"It shall never go out of my possession," she gravely replied, as she took it, and then quietly left the room.
She was very grave as she went slowly up stairs, and once or twice a long, sobbing sigh escaped her.
"Oh, why did such a thought ever come to me?" she murmured. "It is too dreadful, and I will not harbor it for a moment. He is good and noble—his whole life has been grand and above reproach, and I love him with all my heart."
That evening, about seven o'clock, Mona Montague went down to the elegant drawing-room of her uncle's residence, exquisitely clad for the opera.
Her dress was a fine black lace, of a delicate and beautiful pattern, made over old gold silk, with the corsage cut low and sleeveless, thus leaving her neck and arms to gleam like alabaster through the meshes of delicate lace. The heavy edging at the throat was just caught together with a shell of Etruscan gold, studded with diamonds. Costly solitaires gleamed in her ears, while her dainty wrists were encircled with Mr. Dinsmore's gift of the morning. Upon her head she wore a jaunty hat of black lace, surrounded by a wreath of old gold crushed roses, that contrasted beautifully with her clear, fair skin and dark eyes. Her face was bright with anticipation, her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she was a vision of loveliness to gladden the heart of any beauty-loving man.
"I have come down to receive your verdict, Uncle Walter," she remarked, smiling, and sweeping him a graceful courtesy, as he threw down his paper and arose to meet her, "Will I do?"
His face lighted with love and pride as he ran his eye over her.
"Really, Mona," he said, "you make me almost wish that I were going to see 'Il Trovatore' with you in Ray Palmer's place. You are a very queen of beauty to-night."
Mona flushed as he uttered Ray Palmer's name, but she put up her lips to kiss him for his compliment, and at that moment the young man himself was announced.
His eyes lighted with admiration, as he approached to salute the beautiful girl, and a thrill of delight ran through him as he clasped the hand she so cordially extended.
He was several inches taller than Mona, and a young man of singularly noble bearing, and perhaps twenty-three years of age.
Dignity of character and sincerity of purpose were stamped upon every feature of his intelligent face, and gleamed from his frank, genial eyes, which met yours with a directness that won the heart and confidence at once, while his manner and bearing as well as every detail of his dress, betrayed the thorough gentleman.
Mr. Dinsmore smiled complacently as he marked the exchange of greetings between the two young people. He saw that Mona was deeply interested in her handsome escort, as her deepening color and drooping eyes plainly betrayed.
He followed them to the door, and wished them a genial good-night, after which he went back to his library, saying to himself:
"I could wish nothing better for her. If I can but see her safely settled in life, I should have little to fear for the future, in spite of the miserable past. Young Palmer is a fine fellow, and I will favor his suit with all my heart. Then, with my will signed and sealed, my mind will be at rest."
Alas! alas! "Man proposes and God disposes."
CHAPTER V.
MONA'S APPALLING DISCOVERY.
Mona Montague was very happy throughout that memorable evening as she sat beside Ray Palmer, and listened to the opera of "Il Trovatore."
The four young people occupied a proscenium box, and made a very interesting group. Many a glass was turned upon them, many an eye studied their bright, animated faces, and found the sight almost as entertaining as the scene being enacted upon the stage.
To Ray Palmer's partial eye the fair girl beside him was the most beautiful object in the world, for he loved her with all his heart, and he made up his mind to win her if it were possible.
When the opera was over, the quartet repaired to a fashionable café, where they had a delicious little supper, and spent another happy half-hour discussing the merits of "Il Trovatore"; then they separated to go to their homes.
"You have given me great pleasure this evening, Miss Montague," Ray
Palmer remarked, as he lingered for a moment beside her at the door of
Mr. Dinsmore's residence, and loath to bid her good-night.
"Then I am sure the pleasure has been mutual, Mr. Palmer, for I have enjoyed myself exceedingly," Mona replied, as she lifted her flushed and smiling face to him.
"You are very kind to give me that assurance," he returned, "and you embolden me to crave another favor. May I have your permission to call upon you occasionally?"
"I am only very happy to grant it; pray consider yourself welcome at any time," Mona answered, cordially, but dropping her eyes beneath his earnest look.
"Thank you; I shall gladly avail myself of your kindness," the young man gratefully responded; and then, with a lingering clasp of the hand, he bade her good-night and ran lightly down the steps.
With a rapidly beating heart and throbbing pulses, Mona softly let herself in with a latch-key, turned out the hall gas, which had been left burning dimly for her, and started to mount the stairs, when she espied a gleam of light shining beneath the library door.
"Why! Uncle Walter has not gone to bed yet! Can it be that he is sitting up for me?" she murmured. "I will go and tell him that I have come in, and get my good-night kiss."
She turned back and went quietly down the hall, and tapped lightly at the door. Receiving no response, she opened it, and passed into the room.
The gas was burning brightly, and Mr. Dinsmore was sitting before his desk, but reclining in his chair, his head thrown back against the soft, bright head-rest, the work of Mona's skillful fingers.
"He has fallen asleep," said the fair girl, as she went to his side and laid her hand gently upon his shoulder.
"Uncle Walter," she called, "why did you sit up for me? Wake up now and go to bed, or you will be having one of your dreadful headaches to-morrow."
But the man did not make or show any signs of having heard her.
He was breathing heavily, and Mona now noticed that his face was unnaturally flushed, and that the veins upon his temples were knotted and swollen.
A startled look swept over her face, and she grew white with a sudden fear.
"Uncle Walter!" she cried out, sharply, and trying to arouse him; "speak to me! Oh! there is something dreadful the matter with him; he is ill—he is unconscious!"
With a wild cry and sob of fear and anguish, she turned and sped with flying feet from the room.
A moment later she was knocking vigorously at the door of the serving-man's room, begging him to "get up at once and go for Doctor Hammond, for Mr. Dinsmore was very ill."
Having aroused James, she called the other servants, and then flew back to her idolized uncle.
There was no change in him; he sat and breathed just the same. Instinctively feeling that something ought to be done immediately for his relief, with trembling fingers she loosened his neck-tie, unbuttoned his collar, then drenching her handkerchief with water from an ice pitcher, she began to bathe his flushed and knotted forehead.
She imagined that this afforded him some relief, and that his breathing was not quite so labored, but his condition drove her nearly frantic with fear and anxiety.
James was very expeditious in his movements, and in less than half an hour returned with the family physician.
"Oh, Doctor Hammond, what is the matter with him?" Mona cried, with a sinking heart, as she saw the grave expression that settled over the doctor's face the moment he reached his patient's side.
"An apoplectic attack," he replied, thinking it best that she should know the truth, and so be somewhat prepared for what he feared must soon come.
The unconscious man was borne to his chamber, and everything which human skill could devise was done for him. He rallied somewhat toward morning, but Doctor Hammond gave them no hope that he would ever be any better, or even retain his consciousness for any length of time.
The whole of his right side was helpless, and his tongue was also paralyzed, so that he was entirely speechless.
His efforts to talk were agonizing to witness, for he appeared to realize that his hours were numbered, and seemed to have something special on his mind that he wished to make those around him understand.
Mona alone, who never left his side, seemed able to interpret something of his meaning, and she asked him question after question trying to learn his desire; but he could only slowly move his head to signify that she did not yet understand.
"Oh, what shall I do?" she moaned, in despair; then a bright thought flashed upon her. "Is there some one whom you wish to see, Uncle Walter?" she asked.
His eyes lighted, and a faint nod of the head told her that she had got hold of the right thread at last.
"Who is it?" she said, eagerly; then remembering his helplessness, she added: "I will say over the letters of the alphabet, and when I reach the right one you must press my hand."
This method proved more successful, and Mona finally spelled out the name of Graves.
"Graves—Graves," she repeated, with a puzzled look; then she cried, her face lighting: "Oh, it is Mr. Graves, your lawyer, whom you want."
Again the sufferer nodded, and weakly pushed her from him with his left hand to show that he wanted her to be quick about summoning the man.
In less than an hour Mr. Graves was in the sick-room, and by signs and questions and Mona's use of the alphabet, he finally comprehended that Mr. Dinsmore wished him to draw up a will for him, leaving everything he had to Mona.
While the lawyer was thus engaged in the library, the invalid tried to make Mona understand that there was something else he wished to tell her, and she spelled out the word "mirror."
"Oh, you want me to remember my promise never to part with it—is that it, Uncle?" she asked.
"No," he signaled, and looked so distressed that the much-tried girl sobbed outright. But she quickly controlled her grief, and finally spelled the word "bring," though her heart almost failed her as she realized that his left hand was fast becoming helpless like the other so that she could scarcely distinguish any pressure when she named a letter.
But she flew to her room and brought the royal mirror to him, and he tried to make her understand that there was something he wished to explain in connection with it.
We who have learned the secret of it, know what he wanted, but he could not even lift his nerveless hand to show her the gilded point beneath which lay the spring that controlled the hidden drawer and its contents.
Mona asked him question after question, but all that she could elicit were sighs, while great tears welled up into the man's eyes and rolled over his cheeks; and when at last a groan of agony burst from him, she could bear it no longer, and went weeping from the room, bearing the ancient relic from his sight.
She remained in her own room a few moments to compose herself before going back to him, and during her absence, Mr. Graves went up to him with the will which he had hastily drafted.
Mr. Dinsmore had had some conversation with him, in a general way, about the matter previous to this, and so he had drawn up the instrument to cover every point that he could think of. He read it aloud, and Mr. Dinsmore signified his satisfaction with it, and yet he looked troubled, as if it did not quite cover all that he desired.
Doctor Hammond and the housekeeper were summoned to act as witnesses; then Mr. Graves placed the pen, filled with ink, within the sick man's fingers, for him to sign the will. But he could not hold it—there was no strength, no power in them.
In vain they clasped them around it, and urged him to "try;" but they instantly fell away, the pen dropped upon the snowy counterpane making a great, unsightly blotch of ink, and they knew that he was past putting his signature, or even his mark, to the will.
As he himself realized this, a shrill cry of despair burst from him, and the next instant he lapsed into unconsciousness from a second stroke.
"The end has come—he will not live an hour," gravely remarked Doctor
Hammond, as his skilled fingers sought the dying man's feeble pulse.
In half that time Walter Dinsmore was dead, and Mona Montague was alone in the world.
We will pass over the next few days, with their mournful incidents and the despairing grief of the beautiful girl, who had been so sadly bereft, to the morning after the funeral ceremonies, when Mr. Graves, with Mr. Dinsmore's unsigned will in his pocket, called to consult with Mona regarding her uncle's affairs and her own plans for the future.
He found her in the library, looking sad and heavy-eyed from almost incessant weeping, her manner languid and drooping.
She was engaged in trying to make up some accounts which the housekeeper had requested her to attend to, hoping thus to distract her mind somewhat from her grief.
She burst into tears as the lawyer kindly took her hand, for the sight of him brought back to her so vividly the harrowing scenes of that last day of her idolized uncle's life.
But she strove to control herself after a moment, and invited the gentleman to be seated, when he immediately broached the subject of his call.
"Perhaps you are aware, Miss Montague," he began, "that Mr. Dinsmore, on the morning of his death, tried to make his will, in which he stated his wish to leave you all his property; but he was unable to sign it; consequently the document cannot stand, according to law. I was somewhat surprised," Mr. Graves continued, looking thoughtful, "at his excessive anxiety and distress regarding the matter, as he had previously given me to understand that you were his only living relative. Still he might only have wished to make assurance doubly sure. Do you know of any heirs beside yourself?"
"No," Mona answered, "he had no relatives as near to him as I. There are,
I believe, one or two distant cousins residing somewhere in the South."
"Then you are of course the sole heir, and will have the whole of his handsome fortune—the will would only have been a matter of form. Mr. Dinsmore was a very rich man, Miss Montague, and I congratulate you upon being the heiress to a large fortune," the lawyer continued, with hearty sincerity in his tone.
But Mona looked, up at him with streaming eyes.
"Oh! but I would rather have my uncle back than all the wealth of the world!" she cried, with quivering lips.
"True. I know that your loss is irreparable—one that no amount of money can make up to you," was the kind and sympathetic response. Then the man returned to business again, "But—do you mind telling me your age, Miss Montague?"
"I was eighteen the day before my uncle died," the stricken girl replied, with a keen heart-pang, as she recalled that eventful day.
"You are very young to have care of so much property," said the lawyer, gravely. "What would be your wish as to the management of it? You ought really to have a guardian for the next few years. If you will designate some one whom you would wish, and could trust to act as such, I will gladly assist in putting Mr. Dinsmore's affair in convenient shape for him."
"You are very good, Mr. Graves," Mona thoughtfully returned. Then she added, wistfully: "Why cannot you act as my guardian? I know of no one in whom I have so much confidence. Uncle Walter trusted you, and surely there can be no one who understands his affairs as well as you do."
The man's face lighted at this evidence of her trust in him.
"Thank you, Miss Mona," he said. "It is of course gratifying to me to know that you desire this, and I really think that Mr. Dinsmore would have suggested such an arrangement had he been able to do so; but of course I felt delicate about proposing it. Walter Dinsmore was a dear and valued friend, as well as my client, and, believe me, I feel a deep interest in you, for his sake, as well as your own. I will accept the trust, and do the best I can for you, my child, thanking you again heartily for your confidence in me."
He spent a long time, after that, talking over business matters and looking over some of Mr. Dinsmore's papers, and when at length he took his leave, Mona was really greatly comforted, and felt that she had found a true friend to rely upon in her loneliness.
CHAPTER VI.
A BOLD AND CUNNING SCHEME.
On the afternoon previous to Mr. Dinsmore's death a woman of perhaps sixty years alighted from an elegant private carriage before the door of a fine residence on West —— street, in New York city.
She was simply but richly clad in heavy, lustrous black silk, and was a woman of fine appearance, although her face wore a look of deep sadness which seemed to indicate some hidden trouble or sorrow.
Her hair was almost white, but carefully arranged, and lay low upon her placid, but slightly wrinkled, brow in soft, silken waves that were very becoming to her. Her complexion was unusually clear and fair for one of her years, although it might have been enhanced somewhat by the fine vail of white tulle which she wore over it. She was tall and commanding in figure, a little inclined toward portliness, but every motion was replete with graceful dignity and high-bred repose.
After giving directions to her coachman to wait for her, she mounted the steps leading to the door, pausing for an instant to read the name, "R. Wesselhoff, M.D." engraved upon a silver plate, before ringing the bell.
A colored servant soon answered her call, and responded affirmatively to her inquiry if the noted physician was in, then ushered her into a small but elegantly appointed reception-room upon the right of the lofty hall.
Five minutes later an elderly and singularly prepossessing man entered and saluted his visitor in a gracious and respectful manner.
"Mrs. Walton, I suppose?" he remarked, just glancing at the card which she had given the servant.
The woman bowed, then observed, with a patient but pathetic sigh:
"I have called, Doctor Wesselhoff, upon a very sad errand, and one which
I trust you will regard as strictly confidential."
"Certainly, madame; I so regard all communications made by my patients," the gentleman courteously responded.
"I have a son," madame resumed, "who has of late betrayed symptoms of the strangest mania, although he appears to be in perfect health in all other respects. He imagines that some gigantic robbery has been committed; sometimes he declares that bonds to a large amount have been stolen, at other times it is money, then again that costly jewels have disappeared; but the strangest phase of his malady consists in the fact that he accuses me, and sometimes other members of the family, of being the thief, and insists that he must have me arrested. This has gone on for some time, and I have been obliged to adopt every kind of device in order to keep him from carrying out his threats and thus creating a very uncomfortable scandal. This morning he became more violent than usual, and I felt obliged to take some decided step in regard to proper treatment for him; therefore my visit to you."
"It is a singular mania, truly," said the physician, who had been listening with the deepest interest to his companion's recital. "I think I never have met with anything exactly like it before in all my experience. How old is your son, Mrs. Walter?"
"Twenty-four years," the woman replied, with a heavy sigh; "and," she added, tremulously, "I cannot bear the thought of sending him to any common lunatic asylum. I learned recently that you sometimes receive private patients to test their cases before sending them to a public institution, and that you have frequently effected a cure in critical cases. Will you take my son and see what you think of his case—what you can do for him? I shall not mind the cost—I wish to spare nothing, and I do not wish any one, at least of our friends and acquaintances, to know that he is under treatment for insanity until you pronounce your verdict. He seems sane enough upon all other topics, except now and then he persists in calling himself by some other name, and I know he would be very sensitive, should he recover, to have his condition known. He does not even suspect that I am contemplating any such thing, and I shall be obliged to use strategy in bringing him to you."
Doctor Wesselhoff was evidently very deeply interested in the case; he had never heard of anything like it before, and all his professional enthusiasm was aroused.
He spent some time questioning his visitor, and finally decided that he would receive the young man immediately—to-morrow afternoon Mrs. Walton might bring him, he said, if she could conveniently arrange to do so.
"I think, perhaps, it will not be best for me to come with him myself," the lady said, after considering the matter for some time. "Truly," she added, with a sad smile, "I almost fear to go out with him, lest he put his threats into execution and have me arrested. But I think I can arrange with my sister, Mrs. Vanderbeck, to persuade him to come with her as if to call upon a friend."
The matter was arranged thus, and madame arose to take her leave, the physician accompanying her to the door and feeling deep sympathy for the cultured and attractive woman in her strange affliction.
The next day, about one o'clock—the day following Mona Montague's attendance at the opera with Ray Palmer, and only a few hours after Mr. Dinsmore's death, a brilliantly beautiful woman, who might have been forty-five years of age, entered the handsome store of Amos Palmer & Co., diamond merchants and jewelers.
She was exquisitely dressed in an expensive, tailor-made costume of gray ladies' cloth, with a gray felt bonnet trimmed with the same shade of velvet as her dress. Her hands were faultlessly gloved, her feet incased in costly imported boots, and everything about her apparel bespoke her a favorite of wealth and luxury.
Her appearance was the more marked from the fact that her hair was a deep, rich red, and curled about her fair forehead in lovely natural curls, while she wore over her face a spotted black lace veil, which, however, did not quite conceal some suspicious wrinkles and "crow's-feet," if that had been her object in wearing it.
She had driven to the store in a plain but elegant coupé, drawn by a pair of black horses in gold-mounted harness. Her driver was apparently a man of about thirty years, and of eminently respectable appearance in his dark-green livery.
She approached a counter on entering the store, and, in a charmingly affable manner, asked to look at some diamonds.
As it happened, at that hour, one of the clerks was absent, and Mr. Amos Palmer was himself in attendance in his place, and politely served the lady, laying out before her a glittering array of the costly stones she desired to examine.
He saw at once that she was a judge of the gems, for she selected not the largest and most showy, but the purest and the best, and he could but admire her discernment and taste.
When she had made her selections, and she took plenty of time about it, chatting all the while with the gentleman in the most intelligent and fascinating manner, she remarked that she wished her husband to see them before she concluded her purchase.
"But," she added, thoughtfully, "he is something of an invalid, and not able to come to the store to examine them; have you not some one whom you could trust, Mr. Palmer, to take the stones to my home for his inspection? If he sanctions my choice he will at once write a check for their price, or the attendant could return them if they were not satisfactory."
"Certainly," Mr. Palmer graciously responded; "we frequently have such requests, and are only too willing to accommodate our customers. Will madame kindly give me her address?"
Madame smiled as she drew a costly card-case from her no less costly shopping-bag, and taking a heavy card with beveled edges from it, laid it upon the counter before the jeweler, remarking that she should like to have the clerk accompany her directly back in her own carriage, as she wanted the matter decided at once, for the diamonds were to be worn that evening if they suited.
"Mrs. William Vanderbeck, No. 98 —— street," Mr. Palmer read, and then slipped the card into his vest pocket, after which he beckoned a clerk to him.
"Ask my son to step this way a moment," he said.
The man bowed respectfully, bestowing an admiring glance upon the attractive woman on the other side of the counter, and then withdrew to a private office at the other end of the room.
A moment later Ray Palmer made his appearance and approached his father.
Mr. Palmer introduced his son to Mrs. Vanderbeck, mentioned her desire that some one be sent to her residence with the diamonds she had selected for her husband's approval, and asked if he would assume the responsibility.
The young man readily consented, for the duty was not an unusual one, and immediately returned to the office for his coat and hat, while his father carefully put up the costly stones in a convenient form for him to take, and chatted socially with the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck meantime.
When they were ready Ray slipped the package into one of the outside pockets of his overcoat, but retained his hold upon it, and then followed the lady from the store to her carriage, and the next moment they drove away.
The young man found his companion a most charming woman. She was bright, witty, cultured and highly educated. She had evidently seen a great deal of the world, and was full of anecdotes, which she knew how to relate with such effect that he forgot for the time everything but the charm of her presence and conversation.
The drive was rather a long one, but Ray did not mind that, and was, on the whole, rather sorry when the carriage stopped, and Mrs. Vanderbeck remarked, in the midst of a witty anecdote:
"Here we are at last—ah—"
This last ejaculation was caused by discovering that she could not rise from her seat, her dress having been shut into the door of the coupé.
Ray bent forward with a polite "allow me," to assist her, but found that he could not disengage the dress.
Just then the coachman opened the door, but in spite of the young man's utmost care, the beautiful cloth was badly torn in the operation.
"What a pity!" he exclaimed, in a rueful tone.
But madame looked up with a silvery laugh.
"Never mind," she said lightly, "accidents will happen, and I ought to have been more careful when I entered the carriage."
Ray stepped out upon the sidewalk, where he stood waiting to assist his companion, who, however, was trying to pin the rent in her skirt together. Then gathering up some packages that were lying on the seat opposite, she laughingly inquired:
"Please may I trouble you with these for a moment?"
"Indeed you may. Pray excuse my negligence," Ray gallantly exclaimed, as he extended his hands for them.
She filled them both, and then gracefully descended to the ground.
"You can wait, James, to take Mr. Palmer back," she quietly remarked, as they turned to mount the steps of the residence before which they had stopped.
"Pray do not ask your man to do that, Mrs. Vanderbeck; I can take a car just as well," the young man exclaimed.
"No, indeed," she returned, with a brilliant smile, "I am sure it would be very uncourteous in me to allow you to do so after your kindness in coming with me."
She rang the bell, and the door was almost immediately opened by a colored servant, when the beautiful woman led the way to a small reception room on the right of the hall, where she invited her companion to be seated, while she went to arrange for the interview with her husband.
She glided gracefully from the room, and Ray, depositing upon the table the packages he held, began to remove his gloves, while he glanced about the elegant apartment, noticing its hangings and decorations and many beautiful pictures.
Presently a gentleman of very prepossessing appearance entered, and Ray, arising, was astonished to behold, instead of the invalid he had pictured to himself, a man in the prime of life and apparently in perfect health.
He bowed politely.
"Mr. Vanderbeck, I presume?" he remarked, inquiringly.
The gentleman smilingly returned his salute, without responding to the name, then courteously asked him to take a seat.
Ray took the proffered chair, and then observed, although he wondered why
Mrs. Vanderbeck did not return:
"As I suppose you know, I have called, at the request of Mrs. Vanderbeck, to have you examine some—Good heavens!"
And he suddenly leaped from his chair as if shot from it by some powerful but concealed spring, his face as pale as his shirt bosom, great drops of cold perspiration breaking out upon his forehead.
He had put his hand in his pocket as he spoke, to take from it the package of diamonds, but—it was gone!
"Pray do not be so excited, my young friend," calmly observed his companion, "but sit down again and tell me your errand."
But Ray Palmer did not hear or heed him. He had rushed to the window, where, with a trembling hand, he swept aside the heavy draperies and looked out upon the street for the coupé in which he had been brought to that house.
It was not in sight, and the fearful truth burst upon him—he had been the victim of an accomplished sharper.
He had been robbed, and the clever thief had suddenly vanished, leaving no trace behind her.
CHAPTER VII.
A DESPERATE SITUATION.
For a moment all Raymond Palmer's strength fled, leaving him almost as helpless as a child, while he gazed wildly up and down the street, vainly searching for the woman who had so cunningly duped him, for he knew, if his suspicions were correct, the firm of Amos Palmer & Co. would lose thousands of dollars by that day's operations.
But the young man was no irresolute character. He knew that he must act, and promptly, if he would regain the treasure he had lost, and this thought soon restored strength and energy to both heart and limb.
"I have been robbed!" he cried hoarsely, as he rushed back to the table and seized his hat and gloves, intent only upon getting out upon the street to trace the clever woman who had so outwitted him. Doctor Wesselhoff was also a victim of the sharpers; for, of course, it will be readily understood that the whole matter was only a deeply laid and cunningly executed scheme to rob the wealthy jewelers of diamonds to a large amount. He was watching Ray's every movement with keenest interest, and with a resolute purpose written upon his intelligent face. He quietly approached him, laid his hand gently upon his arm, and his magnetic power was so strong that Ray was instantly calmed, to a certain extent, in spite of his exceeding dismay at the terrible and unexpected calamity that had overtaken him.
"My young friend," he said soothingly, "you say you have been robbed. Please explain yourself. There is no one in this house who would rob you."
Ray searched the man's face with eager, curious eyes. Then he shook off his hand with an impatient movement.
"Explain myself!" he repeated hotly. "I have had a small fortune stolen from me, and I believe that you are an accomplice in the transaction."
"No, no; I assure you I am not," returned the gentleman gravely, and exactly as he would have addressed a person whom he believed to be perfectly sane. "I was told that a caller wished to see me, and I find a man claiming that he has been robbed in my house. What do you mean? Tell me, and perhaps I can help you in your emergency."
The young man was impressed by his courteous manner, in spite of his suspicions, and striving to curb his excitement, he gave him a brief explanation of what had occurred.
His account tallied so exactly with the statements of his visitor of the previous day that Doctor Wesselhoff became more and more interested in the singular case, and was convinced that his patient was indeed afflicted with a peculiar monomania.
"Who was this woman?" he inquired, to gain time, while he should consider what course to pursue with his patient.
"I do not know—she was an utter stranger to me—never saw her before.
She called herself Mrs. Vanderbeck."
That was the name of the "sister" whom Mrs. Walton had told him she would send with her son, so the celebrated physician had no suspicion of foul play.
"And who are you?" he asked, searching the fine face before him with increasing interest.
"My name is Palmer," Ray answered. "I am the son of Amos Palmer, a jeweler of this city."
Doctor Wesselhoff glanced keenly at him, while he thought that, if he was mad, there was certainly method in his madness to make him deny his own name, and claim to be some one else.
The physician had always been a profound student, he was thoroughly in love with his profession, devoting all his time and energies to it, consequently he was not posted regarding the jewelers of New York, or, indeed, business firms of any kind, fore he did not know Amos Palmer—if indeed there was such a man—from any other dealer in the vanities of the world.
He firmly believed the young man before him to be a monomaniac of an unusual type, although he could plainly see that, naturally, he was a person of no ordinary character and intelligence.
"I regret very much that you should find yourself in such deep trouble," he remarked in his calm, dignified manner, "and if you have been decoyed here in the way you claim, you are certainly the victim of a very clever plot. Perhaps I can help you, however; just come this way with me. I will order my carriage, for of course you must act quickly, and we will try our best to relieve you in this unpleasant predicament."
"Thank you sir; you are very kind to be so interested," returned Ray, beginning to think the man had also been made a tool to further the schemes of the thieves, and wholly unsuspicious that he was being led still farther into the trap laid for his unwary feet. "My first act," he continued, "will be to go to the superintendent of police, and put the matter in his hands."
"Yes, yes—that would be the wisest course to pursue, no doubt. This way, Mr.—Palmer. It will save time if we go directly to the stable," and Doctor Wesselhoff opened a door opposite the one by which Ray had entered, and politely held it for him to pass through.
Ray, wholly unsuspicious, stepped eagerly forward and entered the room beyond, when the door was quickly closed after him, and the sound of a bolt shooting into its socket startled him to a knowledge of the fact that he was a prisoner.
A cry of indignation and dismay burst from him, as it again flashed upon him that his companion of a moment before must be in league with the woman who had decoyed him to that place.
He sprang back to the door, and sternly demanded to be instantly released.
There was no reply—there was not even a movement in the other apartment, and he was suddenly oppressed with the fear that he was in the power of an organized gang of robbers who might be meditating putting him out of the way, and no one would ever be the wiser regarding his fate.
He felt that he had been very heedless, for he did not even know the name of the street he was on. His fascinating companion had so concentrated his attention upon herself that he had paid no heed to locality.
He repeated his demand to be released, beating loudly upon the door to enforce it.
But no notice was taken of him, and a feeling almost of despair began to settle over him.
He glanced about the room he was in, to see if there was any other way of escape, when, to his dismay, he found that the apartment was padded from floor to ceiling, and thus no sound within it could be heard outside.
It was lighted only from above, where strong bars over the glass plainly indicated to him that the place was intended as a prison, although there were ventilators at the top and bottom, which served to keep the air pure.
The place was comfortably, even elegantly, furnished with a bed, a lounge, a table and several chairs. There were a number of fine pictures on the walls, handsome ornaments on the mantel, besides books, papers and magazines on the table.
But Ray could not stop to give more than a passing glance to all this. He was terribly wrought up at finding himself in such a strait, and paced the room from end to end, like a veritable maniac, while he tried to think of some way to escape.
But he began to realize, after a time, that giving way to such excitement would do no good—that it would be far wiser to sit quietly down and try to exercise his wits; but his mind was a perfect chaos, his head ached, his temples throbbed, his nerves tingled in every portion of his body, and to think calmly in such a state was beyond his power.
Suddenly, however, he became conscious of a strange sensation—he felt a peculiar influence creeping over him; it almost seemed as if there was another presence in the room—a power stronger than himself controlling him.
This impression grew upon him so rapidly that he began to look searchingly about the apartment, while his pulses throbbed less heavily, his mind grew more composed, his blood began to cool, and he ceased his excited passings up and down the floor.
All at once, in the wall opposite to him, he espied a hole about the size of a teacup, and through this aperture he caught the gleam of a pair of human eyes, which seemed to be looking him through and through.
Once meeting that gaze, he could not seem to turn away from it, and he began to feel very strangely—to experience a sense of weariness, amounting almost to exhaustion, then a feeling of drowsiness began to steal over him—all antagonism, indignation, and rebellion against the cruel fate that had so suddenly overtaken him appeared to be gradually fading from his mind, and he could only think of how tired he was.
"What can it mean?" he asked himself, and made a violent effort to break away from the unnatural influence.
He believed that those eyes belonged to the man whom he had met in the other room—that having hopelessly ensnared his victim he was now availing himself of a panel in the wall to watch and see how he would bear his imprisonment.
"Who and what are you, sir, and what is the meaning of this barbarous treatment?" he demanded; but somehow the tones of his own voice did not sound quite natural to him. "You are aiding and abetting a foul wrong," he went on, "even if you are not directly concerned in it, and I command you to release me at once."
There came no word of reply, however, to this demand; but those strange, magnetic eyes remained fixed upon him with the same intense, masterful expression.
He tried to meet them defiantly, to resist their influence with all the strength of his own will; but that feeling of excessive weariness only seemed to increase, and, heaving a long sigh, he involuntarily began to retreat step by step before those eyes until he reached the lounge, when he sank upon it, and his head dropped heavily upon the pillow.
The next moment his eyelids began to close, as if pressed down by invisible weights, though he was still vaguely conscious of the gaze of those wonderful orbs gleaming at him through the hole in the wall.
But even this faded out of his consciousness after another moment, and a profound slumber locked all his senses. Ray Palmer was hypnotized and a helpless prisoner in the hands of one of the most powerful mesmerists of the world.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HEIRESS BECOMES A SEAMSTRESS.
Poor Mona Montague was almost heartbroken over the sudden death of her uncle. She could not be reconciled to her great loss, and grieved so bitterly and continuously that her health began to be affected, and she lost all her lovely color and became thin and weak.
With the exception of the housekeeper and servants, Mr. Dinsmore had been her sole companion for many years, and they had been all in all to each other, so that this loss was a terrible blow to her.
Mona had always been an especially bright child unusually mature for her years, and probably her natural precociousness had been increased by having had so much of the companionship of her uncle. He had always interested himself in all her pleasures and made a confidante of her in all things which he thought she could comprehend; so in this way she had become very thoughtful for others, while it had also served to establish a very tender comradeship between them.
He had gratified her every wish whenever he could consistently do so, and had taken care that she should have the best of advantages and the most competent teachers. His home, also, had been filled with everything entertaining and instructive, and thus to her it had been rendered the dearest and happiest place in the world.
But the charm and center of attraction were gone, now that he had been laid away, and, though she believed that his death had left her independently rich, the knowledge gave her no pleasure—in fact, she scarcely gave the subject a thought, except when it was forced upon her.
A fortnight had elapsed since Mr. Dinsmore died, and everything had moved on as usual in his elegant home, while Mrs. Marston, the housekeeper, strove in every way to comfort Mona and to keep her mind occupied so that her thoughts would not long dwell upon her bereavement.
But the young girl's condition troubled her greatly. She was listless and languid; she lost her appetite, and had seasons of depression and outbursts of sorrow that were really alarming.
Susie Leades came to her almost every day and tried to cheer her. Mona appreciated her kind efforts, and was somewhat comforted by them, while she also had many letters of sympathy and condolence from her numerous friends.
But to her great surprise Ray Palmer had never once come to inquire for her; neither had he written her one word to tell her that he felt for her in this bitter trial.
She was both grieved and hurt over his apparent indifference, especially after the request he had made on the evening of their attendance at the opera, and the many unmistakable signs of regard which he had betrayed for her at that time.
She was brooding over this one afternoon when Mr. Graves, the lawyer and her future guardian, was announced.
He looked serious and troubled; indeed, he was so unlike himself that
Mona observed it, and asked him if he was ill.
"No, Miss Mona, I am not really ill, but I am laboring under trouble and anxiety enough to almost make me so," he responded, as he took her extended hand and gazed down upon her own colorless face with a sorrowful, wistful look.
"Trouble?" she repeated, with a quivering lip. "Oh, trouble is so much harder to bear than illness."
"My poor child, your remark only makes my burden all the heavier," the gentleman returned, in an unsteady voice. "Alas, my trouble is all on your account, for I am the bearer of ill news for you."
"Ill news—to me?" exclaimed the young girl, in a wondering tone. "After losing Uncle Walter, it does not seem as if any trouble could move me; nothing can compare with that," she concluded, passionately.
"Very true; but there are other troubles in life besides death," said Mr.
Graves, gently; "such as—the loss of fortune, poverty—"
"Do you mean that I am to have no fortune—that I am to be poor?" exclaimed Mona, astonished.
"Ah, I fear that it is so."
"How can that be possible? Uncle Walter was very rich, wasn't he? I certainly understood you to say so."
"Yes, I did; and I find, on looking into his affairs, that he was worth even more than I had previously supposed."
"Well, then, what can you mean? I am his only near relative, and you said that I should inherit everything," Mona said with a perplexed look.
"I know I did, and I thought so at that time; but, Mona, I was waited upon by a noted lawyer only a few days ago, and he claims the whole of your uncle's great wealth for another."
"Why, who can it possibly be?" cried the girl in amazement.
"Your uncle's wife, or, I should say, his widow."
"My uncle's wife?" repeated Mona, with a dazed look "Uncle Walter had no wife!"
"Are you sure?"
"Why, yes, of course. I have always lived with him, ever since I can remember, and there has been no one else in the family except the servants and the housekeeper. I am sure—I think—and yet—"
Mona abruptly paused as she remembered a remark which her uncle had made to her on her eighteenth birthday. He had said: "You have taken the place of the little girl who never lived to call me father, and—you have helped me to bear other troubles also."
Could it be possible, she now asked herself, that her uncle had had domestic troubles, that there had been a separation from his wife, and that this had been a life-long sorrow to him?
She had always supposed that his wife was dead, for he would never speak of her, nor allow Mona to ask him any questions. From her earliest childhood she had somehow seemed to know that she must not refer in any way to such a subject.
"Ah, I see that you are in some doubt about it," Mr. Graves observed. "The matter stands thus, however: A woman, claiming to be Mrs. Walter Dinsmore, has presented her claim to her husband's property. She proves herself, beyond the possibility of doubt, to be what she pretends, bringing her marriage certificate and other papers to substantiate her title. She asserts that about a year after her marriage with Mr. Dinsmore they had trouble—of what nature I do not know—and the feeling between them was so irreconcilable they agreed to part, Mr. Dinsmore allowing her a separate maintenance. They were living in San Francisco at the time. There was no divorce, but they never met afterward, Mr. Dinsmore coming East, while she remained in California. She says there was a child—"
"Yes," Mona interposed. "Uncle Walter told me of the birth of a little girl, but that she never lived to call him father."
"I wonder what he meant by that?" said Mr. Graves with a start; "that the child came into the world lifeless? If such was the case, then your claim to the estate is still good."
"I supposed from what he said that it was born lifeless; still his words were somewhat ambiguous—even if she had lived several months, she might not have lived long enough to call him father!"
"Well, the woman asserts that the infant lived for a few hours, and brings the records to prove it, and claims that she is Mr. Dinsmore's only legitimate heir, through her child," Mr. Graves explained.
"And is she?—is that true?" Mona asked.
"Yes, the court will recognize her claim—to all appearance, it is indisputable; and now I can understand what puzzled and troubled me when Mr. Dinsmore was so helplessly ill," Mr. Graves said, reflectively. "You doubtless remember how distressed he was when he tried to make me understand something in connection with his will."
"Yes," said Mona with streaming eyes. "Oh, poor Uncle Walter!"
"Doubtless he knew that his wife was still living," Mr. Graves resumed, "and that she would be likely to claim his property. He wanted you to have it—that I know—and he must have suffered untold anguish because he could not make me understand that he wanted to have me insert something in his will, which would provide against this woman's demands. Even if he had been able to sign the document which I drew up, she could have broken it, because she was not mentioned and remembered in it, and he knew this, of course."
"Then she will have all—I am not to have anything?" said Mona inquiringly, but without being able to realize, in the least, what such utter destitution meant.
"My poor child, she utterly refuses to release a dollar of your uncle's money to you. I have fought hard for you, Mona, for I could not bear to come to you with this wretched story; but she is inexorable. She seems, for some reason, to entertain a special spite—even hatred—against you, and asserts, through her counsel—I have not had the honor of meeting this peculiar specimen of womanhood—that you shall either work or beg for your bread; you shall have nothing of what legally belongs to her."
"Then I am absolutely penniless!" said Mona, musingly. "I wonder if I can make myself understand what that means! I have always had everything that I wanted. I never asked for anything that Uncle Walter did not give me if he could obtain it. I have had more money than I wanted to spend, and so I have given a great deal away. It will seem very strange to have an empty purse. I wonder where I shall get my clothes, when what I have are worn out. I wonder how I am to get what I shall need to eat—does it cost very much to feed one person? Why, Mr. Graves!" putting her hand to her head in a half-dazed way. "I cannot make it seem real—it is like some dreadful dream!"
"Mona, my dear child, do not talk like that," said the man, looking deeply distressed, "for, somehow, I feel guilty, as if I were, in a measure, responsible for this fresh calamity that has befallen you; and yet I could not help it. If I had only known that Mr. Dinsmore's wife was living, I could have made the will all right. Ah! no, no! what am I saying? Even if I had, he could not have signed it, for his strength failed. Still, I know that he wanted you to have all, and it is not right that this woman should get it from you."
"Must I go away from my home and from all these lovely things of which Uncle Walter was so fond?" Mona asked, looking about the beautiful room with inexpressible longing written on her young face. "Will she claim his books and pictures, and even this dear chair, in which I loved to see him sit, and which seems almost like a part of himself, now that he is gone?" and unable to bear the thought of parting from these familiar objects, around which clustered such precious associations, the stricken girl bowed her face upon the arm of Mr. Dinsmore's chair, and burst into a passion of tears.
"My dear girl, don't!" pleaded the tender-hearted lawyer, as he gently stroked her rich, brown hair with one hand, and wiped the tears from his own eyes with the other, "it almost breaks my heart to think of it, and I promise that you shall at least have some of the treasures which you prize so much. You shall not want for a home, either—you shall come to me. Mr. Dinsmore was my dear and valued friend, and for his sake, as well as your own, you shall never want for enough to supply your needs. I have not great wealth, but what I have I will share with you."
Mona now lifted her head, and wiped her tears, while she struggled bravely to regain her self-possession.
"You are very kind, Mr. Graves," she said, when she could speak, and with a newly acquired dignity, at which her companion marveled, "and I am very grateful to you for your sympathy and generosity; but I could never become an object of charity to any one. If it is so ordered, that I am to be bereft of the home and fortune which Uncle Walter wished me to have, I must submit to it, and there will doubtless be some way provided to enable me to live independently. It is all so new and so—so almost incomprehensible, that, for the moment, I was overcome. I will try not to be so weak and childish again; and now," pausing for a deep breath, "will you please explain to me just my position? When must I go, and—and can I take away the things that Uncle Walter has given to me from time to time? The pictures in my own rooms were given to me on certain birthdays and holidays; the piano he gave me new last Christmas, and I have a watch and some valuable jewelry."
"Of course, you may keep all such things," Mr. Graves answered with emotion, for it was inexpressively sad to have this girl so shorn of all that had made life beautiful to her so many years, "unless," he added, "it be the piano, and that you may have if there is any way to prove that it was given to you. You are to have a week in which to make your arrangements, and at the end of that time everything will pass into the possession of madame."
"Only a week longer in my dear home!" broke from the quivering lips of the stricken girl; "how can I bear it? Oh, Uncle Walter! how can I bear to have strangers handle with careless touch the things that you and I have loved so much? these dear books that we have read together—the pictures that we selected and never tired of studying to find new points for each other! Oh, every one is sacred to me!"
The strong man at her side was so moved by her grief that he was obliged to rise and walk to a window to conceal his own emotion.
But after a little she controlled herself again, and discussed everything with him in a grave, quiet, yet comprehensive way that made him sure she would in time rise above her troubles and perhaps become all the stronger in character for having been thus tried in the furnace of affliction.
He went every day after that to assist her in her arrangements for leaving; helped her to pack the treasures she was to take away with her, and to put in the nicest order everything she was to leave; for on this point she was very particular. She had secretly resolved that her uncle's discarded wife should have no fault to find with his home.
When the end of the week arrived Mr. Graves tried to persuade Mona to go home with him and remain until she could decide what she wished to do in the future, or, he told her, she was welcome to remain and make it her home indefinitely.
But she quietly thanked and informed him that she had already arranged to go as seamstress to a lady on West Forty-ninth street.
"You go as a seamstress?" exclaimed the lawyer, aghast. "What do you know about sewing—you who have always had everything of the kind done for you?"
"Oh, no; not everything," said Mona, smiling slightly. "I have always loved to sew since I was a little child, and my nurse made me do patchwork; and I assure you that I am quite an expert with my needle in many ways."
"But to go out and make it a business! I cannot bear the thought! What would your uncle say?" objected good Mr. Graves.
"I do not believe that Uncle Walter would wish me to be dependent upon any one, if it was possible for me to take care of myself," Mona gravely replied. "At all events," she continued, with a proud uplifting of her pretty brown head, "I could never allow another to provide for my needs without first trying my best to earn my own living—though, believe me, I am very grateful for your kindness."
"You are a brave and noble girl, Mona, and I admire your spirit; but—I have no daughter of my own, and, truly, both my wife and I would be glad to have you come to us," Mr. Graves urged, regarding her anxiously.
"Thank you; it is very comforting to know that you are so kindly disposed toward me, but I know that I shall respect myself more if I try to do something for my own support," was the firm yet gentle response.
Mr. Graves sighed, for he well knew that this delicately reared girl had a hard lot before her if she expected to earn her living as a sewing girl.
"At least you will regard me as your stanch friend," he said, "and promise me, Mona, that if you ever get into any difficulty you will appeal to me; that if you should find that you have undertaken more than your strength will allow you to carry out you will make my home your refuge."
"Yes, I will," she said, tears of gratitude starting to her lovely eyes, "and I am greatly comforted to know that I have one such true friend in my trouble."
"What is the name of the family into which you are going?" her companion inquired.
"I do not know, and it is a little singular that I do not," Mona replied, smiling. "I applied at an employment bureau for a situation a few days ago; yesterday I went to ascertain if there was a place for me and was told that a lady living on West Forty-ninth street wanted a seamstress, and I am to meet her at the office this afternoon. I, of course, asked the name, but the clerk could not tell me—she had lost the lady's card, and could only remember the street and number."
"Rather a careless way of doing business," the lawyer remarked, as he arose to go. "However," he added, "let me know how you succeed after you get settled, and if anything should occur to throw you out of your place, come straight to us, and make our home headquarters while you are looking out for another."
Mona's self-possession almost forsook her as she took leave of him. It seemed almost like losing her only friend, to let him go; but she bade him good-by with as brave a front as possible, though she broke down utterly the moment the door closed after him.
The remainder of the day was spent in packing her trunk and looking her last upon the familiar objects of the home that had always been so dear to her.
But her severest trial came when she had to bid the housekeeper and the servants farewell, for the loved and loving girl had been a great favorite with them all, and their grief was as deep and sincere at parting with her.
This over, she stepped across the threshold of Walter Dinsmore's elegant home for the last time, and entered the carriage that was to bear her away, her heart nearly bursting with grief, and tears streaming in torrents over her cheeks.