CHAPTER XX
FOR PLUNDER
At about a quarter to nine Darrell once more sauntered past the house.
He could see into the parlor, as the inside shutters were turned, and with a number of others he was attracted by the bright scene.
Although perhaps he would not confess it, the bachelor detective was eagerly hoping for even a fleeting glimpse of Marian.
He got it too.
After having seen the photograph Lillian had shown him, he knew he could not be mistaken.
The girl stood for half a minute in direct focus from his place of observation, and the gas-light fell full upon her face and figure.
Darrell drew in a long breath.
“That settles it,” he muttered, “I’ll try—unless this other affair takes the heart out of me.”
He had lived between thirty-five and forty years without ever having a serious love scrape; but an inward monitor told him his time had come at last.
The little god plays all manner of pranks with his victims, and although Eric Darrell had eluded his sway so long, it would all be made up to him presently.
As Marian stood there she was joined by a second figure.
This was Joe.
Eric scanned his face eagerly, as best he could under the circumstances.
“Thank heaven! Joe is calm. He has aroused his energies. No danger of his giving out when the crucial test comes,” he muttered.
Joe Leslie did appear self-possessed, but it was easy to be seen that he was not himself this evening.
His wife accounted for it to the friends about her by stating that Joe had been overworking himself lately, and that morning he complained of a severe headache.
She did not seem to suspect that she had given him cause for his breakdown.
None are so blind as those who refuse to see. It might be this or innocence that caused her to ignore the truth.
He had seen Lillian join the others, and the trio gave him a strange feeling.
“So fair, and yet so false. How can a man trust a woman when he has such a terrible example before his eyes—and her sister too.”
He soon forgot all this. Something else attracted his attention, and he found that there was need of his care. A couple of sinister-looking men passed the house and looked in.
He saw them conversing eagerly together a minute or two later just beyond.
At first an idea sprang into his head that they might be men hired by Prescott to create a disturbance and delay pursuit after the latter had succeeded in reaching his carriage with Lillian.
If this were so, he must take them into his calculations and watch them closely. That their conversation concerned the house where the little gathering was taking place was beyond all doubt, for their motions attested this.
Then they moved off.
Eric did not believe they had gone, and he followed them with his eyes.
They slipped into a vacant lot near by, and the detective began to get a new idea.
Perhaps these fellows were not in the employ of the artist after all, but skirmishing around on their own hook.
That meant knavery.
He was aroused.
To follow them was his first thought.
Stealing down to the vacant lot he too vanished amid its blackness.
At first he could see and hear nothing, but in a few minutes he caught a clew, and found that the two men had gone to the fence separating the vacant lot from Joe’s back yard.
Some old wagons and drays were scattered here and there about the place, for it presented an admirable wagon yard.
Such is cosmopolitan New York.
The palace often touches the hovel.
Some of the aristocrats up town can look out from their magnificent houses, and survey the shanty of the squatter built on the rocks, where the agile goat browses on old shoes and empty cans.
Some day this will not be, but it is so now, and a source of wonder to foreigners.
Darrell began to pick his way through the wagon yard, careful to proceed without noise, for when men are bent upon an unlawful errand it does not take much of a sound to cause palpitation of the heart, and he did not want to have their death on his hands—just yet.
They seemed to be surveying the scene from the rear.
It was undoubtedly their intention to make some sort of a haul here.
The silver might be lying around loose, or even some jewelry in the upper rooms—men of their trade do not discriminate, so long as what they seize upon has a specific value.
First, last and all the time, what they want is the cold cash.
It was certain that they must be frightened away, and that at once.
His other business was too important to allow him the pleasure of playing with these fellows, much as he might have enjoyed it.
Under these circumstances he worked his way close to where they crouched.
He could hear them working with a chisel or burglar’s tool of some sort—they were prying off a board from the fence, so that they might easily pass through when they desired.
It would be a good route for flight, also, after their object was attained.
So interested were they in the task that they did not have the faintest suspicion of the presence of any one.
Darrell could hear their low words.
“Bill, this here promises to be a lucky strike,” said one, in a low tone.
Bill muttered a reply.
“Well, I’m of the opinion, Bill, as we’ll have a good whack at some valuables. Ye see, the guests are all in there—if we can deceive the gal below and slip upstairs there ought to be fat pickings for fellers of our size.”
“Softly, partner, softly—there’s another in this here game you ain’t counted on.”
As these words reached their ears, the two men muttered exclamations of dismay.
“Who the deuce is it?”
“Where in thunder is he?”
“I’m right here. You fellows are treading on my corns. This is my pasture—get out.”
“Not much we won’t. We’ll slit your wizen first, I reckon. We’re in this here game now for keeps,” growled the man named Bill.
“Then you must go snacks. I’ll furnish the information, and you do the work—an equalization of labor—ain’t that fair?”
“Where the silver is kept—it ain’t been brought out yet awhile, and by a little bold work the hull of it can be spirited away.”
At this the two men can hardly restrain their delight.
“Lead us to it, and the third is yourn.”
“You’re on the steal, then?”
“Ready to take anything that counts.”
“This is the steel I deal in.”
One of the men, the fellow nearest him, felt something like a piece of ice pressed against his left temple.
He put up his hand.
The investigation did not afford him any particular pleasure, for what he touched sent a shiver through his whole frame.
It was a cold revolver.
“Move a hand or a foot and you are a dead man. And you also,” to the other fellow.
The board had just come off in this latter chap’s arms, and light from the house poured through the opening in a stream that was strong enough to show him the situation.
He dared not drop the board, and he was also prevented from attacking the unknown.
Eric was master of the situation.
“Now see here, men, listen to me.”
“Go ahead!” growled one.
“In mercy’s name don’t press that trigger,” groaned the other.
Darrell had to smile at the sudden termination to which circumstances had brought the bold raid of the two sneak thieves.
They had come after plunder, but found something more awaiting them.
The little scheme, concocted on the spur of the moment, had been driven into obscurity.
“I am a detective, watching this house.”
Both men groaned.
“Fools we was.”
“And although I’m going to let you go this time, if I see either of you here again you’ll make a bee-line for the Tombs.”
“Don’t worry, mister—if we get off this time we’ll make ourselves scarce. It gives me a chill to think of Sing Sing.”
“You ought to get the chill before you start on such an expedition, and not after you are caught. You know that when ‘the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be; but when the devil got well, the devil a monk was he’.”
“Yes—pass out the front door, gentlemen, just as you came in. And, remember, once goes a long way with me—if you show up here again, down you go to Centre Street.”
“Thank ye, boss.”
The men crept quickly away—indeed, their haste was really ludicrous, for they seemed to have a deep-rooted fear lest he might be tempted to change his mind.
But under the circumstances Eric was quite satisfied to see them safely off the premises.
His other work would take up his attention, and he could not expect to amuse himself with such side-shows as these.
He once more made his way to the street.
As before a little knot of curious people stood in front of the house gazing in. The glimpses they caught of beautiful women and brave men were a revelation to them. It was like looking into Paradise. Otherwise the street was quiet.
A train boomed past on the elevated road below. Eric looked at his watch. It was a quarter past nine.
Three-quarters of an hour still remained, and then would come the grand climax.
He began to breathe easier, for time was passing, and he felt sure their plans would come out all right.
Sauntering to the corner he saw the hack still there as he had left it.
The driver was sitting inside now.
He knew his orders and only waited for the proper time to arrive.
Where was Prescott?
Eric had expected to see him scouting around the Leslie mansion, but if the artist was there he had kept his person well concealed. Not yet had Eric doubted the motives that brought the other here.
Everything seemed to fit as snugly as though it had been made for it—when a carpenter makes a neat job he dove-tails the corners, and Darrell looked upon the many little things that connected so wonderfully, as the finishing touches of the joiner.
If a thunder cloud burst upon him it would certainly take him unawares, while the cool rain might be very acceptable.
He began to count the minutes.
Seldom had this man ever felt any such thing as nervousness in his life, but just now he certainly experienced a spell of it. The minutes seemed hours.
People walked along the street—he scrutinized every one as though he expected to see a ghost appear.
In reality he was looking for Prescott.
It worried him to know that the man was somewhere around and yet out of sight, though he did not doubt but what he would be on hand when needed.
CHAPTER XXI
THE COTTAGE BEYOND THE HARLEM
Sometimes things do not run quite as smoothly as we hope for.
The best laid plans of mice and men often go wrong—there’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.
So it happened on the present occasion.
It was all owing to a certain clock which had taken a notion to get ahead of its fellows and was some ten minutes fast.
A lamp set Chicago on fire.
So this unlucky clock upset the beautiful plans of the wily detective, as he believed, and came near leaving him in the lurch.
By chance he was down near the corner when suddenly he saw a female hurrying that way.
A long cloak concealed her figure, but a handsome dress of white silk peeped below—a heavy veil had been snatched up to hide her face and serve in lieu of a hat at the same time.
Where she came from he hardly knew, but a terrible fear almost palsied him.
It was Lillian!
She had come ahead of time—Joe would not be ready, and as a result confusion must ensue.
Luckily the detective was a man able to grasp an emergency.
He never yet had seen the time when he was so taken by surprise that his mind refused to do its work.
Just then there was need of quick thought, and action must follow on its heels.
Hardly had the woman paused upon the corner than a dark figure sprang out of the shadows near by.
“Paul!” she whispered.
“Good heavens! you are ten minutes ahead of time, darling. I would have met you at the place appointed had—” the rush of a train drowned what else he said.
Then the detective saw him assist the now shrinking figure toward the carriage.
“He will be furious,” he heard her say, as she looked apprehensively around, as though anticipating the appearance of an enraged husband on the scene.
If these were her sensations now, what of the future—remorse must soon kill her.
“He had better keep his hands off, or I will teach him a lesson! The cowardly cur, to bully you so. Enter, darling—you are safe with me.”
Eric’s first impulse was for blood.
He felt strongly inclined to spring forward and grapple with this boaster, who breathed such lies of Joe in his wife’s ears.
Then another thought came.
Such a public scene would immediately collect a crowd at the corner, and Lillian’s name would be dragged in the dust.
The world has no mercy upon a woman who leaves her husband and runs away with another man—the latter loses no caste, but she, poor creature, can never climb up again.
That is the law of human justice—woman was given a nobler, purer nature than man, and when she sins it is unpardonable.
It has been so ever since the world was, and will be the same always.
While Eric struggled between what he desired to do and what policy dictated, the choice was taken from him altogether.
Fate decided.
Prescott had placed his charge in the hack and entered himself.
The driver slammed the door, and mounted nimbly to his box.
If Eric meant to act it must be now, or the chance was gone forever.
Already the vehicle was moving.
Now or never!
Obeying a sudden impulse to make the most of a bad bargain, he ran after the hack.
It had not gained much headway as yet, and Eric caught on behind.
Here he conceived another one of those sudden fancies, and saw an opportunity to climb up on top of the vehicle.
Fortunately for his purpose it presented good opportunities for such gymnastic feats.
No one but a boy or an exceedingly agile man could have accomplished this thing; but the detective certainly filled the bill so far as the latter condition was concerned.
He pulled himself up—his feet secured a hold upon the springs, and his hands grasped a clutch above.
Then he drew himself upon the top.
A few boys along the pavement noticed this but they only supposed this was some peculiar way in which a man could gain a seat beside the driver.
Those inside were too busily engaged in exchanging confidences to notice anything.
As for the jehu, he was so much taken up with his horses, avoiding obstructions for which Third Avenue is notorious, that he never dreamed of the odd passenger he had picked up, until Eric plumped down on the box beside him.
“Great Scott! where did you drop from?” he ejaculated is dismay, looking up as if he really suspected the unknown had rained down.
“Don’t worry yourself—I only climbed up over the back,” returned Eric coolly.
“Then just you climb down again in a hurry, or I’ll toss you over,” and the man, firing up after his sudden scare, looked ugly enough to carry his threat into execution.
“Some other time, old fellow—just now this place suits me as well as any, and here I stay.”
The rattle of the swiftly moving vehicle over the granite blocks would prevent any one from hearing this interesting dialogue—the parties interested were shouting in each other’s ears.
Perhaps there was something about Eric that aroused a spirit of animosity in the other; but if so there must also have been that which warned him to be exceedingly careful.
He showed signs of anger, and yet dared not raise his hand in open rebellion
“What d’ye mean stealing a ride this way?”
“Just because I please. Look down here and you’ll see something.”
The quarrelsome jehu obeyed.
He looked—and wilted.
“Jupiter!”
This man was not the first who ever felt his courage ooze from his finger ends at sight of a revolver.
“Understand me,” said the detective, sternly, “that is for you if you give me any trouble.”
“A crazy man escaping—a burglar at large!”
“No, sir, a detective running down his game. We understand each other, I hope. I want a ride on your vehicle, and if you give me any trouble I’ll land you in the Tombs double quick as accessory to a murder.”
The word was quite enough.
It blanched the man’s cheeks and from that time on the detective knew he would not have any trouble with him.
The horses were doing their prettiest.
To the surprise of the detective, instead of starting down Third Avenue, the course was up it.
Evidently then the artist did not mean to go either to his studio or lodgings.
He had other plans in view.
Now Eric was given a chance to think, and he improved it well.
So suddenly had this crisis been sprung upon the detective that he had thus far only acted from impulse.
He must shape some sort of plan, in order to yet win the game.
Those inside the hack had not the slightest suspicion of his presence.
The rattle of the vehicle and their own agitation would prevent their paying any attention to anything happening outside.
As the night air was cool, all the openings had the glass in them—this was another point in the detective’s favor.
No doubt Paul Prescott was thrilled with the great victory he had won, and believed nothing could keep him from accomplishing the end toward which he had planned so long, little suspecting the danger hovering near.
Harlem was gained, that new city that has of late years sprung up beside the river, a part of New York, and yet really distinct from it.
Darrell had once more become the cool man as of yore, ready to grapple with this burning question, and throttle the hydra headed monster that had crossed the track of Joe Leslie’s wife.
He smiled to think what poor Joe must be doing just then—finding Lillian really gone and the detective not on hand. Had he given the whole thing away? Would all his guests know that his wife had deserted him for another?
This was a possibility that made Eric grit his teeth and feel angry at the peculiar chance that had cheated him of his prey. If things had only worked as they should, the wheels would have gone along nicely. However, Eric had learned long ago the folly of crying over spilt milk, and when a disaster occurred he generally set about retrieving his fortunes as well as possible.
They were nearing the Harlem.
Would the vehicle cross the bridge and proceed up into the country beyond?
Pursuit—it was folly to think of any one being able to pursue them, at least for some time to come, and a trail grows cold with waiting. No wonder then the artist felt jolly.
He believed his plan had been a complete success, and that the prize was his own.
Ah! the Harlem at last.
Those curved lines of lights indicated the bridge that stretched across.
The horses’ feet fall upon the planking—their course then was over the river.
As for Eric, he was quite indifferent now whither they took him.
He had made up his mind to see this thing through and to save Lillian for his friend and it did not matter whether the climax came to pass in the city or country.
He meant it should be severe.
As Joe Leslie’s best friend he would teach this masher a lesson he would never forget if he survived it. The driver once or twice tried to strike up a conversation with him, but Eric ordered him to pay no attention to anything but his horses. Then a thought coming to him, he told the man that if the gentleman inside should notice his presence and demand to know who he was, that the driver should claim him as a friend and let it pass.
This the man said he would do—he had a horror of being concerned in a murder trial, and this was what the other threatened him with.
They crossed the bridge and continued on—houses were plenty, gas lamps dispelled the darkness at intervals, but at the same time there seemed to be something of the country about them—the great metropolis with its two millions of inhabitants, its bustle and electric lights lay behind them.
For a short time longer the night ride was continued, and then, to the satisfaction of the detective, it ended.
They came to a quiet street.
The artist poked his head out of the window which he had dropped in the door.
“To the left—first house you come to.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Hello, there! who the deuce have you with you, driver?” as he caught sight of Eric.
“A friend, sir. Thought it’d be a lonely ride back, and took him for company,” replied jehu.
“All right, I suppose.”
That was over then, and no damage done. Now for the next.
The hack drew up in front of a picturesque cottage, just back from the road—as far as Eric could see it was bowered in vines and just the place an artist might be supposed to select, if he used his artistic taste at all.
Lights were in the rooms.
They must be expected.
Down jumped the driver—Eric followed close upon his heels, for he did not mean to give the fellow any chance to betray him, and he knew it would be human nature for the jehu to endeavor to warn his liberal patron.
CHAPTER XXII
ALMOST
Again the detective showed his knowledge of the animal—man.
The driver had been thinking of this very thing, and as the artist came out of the hack first he made a great ado over helping him. At the same time he started to say:
“You’d better be careful, sir—there’s—”
At this moment came a pinch on his arm from the detective, and he realized that the other was up to his little game.
“What’s that?” demanded Prescott.
By this time Eric had managed to touch one of the jehu’s hands with the barrel of his revolver.
The contact sent a shudder through the other.
“There’s bad step here—the lady might be hurt,” finished the driver.
“Oh! I’ll look after her, my man.”
He handed the jehu some bills. “There’s the amount agreed on and ten dollars more, because you’ve been faithful.”
“Thanks, your honor,” stammered the man.
He acted as though he was tempted to blurt out the truth and take the consequences, but Eric managed to whisper something to him that quieted this suicidal thought.
“You’ve got your money—keep quiet, and I’ll put you in the way of ten more.”
That was enough.
The man’s sordid nature was touched—he was mercenary to an unusual degree.
After that he was for earning the new fee, even at the expense of treachery to his former patron. Prescott assisted the lady companion of his flight out with much solicitude.
Still Eric did not interfere.
He was strongly tempted to knock the artist down, seize the lady perhaps as she swooned, and placing her back in the vehicle, drive to the desecrated home of his friend.
Something restrained him.
He would see more.
What meant the lights in the house? Something here needed investigation, and he was the man to look into it.
He saw the couple enter the yard and proceed in the direction of the front door.
It opened.
A woman’s form stood there.
“Welcome, Mr. Prescott. We heard the wheels and were sure it was you. Welcome to your home, Mrs. —”
The rest died out as they went in, and the detective heard no more.
He was amazed. How daring the artist was. How openly he carried out his plans.
Most men would have taken a train and sped away like the wind, fearing the terrible vengeance of an outraged husband.
He did not seem to realize the danger he incurred, or else had a contempt for it.
Eric was in doubt whether this man was a fool or a brave fellow.
Perhaps he was cunning enough to know that in all probability the husband would seek for him at a distance, and overlook the near places. This would be wisdom.
Eric now turned to the man.
“See here, my fine fellow, I have your number, and if you play me false I’ll land you behind the bars inside of twelve hours if it takes every officer on the force to do it. You hear what I am saying. Serve me well and what I promised is yours. I have already paid you money to-night.”
“You?”
“Certainly—I was the old man who rode up from Fourteenth Street with you.”
“Jerusalem!”
The driver saw that he had to deal with a shrewd man—he admired such a person, and could well afford to fall in behind him.
After that there would be no kick on his part against what fate had decided for him, but he would pull in the traces meekly.
Satisfied that the man would be there when he wanted him, Eric now turned his attention toward the house.
He entered the gate.
As he had supposed from the glance he had obtained, the place was an ideal one for the full expression of love in a cottage.
Flowers probably bloomed here from May until bleak November.
Honeysuckles and wisteria covered the cottage—rose bushes and dozens of varieties of flowers filled the beds, but just then beautiful chrysanthemums were taking their rank as the fall flower.
It was a place to bring a bride, but would these beauties of nature appeal to a heart that was heavy with sin?
Eric could not for the life of him see how one could look upon nature again, after ruining the life of a noble man, but his experience had taught him to be surprised at nothing.
He did not speculate now.
Before him was duty.
It lay in a direct line, and the path was narrow, but he meant to tread it.
That duty covered his professional pride, and the feeling he entertained for his friend. Straight up to the house he went. Light streamed from the windows and showed him the way—it also tempted him to look in. He saw a cozy little room neatly furnished.
Handsome paintings adorned the walls, rather out of place in a modest cottage like this, but then it was to be the abode of an artist, whose pictures commanded large sums, and he could afford to decorate above the ordinary—these were doubtless favorite subjects of his which he did not hold for sale.
No one seemed to be in this room, and he could not see in the other well, for the lamp was standing directly in the window, so that he could not look past it.
He found a path leading around the house and started along it.
Before he had gone far, the rattle of a chain, followed by a deep growl, told him he had better retrace his steps again—not wishing to come into contact with the concealed dog, he did so.
This time he went to the front door, which was almost concealed under the bower of vines.
Feeling around he found the knob. Upon trying it he was pleased to find that the door was not secured, and answered to his touch.
He opened it boldly. A hall was before him. Just then it was unoccupied, and the uninvited guest was able to step in, close the door, and look around for some place of concealment. This he easily found.
The hall offered numerous opportunities for hiding if one felt inclined that way, and Eric speedily ensconced himself in a place where he was not apt to be seen. He remained here awaiting developments for a few minutes.
Nobody seemed to be moving. He heard voices in the room where the lamp in the window had prevented him from seeing what the room contained.
One of these was the voice of Prescott.
The other seemed to belong to a man also, and Eric wondered at this.
He had not supposed the artist would have a friend awaiting him here—generally when a man runs off with another’s wife he desires to shun society of all sort. There was reason enough for this, which made the action of the transgressor the more peculiar.
He wondered whether there was not something about this whole affair that he did not understand.
Later, he found out that this was so—that a man may see all the surface indications and yet not get at the real facts in the case.
He waited in his concealment for a while, and then made up his mind to push matters.
Why should he not appear before Paul Prescott and boldly announce his intention of wresting from his power the victim of his spell?
There was nothing to prevent him.
He made his way toward the door that led from the hall into the room, which as he afterward discovered was the library.
A portiere hung there in place of the door, and a more excellent opportunity for hiding and spying could not well have been offered.
Behind this he could find a small opening and thus see without being seen.
When he looked into the room he found there were but two men there.
One of these was Prescott—the other a small man of severe countenance.
The first thought of the detective was that the latter had a clerical look—his clothes seemed on the order of a clergyman, white tie and all.
Then he concluded that he must be mistaken. Surely, a minister would be the last one in all the world whom Prescott would desire to have here.
This must be some friend whom he had asked to greet them at the cottage in order to encourage Lillian.
The men were laughing.
Prescott seemed in unusual spirits.
Perhaps he had been imbibing—when a man in his sober senses commits such a sin against society and his Maker he must, generally, fortify himself with some ardent spirits.
At any rate he had the appearance of a man who was quite satisfied with himself.
The world had abused him, in some respects, but to-night he was in a humor to bid the whole universe defiance.
Success had come to him—the best he had ever dreamed of was now at his hand.
Others before Paul Prescott had believed themselves on the pinnacle of hope and power, only to find it all a dream and an illusion.
So Darrell reflected as he watched the man whom he meant to speedily humble.
While the two were yet talking, a door in the back part of the library opened.
Through this came three females. The first one was very like Prescott—indeed, it was easy for the detective to determine that she must be the artist’s sister.
After her came a sedate woman, neatly dressed, with her hair parted and brushed straight back on either side—a model of a housekeeper.
There was one more.
At sight of her Eric started, and an exclamation bubbled to his lips.
She was dressed in white silk—the long cloak had been discarded, and the heavy black veil that had screened her was now supplanted by a gauzy white one, through which the faintest glimpses only could be seen of her face. She was a picture indeed.
Eric held his breath.
He saw Prescott rush forward and take her hand with the utmost eagerness. Then the other led her forward. They stood in front of the second man, who held a book in his hand.
“Good heavens!” muttered the detective.
He rubbed his eyes.
What mockery was this? A marriage—when she was already another man’s wife! He could hardly believe his sight.
The voice of the preacher aroused him, and started him into life.
This must not be. It was sacrilege.
Knowing the facts of the case he would be abetting a crime if he allowed this thing to go on without raising an objection.
So, while the minister was still talking, Eric suddenly sprang into the room.
“I forbid this marriage!” he cried.
A scene of confusion followed.
The women fell back—Prescott swore and the minister looked amazed.
An interruption like this seldom occurs. “Upon what charge do you dare stop this sacred ceremony?” demanded the preacher.
“The woman has been married before.”
“Yes.”
“Her husband is living!”
At this there came a shriek from the bride.
“It is false, false as Hades! I helped to bury her husband myself,” shouted the artist.
Eric, with a quick movement, threw back the white veil from the face of the almost fainting bride and then he received the greatest shock of his life.
It was not Lillian!
CHAPTER XXIII
THE MESSENGER WITH GOOD NEWS
Eric Darrell might have been frozen—he seemed so petrified with surprise.
Instead of Lillian’s sweet face, marked by horror, he saw that of the dashing widow, Mrs. Collingwood, she with whom Prescott had communicated in the opium joint.
It dawned upon the detective.
All along there had been a great mistake—many things remained to be explained away, but the one main point was assured—Lillian must be innocent of the charge.
He was a man of extraordinary sense, as well as a man of action.
Recovering himself, he turned gracefully to Paul Prescott, who was glaring at him.
“Mr. Prescott, there has been a grave mistake here on my part. I thought this lady was some one else. I beg your pardon. Let the ceremony proceed. I withdraw my objection. When it is over we will have a mutual understanding.”
These words restored everyone to good humor. The artist dropped his frown, the dominie found his place in the book, and the bride again stood up beside the man she was taking for better or worse and the ceremony went on.
Now was a chance for Eric to do some tall thinking, and he did so.
He saw many things in a new light, and had about arranged all he wanted to say when the marriage service was over.
“I pronounce you man and wife,” said the minister, and, bending over, the artist kissed his bride.
Then the three females retired again, the preacher hurried away, and Eric found himself alone with the man whom he had had under surveillance for so long a time.
The artist eyed him.
“Who are you, sir?”
“I am a detective, Mr. Prescott—I have been in your presence before.”
“By Jove! you are the man who bearded me in my studio.”
“Yes, and the man who rode up in the hack with you to Eighty-fifth Street.”
“That old gent with the cane?”
“Also the friend of your driver who came up here with you.”
“And you are hired by Colonel Rogers—but if so, why the deuce did you stop the ceremony and then allow it to go on?”.
The artist was amazed.
Well he might be.
The detective knew he had good reason for surprise, and was in a measure ready to gratify that curiosity.
In return he hoped the artist would reveal certain strange things to him.
So Eric told all that was necessary—he did not even mention the lady’s name.
Prescott smiled—he thought he could guess who it referred to.
“If you go to that house from here, my friend, you will learn something,” he said, quietly.
“But what does all this singular action of yours mean, sir? You must admit everything seemed to prove you guilty, even to the lady’s initial, L.”
“Her name is Laura. As I said before, I was at the burial of her first husband. The story is a long one and I can only give you an outline of it—I might not do that only that I feel in such a jolly humor on this, my wedding night.
“Jerry Collingwood and I were rivals—he won Laura by a trick, and she found it out after her marriage, despising him for it. Then came his tragic death, perhaps you remember it.
“After that, Laura went to live with her uncle, Colonel Rogers—she found him a stern man, and he was soon plotting against her.
“She was strangely influenced by him—he had a power over her, which he magnified in her mind, and she obeyed him unquestioningly until by accident we met again.
“I need not tell you all we passed through—Rogers wished her to marry his son, and we finally realized that he would give us trouble unless we took the bull by the horns.
“So we arranged this elopement—how well it has been carried out I leave to you to decide.
“Laura is now my wife—any man who dares to whisper a word against her good name, were he a dozen times a colonel, shall answer to me for it at the muzzle of the revolver. We have outwitted the wily Rogers, and he will have to give an account of his stewardship.”
“That is all?”
“Yes.”
“It is enough. Prescott, even when I had reason to believe you guilty of the most heinous sin on the calendar—that of stealing the affection of an honest man’s wife—there were points about you I admired. Since learning what your true work was, I can say without flattery that I am sincerely glad to know you—glad that you have accomplished what you set out to perform, and trust that your future as a Benedict may be free from clouds.”
“Thank you, sir. I have waited a long time for Laura, but she is mine at last. Won’t you stay and break a bottle of champagne?”
“Thanks, but I must be off. I have another engagement I must fill.”
“I can imagine where.”
“Yes,” dryly, “and probably this will be as happy a night to another man as it is to you—he has found a wife as well as yourself.”
“And the lady you refer to is the sweetest and best little woman in the world—save one”—hastily correcting himself—“the man must be a fool who could doubt her constancy.”
“You don’t know all, Prescott. Her husband is the truest, noblest man I know. He rejected it all again and again, but he is human and he saw and heard things that would convince a skeptic.”
“Probably he understands all by this time, and he will eat humble pie too.”
“I hope so. Good night, Mr. Prescott. Bring the doughty colonel to his knees.”
“I’ll wring his nose if he gives me any further trouble, the old nuisance.”
“Success to you.”
Eric Darrell left the vine-embowered cottage with feelings greatly differing from his entrance. He was light of heart.
Not only was this on account of Joe and his wife, but his faith in womankind had been saved.
Had Lillian been guilty Eric was determined never again to believe in a woman.
This would have made him a cynic and a scoffer all of his days—now he could remember with a delicious thrill that Marian was at Joe’s house, and he would soon meet the original of the picture that had charmed him so.
He did not remember of having felt so good for a long time back.
That was the result of the reaction.
As yet he could form no distinct idea of the true state of affairs—all was chaotic confusion, but above everything he saw the prime fact that Lillian was innocent.
That covered all.
How Joe must rejoice.
It would be a new lease of life to him.
So the detective walked out to the street, and found the hack waiting.
The driver greeted him.
“Glad to see you on deck—it was a mistake after all. Now drive me to the corner you brought me from and the fee is yours.”
“Good.”
Away they rattled.
The detective felt inclined to smoke, and was soon puffing a cigar out of the window, as he did not want to saturate his clothes with the strong odor, fearing lest Marian might be one with her sister in objecting to tobacco.
Then he wondered what time it was.
They had started at ten minutes to ten and made wonderful time, so that it could not be very late, he thought.
Taking out his watch as they crossed the bridge over the Harlem, he found that it was fifteen minutes after eleven.
Would he be in time?
He did not know how long these informal affairs were apt to last, but at a rough guess figured that they would still be on hand at midnight and he ought to be there before that.
He urged the driver on.
Finally the vehicle drew up. They had arrived. When Eric found that it lacked fifteen minutes of twelve, he was satisfied, handed the driver his fee, and hurried along the street.
He drew near the house.
Lights still shone in every window. Something caused him to feel very queerly—he could not say what it was.
Did Joe know all?
Perhaps not—he might still be in a fog and wondering why all the plans had miscarried. Eric did not hesitate.
He immediately ran up the steps.
Then he noticed that the parlor was deserted—the good people could not have gone, for he could hear the laughter and buzz of voices—ah! they were doubtless in the diningroom below.
He rang the bell.
A colored man answered it.
“1 wish to see Mr. Leslie on important business. Take my card to him.”
The man knew his business, closed the door and went away with the card.
One, two minutes passed.
Then Eric heard footsteps within.
The door opened.
There could be no mistaking that figure—it was Joe who stood there.
Eric’s eyes sought his face instantly—he saw a look of mute pain there which told him better than words that Joe did not yet know the truth.
CHAPTER XXIV
CONCLUSION
At sight of his friend Joe held out his hand warmly.
“Eric, old man, I have wondered where you have been. Everything has gone wrong. She is still here, and yet the hour is long past—that villain must have backed out.”
“No, he carried out his plans to the letter; he had his carriage waiting, ran off with a lady at ten o’clock, at eleven was married to her in a cottage beyond the Harlem, and is now a Benedict as well as yourself, Joe—but it was not your wife he was after.”
“Not my wife?” slowly, as though the wonderful news almost paralyzed his brain—“not Lillian he sought?”
“Joe, it was all a terrible, a cruel mistake which fortune put upon you.”
“Good heavens! do you mean it?”
“Lillian, your sweet wife, is as innocent as you ever believed her in your most charitable moods. That I will swear to—you will learn all before this night is over, and I believe the mystery of the locked trunk will be revealed. Just now I am famished for a bite to eat and a cup of the coffee I get a scent of. Suppose you invite me in—I am not in evening dress, but a few minutes in your room will arrange my toilet and make me presentable. I want to see this thing out—to rejoice with you, old boy, over the wife you thought you had lost but who is found again. Besides, you know, I want to meet Marian, and I know she is here.”
What could Joe do?
He dragged his friend upstairs and himself assisted to brush him into presentable shape.
Ten minutes were consumed thus, and then Eric was ready to go down.
All this while Joe had plied him with questions and the detective told a good deal of what had happened to him.
There were some things of which he would not speak, however, and hence Joe found himself in a state bordering on bewilderment when he finally went downstairs.
By this time the guests had finished supper and were again flocking into the parlors.
There were between twenty-five and thirty in all.
Eric was introduced all around.
He noticed that there was some little secret among a number of those present—Lillian, all blushes and confusion, was being consulted by an old gentleman with a white beard.
Although Eric had declared he was almost famished he would not leave the rooms now for supper—something was on the tapis, and he was bound to see it out.
Supper could wait.
Ah! it came at last.
The elderly gentleman rapped on a table. Silence ensued.
All eyes were bent on him, all but those of Joe Leslie, and his blazing orbs rested on the blushing face of Lillian—before he learned all he wanted to prove that he no longer entertained the slightest suspicion regarding her.
“Friends, we have spent a very pleasant evening at the house of our neighbor—we all cherish Joe Leslie and his charming wife as among those whose names will never leave the tablets of our memory—a devoted couple, loving, kind and gentle, whom it is an honor to know.
“Before we part to-night, it is my pleasure to officiate at a little surprise—I am going to let our friend Leslie see himself as others see him—in brief, I shall introduce him to himself.
“My grandchild Barbara and Mrs. Leslie have always possessed an artistic temperament. They consulted with me about it, and I took some of their amateur work to a friend who is a well-known artist.
“The upshot of it all is that for a month past Barbara has been flitting over here at ten o’clock every morning through the gate we have in our back fence, and the two have been taking lessons in painting with astonishing success.
“This evening I was astonished to find a fine oil painting of myself, true to nature, on my drawing-room wall—I had not dreamed my grandchild was so gifted.
“And now for our fair Lillian’s birthday gift to her husband—bring them forth, friends.”
Out from the mysterious closet came two gold-framed paintings—they were placed on easels prepared for them, in front of the astonished Joe.
The faces were those of himself and his wife, astonishingly well done.
He hardly glanced at his own, but his eyes were glued upon the counterfeit resemblance of his dear wife—done by her hand too.
Eric was amazed.
He looked from the painting to the original—the work was no amateurish daub, but worthy of a master.
Could it be possible she had painted it? She was a genius.
At first delighted expressions arose, and then, as the old gentleman raised his hand, these died away again.
All eyes were turned upon Joe.
He stood there as if petrified—his eyes were glued upon the picture of his wife, and he hardly seemed to breathe.
Then he slowly turned his gaze upon the same face in flesh and blood.
She looked at him, still blushing—tears were in her sweet eyes—she smiled through them.
Joe forgot where he was—he only remembered that he had wronged that dear little woman by harboring thoughts that reflected on her love and purity of heart.
Another instant he was at her side, had clasped her hand, and falling on his knees before her, kissed the little member whose cunning had wrought such wonders upon the canvas.
The others believed it was mute adoration that took him to her feet—regard for genius—and they thought all the more of Joe Leslie because he could appreciate a gift as well as a good wife.
There was one present who knew what was in Joe’s mind as he bent his head before his wife, unable to speak, though his lips moved as they formed the word “forgive.”
To cover Joe’s terrible confusion Eric made some remark appropriate to the occasion, and of a nature to create a laugh.
This answered the purpose and presently the good people were chatting gaily.
Joe soon found occasion to seek his friend Eric, and squeeze his hand until the detective winced under the pressure.
“Thank heaven, Eric, for this blessing. All is bright again. I have the dearest wife in all New York to-night. Tried and found true.”
“And she has a deuced fine sister too,” said Eric with a wink.
“That’s the way the land lies, eh? Try it, old fellow. Nothing would suit me better; we would be brothers in truth then. And I declare, now that I come to think of it, I believe you two would make a fine match.”
“Nonsense, Joe. When Miss Marian hears that I am a detective she will shrink from me. People honor judges who sentence people to death, sometimes innocently, and great lawyers, who are often on the side of criminals, but at the same time pretend to look down on the officers of the law whose sagacity leads them to arrest those who break the statutes of the state.”
“I don’t know about that—she adores a hero in any type.”
“Come, don’t you go to making me out as such—I’m only an every-day chap and never expect to do anything heroic.”
“Save your worry. If I tell her anything at all it will only be the truth.”
As it turned out, Miss Marion was rather capricious—she heard Joe tell long yarns of his friend’s bravery, she respected him as a man, even while openly disliking his profession, but Eric soon saw she was giving him no sort of encouragement.
This was hard because he was already deeply in love with the girl.
He went his way, taking his disappointment as best he could—they met occasionally, but Eric did not pursue the game.
One night when Joe and the two ladies were on the way home in a street car, it was suddenly halted—there was a fire ahead.
Marian had never seen a large fire and Joe, good-natured always, readily agreed to take them where they could have a view.
The giant shouldered a way for them through the crowd, and soon they stood in a doorway watching the flames play riot with the tenement near by.
It was a terrible sight and a pitiful one to those who looked on—many poor families were driven out, carrying what they could lay hands on, one a trunk, another a feather bed, and a third some old gowns.
Fright made their faces wrinkled, and such looks the ladies had never seen before. Suddenly a cry went up.
The flames were roaring, engines pumping and much noise sounding, but this shriek pierced the hearts of all—it was a mother’s wail.
“My child! my child—save her!”
All eyes were fastened upon a window up in the third story where the face of a flaxen-haired little girl appeared—blanched with fear, and yet curious to see what was going on.
The ladder wagon had not arrived, and the flames were devouring the frail tenement.
Surely the child was lost—no one could save her there. It was an awful period of suspense to the thousands who looked on. Lillian and her sister held their breath and leaned on Joe for support.
Then the child vanished.
“Heavens! she has gone—the floor has probably fallen in,” gasped Joe. “No, no, look! there is a man at the window—he has seized the child and is tying her to himself. Look! he climbs out of the windows. Ugh! if he loses his grip both will be dashed to pieces.”
They gaze as if fascinated, both of the gentle ladies praying for the daring man’s success.
He swings himself boldly along the ledge—none but a quick-witted man could have seen the chance that existed, but he had.
Reaching a certain spot he took hold of the pipe that ran down the building—it must have burned his hands, but he lowered himself by it to the floor below.
Flames were beneath, but he had arranged his plan—a tall telegraph pole slanted in here and a dexterous man could leap in among its numerous arms—he coolly calculated his chances and sprang out.
There was a cry of horror.
“He is down—no, no, by Jove, he clings there with one hand. See how bravely he exerts himself—as cool as a cucumber through all. Now he seizes a new support; he will slide down the pole. Hurrah! both are safe, thank heaven.”
Then Joe turned to Marian.
“What do you think of that man?” he asked.
“He is a hero—I love him,” she said impulsively.
“Good! I shall let him know that fact some day. Here he comes now with the child on his shoulder, his face blackened, his hair scorched, but, thank God, the same Eric as of old.”
The man passed them by—it was Eric Darrell!
Marian turned white and then rosy red.
“Joe,” she said almost fiercely, “if you ever repeat my words, I’ll—go back to Chicago.”
Whether Joe repeated them or not no one ever knew, but Eric heard enough to encourage him to renew his suit, and when Marian did return to Chicago it was as Mrs. Darrell.
They are just as happy as Joe and Lillian—Eric is no longer a detective, but has been studying for a doctor, as his wife believes he will make a name in the profession. She will never forget watching him save the widow’s child at the risk of his life—outwardly she loves him as a true wife, but in secret she adores her Eric as a hero of heroes.
THE END