was elicited from Bordine, only some present thought he had neglected his duty in leaving the girl so soon after the departure of the tramp.

Ransom Vane was the next witness.

He testified to finding his sister dead, with August Bordine standing over her.

"He was in hunting costume?"

"Yes."

"How armed?"

"I saw no arms. He had placed his gun against the end of the porch I think."

"You saw no knife?"

"None whatever."

Evidently the coroner had sighted the suspicious circumstances connecting
August Bordine with the case.

"Did you have a knife that day?" said the coroner, turning abruptly to young Bordine.

"Yes, sir, I had a small hunting knife, but not when I found Miss Vane."

"What do you mean?"

"I lost the knife in the woods."

"Yes."

A short silence fell.

Many suspicious glances were cast at the young engineer. He felt that he occupied a delicate position, but remained calm under it.

The jury decided, after due deliberation, that Victoria Vane came to her death at the hands of an unknown party, and so the inquest ended. Murder was fully established, but the murderer was not found.

In the mean time Detective Keene had made some discoveries that he kept to himself for the time.

No one in or about Ridgewood knew Sile Keene, and so he did not at the outset deem it necessary to assume a disguise.

The bereaved brother did not live at the cottage after the murder, but found a room at the village tavern. Oft times, however, he wandered to the lonely cottage, and in silence brooded over the scene of the murder. He stood thus one day when the sound of a step startled him. He raised his eyes to peer into the face of a ragged tramp.

CHAPTER IV.

WAS IT A CONFESSION?

The city of Grandon was only a few miles distant from Ridgewood and connected by rail. It was a small city of mushroom growth, as is characteristic of many Western towns.

It was here that the engineer August Bordine resided.

He was well to-do, supporting a widowed mother, giving her a comfortable home from his earnings.

About a week after the tragedy at Ridgewood as Bordine was walking down the street his eyes was attracted by a poster on a dead wall near.

He paused and read:

$5,000 REWARD.

The above reward will be given for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person who murdered Victoria Vane at her home in Ridgewood on the 10th of June.

"BUCK BRADY, Sheriff."

Other pedestrians paused, attracted as Bordine had been by the flaming poster.

"By gosh! that ought to fetch 'im," uttered a queer-looking Yankee, who had been studying the poster for some minutes.

Bordine regarded the speaker now for the first time.

He was lean and thin, with swallow-tailed coat, tall hat, battered and worn, a huge necktie and heavy boots—a veritable Yankee from way back the young engineer thought.

"They consider the girl pretty valuable," said another.

"That reward ought to fetch the villain," uttered Bordine. "I have a notion to try for it myself."

"S'pose you dew!"

The Yankee regarded him curiously.

"It is a tempting reward."

At this moment a carriage halted, and a bearded face peered out. Beside it was a pale, pretty woman's countenance. Evidently they had been attracted by the same thing that caused pedestrians to stop and stare.

"Drive on."

It was the woman in a pleading tone.

"But see, my dear, here's something worth looking at. A big reward for the arrest of the murderer of poor Miss Vane. Did you notice it?"

"It's in all the papers. Do drive on, Andrew," pleaded the woman's voice again.

Then, seeing people gazing at them, she dropped her veil. Her companion, a heavily bearded man, seemed intent on gazing at the flaming reward poster.

"It's worth the trial," he muttered.

Then he lifted the reins, spoke to his horse, and was soon moving away.

"Who was it?"

This from the Yankee, who seemed unusually excited as he gazed after the moving carriage.

"It's Mr. Brown, I believe," answered Bordine. The gentleman had been but a short time in town, but as he spent money freely and drove a fast horse he had attracted attention, and the young engineer had heard his name mentioned freely by some of his friends.

"Brown?"

"From Denver."

"Is that so? Where does he hang out?"

"At the 'Golden Lion'."

Without speaking again the inquisitive Yankee hurried on. In a little time he sighted the carriage and its occupants. He followed at a respectful distance, and saw it halt in front of a small house in the suburbs.

The lady alighted.

"Now, Andrew—"

"Curse you! Why will you speak that name?" the man flung back, savagely. "Iris, you have been trouble enough to me, and I won't be dogged in this way."

"Dogged! Has not a wife a right to be with her husband?"

"Confound it, no! I will call on you to-night and have this matter settled—settled forever."

Then he wheeled his carriage and drove away. The woman, with veil down, remained standing at the gate for some time, watching the retreating carriage.

And the Yankee leaned against the trunk of a tree near, seemingly intent on watching a flock of sparrows near the gutter.

"It looks suspicious, anyhow," muttered the Yankee. "It would be strange enough if I should run upon Andrew Barkswell here—funny, indeed."

And the woman?

Her voice was suffused with tears as she murmured:

"Andrew, Andrew, how can you treat me so? I have sold my soul for your love, and now—now this is my reward! I feel that I shall die, yes, die, or—or go mad!"

She clasped her hands tightly, breathed hoarsely for a moment, then turned and reeled to the house. With a key she opened the door and entered; which fact convinced the Yankee that she was alone.

Slowly he shuffled down the walk and paused in front of the house.

It looked silent and gloomy enough, as though no human soul occupied the interior.

He was soon rapping at the front door. The woman he had seen enter answered.

Pushing his way in without ceremony, our Yankee friend seated himself, and removing his hat, began smoothing the crown with a greasy elbow.

"Well, sir," demanded the woman, "who are you, and what do you wish?"

"Specs, marm, specs," uttered the Yankee, grinning from ear to ear.

"Sir!"

"I've got 'em, a heap of the best specs sold in America."

Then the Yankee drew from an inner pocket a leather case, which he proceeded to open, displaying a lot of cheap spectacles.

"I kin fit old or young, rich or poor, fat or lean, I'm a ginooine malefactor o' the human race, a honor to my profession; in fact I'm an eye doctor, and if you've weak eyes, as I see you hav', let me—"

"Sir, it is useless; I want none of your wares," said the woman, tartly.

"Yeou look sick, madam."

"I want none of your wares I tell you."

"Law now—"

"Please go."

"But see here, mebbe yeou don't know who I be. I'm Jathom Green, from
Goose Creek, down ter Vermount."

"But this is nothing to me I tell you."

The Yankee glanced carelessly, yet keenly, about the room. He noticed everything without seeming to do so. Folding up his spectacles, he finally returned them to his pocket and retired.

Just at dusk a man ran up the steps and opened the front door.

He did not resemble the man we have seen in the carriage some time before. He followed the woman at once to a back room, flung his elegantly clad frame into a chair, and gazed fixedly at the trim figure of the woman before him.

Producing a cigar he lit it before uttering a word.

A second figure stole up the steps and opened the door cautiously, tiptoeing down a narrow hall to the room occupied by the man and woman. The last comer was the Yankee, who had not been far from the vicinity during the afternoon.

Kneeling the Yankee peeped through the keyhole. He started then and came near uttering an exclamation.

"Now, sir, what have you to say regarding your conduct," demanded the woman, who, with hat and veil removed, was rather a pretty lady of medium size, although her white face and hollow eyes betokened much suffering.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Oh, And—"

"Stop! Utter that name here and I will brain you," hissed the man, suddenly, furiously, half rising to his feet.

"What must I say?"

"Brown, call me Brown, Jones, or anything but that."

"Well, Brown, you know I have been a faithful wife, and you have treated me with anything but affection."

"Why did you follow me? I told you I'd kill you if you did."

"It is because I love you, Andrew—"

"That name again!" he uttered, with an imprecation. "Madam, if you were a true wife, you would assist me in my schemes, and we might live in a mansion. I have a plan."

"Well?"

"We might win that reward."

The woman shuddered and covered her face with her hands.

"Do you know, Iris?" he proceeded, with the utmost coolness, "I saw that girl, Victoria Vane, before she was killed. I tell you, she was quite sweet on me."

A groan alone answered him.

"There was money in the house, and I managed to handle some of it," continued the man. "I supposed, or rather, I expected to make more out of that haul, but only got a few paltry dollars. I expect some poor tramp will be arrested for the murder of the girl, and hang, like enough."

"And you—you killed her?

"That would be telling, my dear. These girls get a fellow into a deuce of a scrape sometimes, let alone a fellow's wife. But, my dear, let's drop this subject and talk of something more agreeable."

The creak of a door startled both.

The man seemed startled.

He turned his head, then came to his feet with a hissing cry.

He was peering into the muzzle of a glistening revolver, behind which stood the form of our Yankee friend.

The light in the room was not brilliant, yet faces were plainly discernible.

"August Bordine, I arrest you for the murder of Victoria Vane!" cried the
Yankee, in an awful voice.

CHAPTER V.

THE TRAMP ON DECK.

For full a minute not a word passed between the two men. The sodden eyes of the tramp were fixed in a sullen gaze on the face of Ransom Vane.

"What do you want here?" finally demanded Vane in a harsh voice.

"I came to see you."

"To see me?"

"That's what I said."

"I have no money to give you, so you can travel," retorted Vane impatiently.

"I hain't just ready to travel," grated the tramp. "You act jest as though you didn't know me, Rans Vane?"

"Know you?"

The young man glanced fixedly into the face of the ragged, filthy looking being before him.

"Wal?"

"I never saw you before."

"Sure?"

"I am sure."

"Didn't you once live in New York State?"

"Yes."

"Near Rochester?"

"Yes."

"On a farm?"

"Yes."

"Hev' you forgot the young feller that drove the team, the chap that got his walkin' papers in the dead o' winter, and was actually kicked into the road jest because he was absent one time to see his sister who was tendin' school in the city? You called me lazy then, Rans Vane, and you struck me, yes you did, and don't you remember, I swore I'd get even? More, you insulted my sister by speakin' ill of her, and that chit of a gal, Miss Victory, laughed. I was mad—"

"You are Perry Jounce."

"That's it the fust time guessin'."

"And you have come to this. I knew you would never amount to anything, even if you did have a smart sister."

"Hush, now! Don't you dare speak of her."

"Did she do well?"

"Better 'n yours."

A deadly pallor struck the face of Ransom Vane. His sister was dead, had been cruelly murdered, and at that moment he believed that this villainous tramp had had a hand in her death.

"Scoundrel!" exclaimed Vane, advancing toward the tramp. "You are the wretch who murdered my poor Victoria."

"Stand back."

There was an evil glare in the eyes of the speaker.

Vane continued to advance threateningly.

"Stand back, I say, or you'll get a taste o' this."

He displayed a huge knife, the same with which he had threatened Bordine on a former occasion.

"Scoundrel!"

"It won't do no good to sling words. Rans, I ain't afeard of em."

For several minutes the two stood glaring at each other with glittering eyes and gleaming teeth.

"Rans Vane, I swore I'd git even with ye fur all you did agin' me and mine ten year ago. I reckin you're gittin' a leetle o' the sufferin—"

"Stop," hoarsely.

"No I won't. I want ye ter know that I hain't forgot. I know'd you'n the gal came West arter the ole man died, but I didn't know whar. I've been a tramp fur a year, and I 'lowed I'd run onter ye sometime, but 'twas all unexpected when I seed the gal t'other day."

"And you murdered her, murdered my sister?"

"Wal, 'twould a-b'en justice ef I had."

"Oh, you wretch—"

"'Twont do no good to call names, pard; they never hurted anybody yet 'at I knows of," sneered the tramp, still holding his knife ready for instant use.

The slender frame of Ransom Vane trembled, and his white hands were clinched fiercely. He well understood the vicious nature of the man before him, however, and realized that a movement of aggression on his part would lead to his own doom.

Now, more than ever, was he convinced that Perry Jounce was the one guilty of the death of poor Victoria. Vane was placed in a terrible position just then. The tramp had him completely in his power, and it might be that he meditated another murder.

"Perry Jounce, listen to me."

The young man forced a calmness he did not feel, while speaking to the man before him.

"Perceed, Rans, old boy."

"Why did you murder an innocent child like my poor Victoria? Surely she had not harmed you."

Ransom Vane began now, with the intention of talking against time, with the hope that some one might happen along, and assist in capturing the tramp.

"Nothin' but a child, eh?" with a brutal sneer. "I'd like ter know whar you git yer old gals then, ef Miss Vic war a spring chicken."

The young man's blood boiled to resent the insult.

Nevertheless, his prudence still held his passions down.

"Perry, why will you speak so brutally?"

"Look a-here, Rans, I ain't none o' your kid-glove kind. I allus speaks out what I hev to say. I hate you and yourn, and I jest tell you in plain English 'at I'm glad your sister's dead; not fur her sake, but because it makes you suffer."

"And this is why you murdered her?"

"Who said I did it?"

"You have just admitted as much."

"That's a lie! I never make such foolish admissions as that. I'd look well owning up to somethin' I didn't do."

"Do you mean to tell me that you did not murder Victoria?" cried the young man in a tone of intense feeling.

"Of course I didn't. I ain't no fool."

"I cannot believe you."

"I don't ask ye to."

The tramp polished the blade of his huge knife on his greasy sleeve.

"I might spill a little blood I s'pose," he muttered aloud, "but I reckin
I'll let you live awhile yet."

Then he turned as if to depart.

"Don't go yet," cried the young cottage-owner, as his eye caught sight of a man approaching from the wood road. His thought was that with help he might capture the tramp.

"Wal, why not?"

Perry Jounce halted.

"I want you to answer a few questions."

"Heave ahead."

"Tell me what you know about my poor Victoria's death. You were here just before."

"Who told you so?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I know now. It was that engineer from Grandon. I've forgot his name. He peached on me, I reckin."

"You have guessed the truth."

"Rans, don't you trust that man."

"Why not?"

"He kin tell you how Vic come ter die, he kin. 'Twas jealousy and the like that did it."

"Do you mean that?"

Ransom Vane sprang forward and clutched the arm of the tramp.

"Let go. Yes, I mean it. He killed Victoria 'cause he thought she'd make trouble atwixt him an' another gal, that's the truth ef I hang fur it."

"My soul! it is as I feared."

Ransom Vane still clung to the arm of the tramp, however. The man was rapidly approaching, and carried a gun. Young Vane recognized him as Bordine, and he was anxious to secure his assistance in securing the tramp.

"Let go, Rans, I must be traveling."

"But wait. Will you testify to what you have jast said?"

"Mebbe."

"Then remain—"

"Let go, I tell ye."

Vane, however, still clung to the arm of Jounce. The latter became angry, and flung him off furiously.

"Help! Murder!" shouted Vane.

"Take that, you fool!"

The tramp struck a vicious blow with his knife at the heart of young
Vane.

The latter sunk bleeding to the ground.

"Hello!"

A tall, slender young man in hunter's costume peered upon the scene.

Perry Jounce walked forward, glanced keenly into the young hunter's face, then said:

"I've fixed him, I take it; but don't you peep, or—"

He did not finish his sentence, but strode swiftly away.

"Stop, August Bordine. I am badly hurt by that scoundrel. Will you help me?"

Ransom Vane sat up, with blood streaming from a wound in his breast.

The hunter at once sprang to his assistance, and made a swift examination of the wound.

He tore strips of cloth from the wounded man's shirt and succeeded, after a little, in staunching the blood.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak as a cat, but I don't believe the blade touched a vital spot," answered Vane, who now sat on the bench at the end of the porch.

"Of course he didn't. Shall I help you to the doctor's office?"

"No. You are going to the village?"

"Yes."

"Then you may send Dr. Helling to me."

"I will do so."

"Stay one moment."

The hunter turned about and waited for what his young friend had to say.

"You saw that tramp, August?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you stop him? He gave me this wound, and I believe he is the man we need for—for the murder of poor Vic."

"No?" in evident surprise. "I was so startled I didn't think far enough to stop the fellow."

Then the young hunter proceeded on his way with his gun under his arm and a peculiar smile on his countenance.

"There's a little mistake it seems," he muttered.

Just then a man stepped from a clump of bushes near and touched the hunter's arm.

He halted and turned about quickly.

"Andrew Barkswell, I'm glad to meet you."

It was Perry Jounce, the tramp, who uttered the words.