"Don't be too sure, madame; don't be too sure that you're going to down that clever little lady just yet," were the words which suddenly startled every one in the room, and the next instant the door swung wide open to admit a new actor in the drama.
A brisk, energetic little man entered the room, and going directly to
Mrs. Montague's side, he laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Madame, you are my prisoner," he added, in a more quiet but intensely satisfied tone.
"What do you mean, sir?" haughtily demanded the woman, as she shook herself free from his touch. "Who are you, and how came you here?"
"Well, we'll take one question at a time, if you please, madame," the new-comer returned. "First, what do I mean? Just what I say—you are my prisoner. I arrest you for obtaining money under false pretenses—for theft, for abduction. The proof of the first charge is right here in my hand. Look!"
He opened his palm and disclosed to the horrified woman's gaze and to the amazement of the other occupants of the room two beautiful crescents of blazing diamonds.
"Heavens! where did you get them? Oh, I know—I know!" shrieked the unhappy creature, cowering and shrinking from the sight as if blinded by it, and sinking upon the nearest chair.
"Yes, I reckon you do," grimly remarked Detective Rider, for it was he, "and this clears up the Bently affair of Chicago, for here, on the back of the settings, is the very mark which Mr. Arnold of that city put upon them more than three years ago. Well, so much for that charge. Now, if Mr. Palmer will just step this way, maybe he'll recognize some of his property, and we'll explain the second and third charges."
Ray looked astonished as he went forward, but he was even more so when Mr. Rider held up before him an elegant diamond cross, which he instantly identified as one of the ornaments which the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck had selected on that never-to-be-forgotten day when he was decoyed into Doctor Wesselhoff's establishment and left there a prisoner, while the woman made off with her booty.
"Where did you get it?" he exclaimed, while Mrs. Montague fell back among the cushions of her chair and covered her face with her trembling hands, utterly unnerved.
"That remains to be explained, together with some other things which are no less interesting and startling," the detective returned, with an air of triumph. "And now," raising his voice a trifle, "if a certain little lady will show herself, I imagine we can entertain you with another act in this strange comedy."
As he spoke the drawing-room door, which the man had left slightly ajar when he entered, was pushed open, and Mona made her appearance with her arms full of clothing.
She glided straight to the detective's side, and handed him something which, with a dextrous movement, he clapped upon Mrs. Montague's bowed head.
It was a wig of rich, dark-red hair, which fell in lovely rings about the woman's fair forehead and white neck.
She lifted her face with a cry of terror at Mr. Rider's act, and behold! the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck was before them!
Ray knew at once why Mrs. Montague had looked so strangely to him as she arose to greet him when he entered.
Her face had been artistically made up, with certain applications of pencil and paint, to give her the appearance of being considerably older than she was. But he wondered how she happened to be so made up that morning.
"That is not all," Mr. Rider resumed, as he took a costly tailor-made dress from Mona's arm and held it up before his speechless auditors. "Here is the robe which was so badly rent at the time that Mrs. Vanderbeck escorted Mr. Raymond Palmer to the great Doctor Wesselhoff for treatment, while the fragment that was torn from it will fit into the hole. And here," taking another garment from Mona, "is a widow's costume in which the fascinating Mrs. Bently figured in Chicago, when she so skillfully duped a certain Mr. Cutler, swindling him out of a handsome sum of money, and giving him paste ornaments in exchange. No one would ever imagine the elegant Mrs. Richmond Montague and the lovely widow to be one and the same person, for they were entirely different in figure as well as face, the former being very slight, while the latter was inclined to be decidedly portly, as was also Mrs. Vanderbeck.
"But, gentlemen, that is also easily explained, as you will see if you examine these costumes, for there must be five pounds, more or less, of cotton wadding used about each to pad it out to the required dimensions. Clever, very clever!" interposed Mr. Rider, bestowing a glance of admiration upon the bowed and shivering figure before him. "I think, during all my experience, I have never had so complicated and interesting a case. I do not wonder that you look dazed, gentlemen," he went on, with a satisfied glance at his wide-eyed and wondering listeners, "and I imagine I could have surprised you still more if I had had time to examine a certain trunk which stands open up stairs in the lady's chamber. I think I could find among its contents a gray wig and other garments belonging to a certain Mrs. Walton, so called, and perhaps a miner's suit that would fit Mr. Louis Hamblin, alias Jake Walton, who in St. Louis recently tried to dispose of costly diamonds which he had brought all the way from Australia, for his rustic sweetheart—eh? Ha, ha, ha!" and the jubilant man burst into a laugh of infinite amusement.
"Truly, Mr. Rider, your discoveries are somewhat remarkable; but will you allow me to examine that cross?" a new voice here remarked, and Mr. Amos Palmer arose from a mammoth chair at the other end of the drawing-room, where he had been an unseen witness of and listener to all that had occurred during the last half hour.
It was he who had rung the bell just as Mona was about to enter Mrs. Montague's boudoir in search of her scissors, and who, upon being told that the lady was out, had said he would wait for her. He had called to ask his fiancée to go with him to select the hangings for the private parlor which he was fitting up for her in his own house.
His face, at this moment, was as colorless as marble; his eyes gleamed with a relentless purpose, and his manner was frigid from the strong curb that he had put upon himself.
At the sound of his voice Mrs. Montague lifted a face upon which utter despair, mingled with abject terror, was written. She bent one brief, searching glance upon the man, and then shrank back again into the depths of her chair, shivering as with a chill.
CHAPTER XIX.
HOW IT HAPPENED.
Mr. Rider passed Mr. Palmer the diamond cross, which he took without a word, and carefully examined, turning it over and over and scrutinizing both the stones and the setting with the closest attention, though Ray could see that his hands were trembling with excitement, and knew that his heart was undergoing the severest torture.
"Yes," he said, after an oppressive silence, during which every eye, except Mrs. Montague's, was fixed upon him, "the cross is ours—my own private mark is on the back of the setting. And so," turning sternly to the wretched woman near him, "you were the thief; you were the unprincipled character who decoyed my son to that retreat for maniacs, and nearly made one of me! Then, oh! what treachery! what duplicity! When you feared that the net was closing about you and you would be brought to justice, you sought to make a double dupe of me by a marriage with me, imagining, I suppose, that I would suffer in silence, if the theft was ever discovered, rather than have my name tarnished by a public scandal. So you have sailed under many characters!" he went on, in a tone of biting scorn. "You are the Mrs. Bently, of Chicago! the Mrs. Bent, of Boston; Mrs. Vanderbeck and Mrs. Walton, of New York; and the woman in St. Louis, who gave bail for the rascally miner, who tried to dispose of the unset solitaires. Fortunately those have been proven to be mine and returned to me; but where are the rest of the stones? I will have them, every one," he concluded, in a tone so stern and menacing that the woman shivered afresh.
"They were all together—they were all yours except two; but the cross, we—we—"
Mrs. Montague proceeded thus far in a muffled, trembling tone, and then her voice utterly failed her.
"You did not dare to try to sell too many at one time, and so you reserved the cross for future use," Mr. Palmer supplemented. "Perhaps you even intended to wear it under my very eyes, among your wedding finery. I verily believe you are audacious enough to do so; but, madame, it will be safe to say that there will be no wedding now, at least between you and me."
The man turned abruptly, as he ceased speaking, and left the room, looking fully a dozen years older than when, an hour previous, he had come there, with hope in his heart, to plan with his bride-elect how they could make their future home most attractive for her reception.
Ray felt a profound pity for his father, in this mortifying trial and disappointment, and he longed to follow him and express his sympathy; but his judgment told him that it would be better to leave him alone for a time; that his wounded pride could ill-brook any reference to his blighted hopes just then.
It may as well be related just here how Detective Rider happened to appear so opportunely, and how Mona found the robes in which Mrs. Montague had so successfully masqueraded to carry out her various swindling operations.
It will be remembered that Mona, after she had gathered up the keepsakes belonging to her mother and returned them to the table, had found another box upon the floor of Mrs. Montague's boudoir.
When she had removed the rubber band that held the cover in its place, her astonished eyes fell upon a pair of exquisite diamond crescents for the ears, and a cross, which, from the description which Ray had given her, she knew must have been among the articles stolen from Mr. Palmer.
Instantly it flashed across her what this discovery meant.
She felt very sure that Mrs. Montague must have been concerned in the swindling of Mr. Cutler, more than three years previous, and also of Mrs. Vanderbeck in Boston, besides in the more recent so-called Palmer robbery.
Still, there were circumstances connected with these operations that puzzled her.
Mrs. Bently, the crafty widow of Chicago, had been described to her as a stout woman with red hair. Mrs. Vanderbeck had also been somewhat portly, likewise Mrs. Walton, whom she had seen in St. Louis, and these latter were somewhat advanced in years also.
Mrs. Montague, on the contrary, was slight and sylph-like in figure; a blonde of the purest type, with light golden hair, a lovely complexion, with hardly the sign of a wrinkle on her handsome face.
But she did not speculate long upon these matters, for, having made this discovery, she was more anxious than before to be released from her place of confinement. So she had gone into the adjoining room, and tried the door leading into the hall.
That, too, as we know, she had found locked, and then, as she turned to retrace her steps, she was stricken spellbound by something which she saw upon the bed.
It was nothing less than a widow's costume, comprising a dress, bonnet, and vail, together with a wig of short, curling red hair!
Yes, Mrs. Montague was the "widow!" or woman in black whom Detective Rider had observed and followed only a little while previous. When she found that the man was on her track she had slipped into the carriage and ordered the driver to take her with all possible speed to a certain store on Broadway. Arriving there, she had simply passed in at one door and out of one opposite leading upon a side street, where she hailed a car, and, thoroughly alarmed, went directly home instead of going to the room where she usually made these changes in her costume.
Upon reaching her own door, she quietly let herself in with her latch-key, and going directly to her chamber, tore off her widow's weeds, and wig, and threw them hastily upon the bed. She hurriedly donned another dress, and was about to remove the cleverly simulated signs of age from her face, when she heard the bell ring, and went into the hall to ascertain who had called. We know the rest, how she recognized the lawyer, and imagined he had come again to annoy her further upon the subject of Mona Forester's child; how, almost at the same moment, she discovered Mona's presence in the house, and instantly resolved to lock her up until she could decide what further to do with her. And thus, laboring under so much excitement, she entirely forgot about the wrinkles and crow's-feet upon her face, and which so changed its expression.
The moment Mona saw the costume upon the bed everything was made plain to her mind. Mrs. Bently, of the Chicago and Boston crescent swindle, was no other than Mrs. Montague in a most ingenious disguise.
Glancing about the room for further evidences of the woman's cunning, she espied a trunk standing open at the foot of the bed, as if some one had been hastily examining the contents and forgotten to shut it afterward.
She approached it, and on top of the tray there lay the very dress of gray ladies' cloth which she had seen hanging in the closet of a certain room in the Southern Hotel in St. Louis. Then she knew, beyond a doubt, that Mrs. Montague had also figured as Mrs. Walton, the mother of the miner, in that city.
But who was the miner?
Louis Hamblin, in all probability, although she had not dreamed of such a thing until that moment.
"It is very strange that I should not have recognized Mrs. Montague, in spite of the white hair and the spotted lace vail," she murmured, thoughtfully. But after reflecting and recalling the fact that even the woman's eyebrows had been whitened and the whole expression of the face changed by pencil lines, to simulate wrinkles and furrows, and then covered with a thickly spotted vail, she did not wonder so much.
She was amazed and appalled by these discoveries, and trembling with excitement, she resolved to learn more, if possible.
She lifted the lid of the hat-box, at one end of the tray, and there lay the very bonnet and vail that the woman had worn in St. Louis, and also the wig of white hair.
"What a wretched creature!" she exclaimed, in a horrified tone. Then wondering if Ray might not have come, while she had been there, she flew back to the window in the other room to look for him.
Yes, his carriage was standing before the door, and he would soon find means to release her, she thought.
But moment after moment went by, and no one came, while the continuous murmur of voices in the room below made her wonder what was going on there.
Presently, however, her attention was attracted to a man who was sauntering slowly along the opposite sidewalk, and she was sure she had seen him somewhere before, although, just at first, she could not place him.
"Why!" she exclaimed, after studying his face and figure a moment, "it is Mr. Rider. Can it be possible that he suspects anything of the mystery concealed in this house? At any rate, he is just the man that is needed here at this time."
She tapped lightly on the pane to attract his attention.
He stopped, glanced up, and instantly recognized Mona, nodding and lifting his hat to indicate that he did so.
She beckoned him to cross the street, and then cautiously raised the window. He was beneath it in a moment.
"Come in, Mr. Rider, and come directly up stairs to me," she said, in a low tone. "I have been locked in this room, and I have made an important discovery which you ought to know immediately."
He nodded again, his keen eyes full of fire, turned, ascended the steps, and pulled the bell.
Mary sighed heavily as she bent her weary steps, for the fifth time, up the basement stairs to answer his imperative summons.
"Is your mistress at home?" Mr. Rider inquired, in a quick, business-like tone.
"Yes, sir; but she is engaged with callers," the girl replied.
"So much the better," returned the detective; then, bending a stern look on her, he continued: "I am an officer; I have business in this house; you are to let me in and say nothing to any one. Do you understand?"
Mary grew pale at this, and fell back a step or two from the door, frightened at the term "officer."
Mr. Rider took instant advantage of the situation and stepped within the hall.
"Don't dare to mention that I am here until I give you leave," he commanded, authoritatively, and then ran nimbly and quietly up stairs.
It was the work of but a moment to find the room where Mona was confined, turn the key, and enter.
"What does this mean, Miss Richards?" he asked, regarding her curiously.
"How do you happen to be locked up like a naughty child?"
"I will explain that to you by and by; but first let me show you these."
She uncovered the box which contained the crescents and cross, and held the gleaming diamonds before his astonished eyes.
The man was so utterly confounded by the unexpected sight that for a moment he gazed at them with a look of wonder on his face.
"Zounds! where did you get them?" he cried, breathlessly.
Mona briefly explained regarding the accident to the table, which had resulted in her discovering the secret compartment with its treasures.
"Clever! clever!" the man muttered, as his eyes fastened upon the table and he comprehended the truth. "Well, well, young lady, you've done a fine stroke of business this day, and no mistake! These are the real articles, no paste or sham to fool me this time," he added, as he lifted the crescents from the box. "But—when—Mrs. Richmond Montague!—who'd have thought it?"
"This isn't all, Mr. Rider," Mona continued, in a whisper, for she feared
Mrs. Montague might catch the sound of their voices.
"What! more discoveries!" the man exclaimed, all alert again, as he shut the box and slipped it into his pocket.
"Yes, step this way, if you please," and leading him to the door of Mrs.
Montague's chamber, she pointed at the costume lying upon the bed.
The quick eyes took it all in at a glance, and his face lighted with a swift flash of triumph.
"The Bently affair—the Vanderbeck swindle—the Palmer robbery! Clever! clever!" he muttered, as he seized the costume, shook out its folds, discovered the thick layers of padding about the waist and hips, and eyed it with intense satisfaction. Then he revealed two rows of firm, white teeth in a broad smile, as he snatched up and twirled that dainty red wig upon his hand, examining it with a critical and admiring eye.
"And this, also," continued Mona, going to the trunk and lifting from it the tailor-made costume of gray ladies' cloth.
"Aha! ha!" chuckled Mr. Rider. "Really, Miss Richards, if you were only a man we might make a right smart detective of you. This is the very dress we have been wanting, and here is the rent. Have you still the fragment that you showed me in St. Louis?"
"Yes, it is here in my purse," Mona answered, drawing it from her pocket, and, taking the piece of cloth from it, she handed it to him.
"Here, too, is the gray wig worn by Mrs. Walton," she went on, as she lifted the lid of the hat-box and revealed its contents.
"Yes; true enough! and I'll wager that this trunk contains some other disguises which we should recognize," he responded. "But," he added, "we have enough for our purpose just now, and we will defer further examination until later. Now, Miss Richards, I am going down stairs to confront that woman with this stolen property. You follow me, but remain in the hall until I give you a signal, then come forward with these disguises. Have you any idea who is below calling on her ladyship?" he asked, in conclusion.
"No; but I am very sure that Mr. Raymond Palmer is somewhere in the house, for he was to call for me, and his carriage is at the door."
"I am glad to know that," the man cried, "and now I will make quick work of this business."
He turned and left the room with a quick step, and going directly below entered the drawing-room, just as Mrs. Montague was rudely taunting Ray about Mona.
The young girl gathered up the various articles of clothing and followed him, and we know what occurred after that.
CHAPTER XX.
MRS. MONTAGUE EXPLAINS.
It would be difficult to describe the abject distress of the wretched woman, whose career of duplicity and crime had been so unexpectedly revealed and cut short.
She was the picture of despair, as she sat crouching in the depths of her luxurious chair, her figure bowed and trembling, her face hidden in her hands.
There was a silence for a moment after Mr. Amos Palmer left the room; then Mr. Rider, who had been curiously studying his prisoner while the gentleman was speaking, remarked:
"It is the greatest mystery to me, madame, how, with the large fortune which you have had at your disposal, you could have wished to carry on such a dangerous business. What could have been your object? Surely not the need of money, nor yet the desire for jewels, since you have means enough to purchase all you might wish, and you tried to sell those you stole. One would almost suppose that it was a sort of monomania with you."
"No, it was not monomania," Mrs. Montague cried, as she started up with sudden anger and defiance; "it was absolute need."
"Really, now," Mr. Rider remarked, regarding her with a peculiar smile, "I should just like to know, as a matter of curiosity, how much it takes to relieve you from absolute need. I have supposed that you were one of the richest women in New York."
Mrs. Montague flushed a sudden crimson, and darted a quick, half-guilty look at Mr. Corbin. Then she turned again to the detective.
"Did you?—and so did others, I suppose!" she cried, with a short, scornful laugh. "Well, then, let me tell you that until I set my wits at work my income was only about twenty-five hundred dollars a year; and what was that paltry sum to a woman with my tastes?
"I do not care who knows now," she went on, with increasing excitement; "I have been humiliated to the lowest degree, and I shall glory in telling you how a woman has managed to outwit keen business men, sharp detectives, and clever police. In the first place, those crescents were presented to me at the time of my marriage. They are, as you have doubtless observed, wonderful jewels—as nearly flawless as it is possible to find diamonds. When I went to Chicago I was poor, for I had been extravagant that year and overdrawn my income. Money I must have—money I would have; and then it was that I attempted, for the first time, to carry out a scheme which I had planned while I was abroad the previous year. I had ordered a widow's outfit to be made, and padded in a way to entirely change my figure. I also purchased that red wig. While in Paris I learned the art of changing the expression of my face, by the skillful use of pencils and paint, and thus, dressed in my mourning costume with my eyebrows and lashes tinged to match my false hair, no one would ever have recognized me as Mrs. Montague.
"I had also provided myself, while in Paris, with several pairs of crescents, the exact counterparts, in everything save value, of the costly ones in my possession. I need not repeat the story of my success in getting money from Justin Cutler—you already know it; but I was so elated over the fact that I immediately went on to Boston, where I won even a larger sum from Mrs. Vanderheck."
"Yes; but how did you manage to change the jewels in that case, since you were with Mrs. Vanderheck from the time you left the expert until she paid you the money for them?" inquired Mr. Rider, who was deeply interested in this cunningly devised scheme.
"That was easily done," Mrs. Montague returned. "I had the case in my lap, and the duplicate crescents in my pocket. It required very little ingenuity on my part to so engage Mrs. Vanderheck's attention that I could abstract the real stones from the case and replace them with the others. Regarding the Palmer affair," she continued, with a glance of defiance at Ray, "it only required a few lines and touches to my face to apparently add several years to my age and change its expression; and, with my red hair and the change in my figure, my disguise was complete."
"And the name," interposed Ray, regarding her sternly; "you had a purpose in using that."
"Certainly, and the invalid husband also," she retorted, with a short, reckless laugh. "I had a purpose, too, in calling the elder Mr. Palmer's attention to the profusion of diamonds worn by Mrs. Vanderheck upon the evening of Mrs. Merrill's reception. You can understand why, perhaps," she added, sarcastically, and turning to the detective.
He merely nodded in reply, but muttered under his breath, with a kind of admiration for her daring:
"Clever—clever, from the word 'go.'"
"With a wig of white hair, a few additional wrinkles, and the sedate dress of a woman of sixty, I passed as Mrs. Walton, the mother of a lunatic son. It was not such a very difficult matter after all," she added, glancing vindictively at Ray: "the chief requirement was plenty of assurance, or cheek, as you men would express it. My only fear was that the diamonds would be missed before we were admitted to the doctor's house."
"When did you take that package from my pocket?" Ray demanded, with some curiosity. "Was it when I leaned forward to assist you about your dress?"
The woman's lips curled.
"And run the risk of being detected before leaving the carriage after all my trouble? No, indeed," she scornfully returned. "My coup de gracé was just after ringing Doctor Wesselhoff's bell, while we stood together on the steps; the package was not large, though valuable, and it was but the work of a moment to transfer it from your pocket to mine, while you stood there with your arms full."
Ray regarded her wonderingly. She must have been very dextrous, he thought, and yet he remembered now that she had turned suddenly and brushed rather rudely against him.
"And in St. Louis—" Mr. Rider began.
Mrs. Montague flushed, and a wary gleam came into her eye.
"Yes, of course," she interrupted, hastily; "I was also the Mrs. Walton, of St. Louis. It was very easy to hire an extra room under that name."
"And your agent was—who?" continued Mr. Rider.
"That does not matter," she retorted, sharply. "You have found me out. I have recklessly explained my own agency in these affairs, but you will not succeed in making me implicate any one else."
"Very well; we will question you no further upon that point now," said the detective; "but it does not take a very wise head to suspect who was your accomplice, and I imagine it will not take a great deal of hunting, either, to find him," and Mr. Rider resolved to make a bee line for the Fall River boat the moment he could get through with his business there. "And now, gentlemen," he resumed, turning to the lawyers and Ray, "I think we'll close this examination here, and I'll take my prisoner into camp."
A cry of horror burst from Mrs. Montague's blanched lips at this remark.
"You cannot mean it—you will not dare to take me to a vile jail," she exclaimed, in tones of mingled fear and anger.
"Jails were made for thieves, swindlers, and abductors," was the laconic response.
The woman sprang to her feet again, and shot a withering glance at him.
"I go to a common prison? never!" she said, fiercely, and with all the haughtiness of which she was capable.
"The fact of your having figured as a leader in high life, madame, does not exempt you from the penalty of the law, since you have already declared yourself guilty of the crimes I have named," coolly rejoined the detective.
"Oh, I cannot—I cannot," moaned the wretched woman, wringing her hands in abject distress. Then her glance fell upon Mona, who had quietly seated herself a little in the background, after the detective had relieved her of the clothing which she had brought into the room.
"You will not let them send me to prison—you will not let them bring me to trial and sentence me to such degradation," she moaned, imploringly.
Mr. Rider regarded her with amazement and supreme contempt at this servile appeal, for so it seemed to him.
"How can you expect that Miss Richards will succor you after your heartless and wicked treatment of her?" he demanded more sharply than he had yet spoken to her.
"Because, Mr. Rider," Mona gently interposed, "she bears a name she knows I am anxious to save from all taint or reproach; because she was the wife, and I the only child, of Walter Richmond Montague Dinsmore."
The detective gave vent to a long, low whistle of surprise.
"Zounds! can that be possible?" he cried, as he turned his wondering glance upon the lawyers.
"Yes," said Mr. Corbin, "it is the truth, and, of course, it is time that it should be revealed. I have known that Mrs. Richmond Montague and Mrs. Walter Dinsmore were one and the same person ever since the death of Mr. Dinsmore. The lady came to me immediately after that event and requested me to ascertain if he had made a will. I instituted inquiries and learned that he had tried to do so, but failed to sign it. She then revealed to me that she was the wife of Mr. Dinsmore, but that they had separated only a year after their marriage, although he had allowed her an annual income of twenty-five hundred dollars for separate maintenance. She produced her certificate and other proofs that she was his lawful wife, and authorized me to claim his fortune for her, but stipulated that she was not to appear personally in the matter, as she did not wish to be identified as Mrs. Dinsmore, after having appeared in New York society as Mrs. Montague. She absolutely refused to make her husband's niece—or supposed niece—any allowance, although I felt that it was cruel to deprive the young lady of everything when she had been reared in luxury and expected to be the sole heir, and I tried to persuade her to settle upon her the same amount that she herself had hitherto received from Mr. Dinsmore. All my arguments were without avail, however, and I was obliged to act as she required. You all know the result; Miss Mona was deprived of both fortune and home, and Mrs. Montague, as she still wished to be known, suddenly became, in truth, the rich woman she was supposed to be previously."
"Did you know of this?" Mr. Rider asked, turning to Mr. Graves.
"I knew that a woman claiming to be a Mrs. Dinsmore had secured the fortune which should have been settled upon this young lady; but I did not know that Mrs. Montague was that woman until Miss Dinsmore, as I suppose we must now call her"—with a smile at Mona—"returned from the South. Until then I also believed that she was only the niece of my friend. If I had ever suspected the truth you may be very sure that I should have fought hard to establish the fact."
"I suspected the fact when Miss Mona came to me, bringing her mother's picture, and told me her story," Mr. Corbin here remarked. "I was convinced of it after I had paid a visit to and made some inquiries of Mrs. Montague—"
"Ha!" that woman interposed as she turned angrily upon Mona, "then you did make use of that torn picture after all!"
"I took it to an artist, had it copied, then gave the pieces to Mary to be burned, as you had commanded," Mona quietly replied.
"Oh! how you have fooled me!" Mrs. Montague exclaimed, flushing hotly. "If I had only acted upon my first impressions, I should have sent you adrift at once—I should not have tolerated your presence a single hour; but you were so demure and innocent that you deceived me completely, and I never found you out until the morning after my high-tea. Then I understood your game, and resolved to so effectually clip your wings that you could never do me any mischief."
Mona started at this last revelation, and light began to break upon her mind.
"How did you find me out?" she inquired, in a low tone.
"I had a letter telling me that my seamstress, who called herself Ruth Richards, was no other than Mona Montague—the last person in all the world whom I would have wished to receive into my family—and that she was having secret meetings with Raymond Palmer."
"Who wrote that letter?" Mona demanded, with heightened color.
"I do not know—it was anonymous; but I was convinced at once that you were Mona Montague, from the fact that you were having secret interviews with Ray Palmer, for his father had told me of his interest in her. Of course I instantly came to the conclusion that you were plotting against me, and, though I did not believe that you could prove your identity, or your mother's legal marriage, I feared that something might occur to trouble me in the possession of my fortune; so I resolved to marry you to Louis and settle the matter for all time."
"Then that was why you started so suddenly for the South?" Mona said, with flashing eyes.
"That was not my only reason for going," returned Mrs. Montague, flushing. "I—I had a telegram calling me to St. Louis, and so thought the opportunity a fine one to carry out my scheme regarding you."
"And did you suppose, for one moment, that you could drive me into a marriage with a man for whom I had not the slightest affection or even respect?" Mona demanded, bending an indignant look upon the unprincipled schemer.
"I at least resolved that I would so compromise you that no one else would ever marry you," was the malicious retort, as the woman turned her vindictive glance from her to Ray.
"Nothing could really compromise me but voluntary wrong-doing," Mona answered, with quiet dignity, "and your vile scheme was but a miserable failure."
"I do not need to be twitted of the fact," Mrs. Montague impatiently returned. "My whole life has been a failure," she went on, her face almost convulsed with pain and passion. "Oh! if I had only destroyed that marriage certificate you would never have triumphed over me like this; you would never have learned the truth about yourself."
"Oh, yes, I should," Mona composedly returned, "and even my trip to New
Orleans resulted advantageously to me."
"How so?" questioned her enemy, with a start, and regarding her with a frown.
"An accident revealed to me, on the last night of our stay there, the whole truth about myself. Up to that time I was entirely ignorant of the fact that my supposed uncle was my father, for I knew nothing about the discovery of the certificate until my return from Havana."
"What do you mean?—what accident do you refer to?" Mrs. Montague asked.
"The day I was eighteen years old I asked my father some very close questions regarding my parentage, of which I had been kept very ignorant all my life. Some of them he answered, some of them he evaded, and, on the whole, my conversation with him was very unsatisfactory; for I really did not know much more about myself and my father and mother at its close than at its beginning.
"On the same day he gave me a small mirror that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette, and which, he said, had been handed down as an heirloom in my mother's family for several generations. This mirror he cautioned me never to part with; and so, when I went South with you, I packed it with my other things in my trunk. That last evening in New Orleans, while removing and repacking some clothing I dropped the book containing my mirror. When I picked it up I discovered that it contained a secret drawer in its frame. In the drawer there were some letters, a box containing two rings belonging to my mother and a full confession, written by my father upon the very day that he had presented me with the royal keepsake.
"So," Mona concluded, "you perceive that even had you destroyed the certificate proving their marriage, I should have other and sufficient proof that I was the child of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Dinsmore."
"Oh! if I had only forced the sale of all his property and gone back at once to California, I should have escaped all this and kept my fortune," groaned the unhappy woman, in deep distress.
"Really, Mrs. Dinsmore, you are showing anything but a right spirit—" Mr. Corbin began, in a tone of reproof, when she interrupted him with passionate vehemence.
"Never address me by that name," she cried. "Do you suppose I wish to be known as the widow of the man who repudiated me? Never! That was why I adopted the name of Montague, and I still wish to be known as such. Ah!—but if I have to go to—Oh, pray plead for me!" she cried, turning again to Mona; "do not let them send me to prison."
Just at that moment Mr. Palmer's wan face appeared again at the rear door of the drawing-room.
He beckoned to Ray, who immediately left the room, and Mona, who had grown very thoughtful after Mrs. Montague's last appeal, left her seat and approached the lawyers.
"Mr. Graves—Mr. Corbin," she said, in a low tone, which only they could hear, "cannot something be done to keep this matter from becoming public? I cannot bear the thought of having my dear father's name become the subject of any scandal in connection with this woman. It would wound me very sorely to have it known that Mrs. Richmond Montague, who has figured so conspicuously in New York society, was his discarded wife; that she robbed me of my fortune, and why; that she—the woman bearing his name—was the unprincipled schemer who defrauded Mr. Justin Cutler and Mrs. Vanderheck, and robbed Mr. Palmer of valuable diamonds. I could not endure," she went on, flushing crimson, "that my name should be brought before the public in connection with Louis Hamblin and that wretched voyage from New Orleans to Havana."
"But, my dear Miss Dinsmore—" began Mr. Corbin.
"Please let me continue," Mona interposed, smiling faintly, yet betraying considerable feeling. "I think I know what you wished to remark—that she has had the benefit of all this money which she has obtained under false pretenses, and that she ought to suffer the extreme penalty of the law for her misdeeds. She cannot fail to suffer all, and more than any one could desire, in the failure of her schemes, in the discovery of her wickedness, and in the loss of the fortune of which she felt so secure. But even if she were indifferent to all this I should still beg you to consider the bitter humiliation which a public trial would entail upon me, and the reproach upon my father's hitherto unsullied name. If—if I will cause Mr. Cutler and Mrs. Vanderheck to be reimbursed for the loss which they sustained through Mrs. Montague's dishonesty, cannot you arrange some way by which a committal and a trial can be avoided?"
"I am afraid it would be defeating all law and justice," Mr. Corbin began again, and just at that moment Ray returned to the room, looking very grave and thoughtful.
Mona's face lighted as she saw him.
"Ray, come here, please, and plead for me," she said, turning her earnest face toward him; and he saw at once that her heart was very much set upon her object, whatever it might be.
CHAPTER XXI.
MRS. MONTAGUE TELLS HER STORY.
"What is it, Mona?" Ray inquired, as he went to her side. "You may be very sure that I will second your wishes if they are wise and do not interfere in any way with your interests."
Mona briefly repeated what she had already proposed to the lawyers, and
Ray immediately responded that it was also his wish and his father's that
as far as they were concerned all public proceedings against Mrs.
Montague should be suspended.
"Come with me to another room where we can converse more freely," he added, "for I have a proposition to make to you in my father's name. Mr. Rider," raising his voice and addressing the detective, "will you allow Mrs. Montague to remain alone with Miss Dinsmore for a little while, as I wish to confer with you upon a matter of importance?"
The detective took a swift survey of the room before answering. It was evident that he had no intention of allowing his captive to escape him now after all his previous efforts to secure her.
"Yes," he replied, "I will go with you into the hall, if that will do."
He knew that in the hall he should be able to keep his eyes upon both doors of the drawing-room, and no one could pass in and out without his knowing it, while there was no other way of egress.
The four gentlemen accordingly withdrew, thus leaving Mona and Mrs.
Montague by themselves.
Mona seated herself by a window, and as far as possible from the woman, for she shrank with the greatest aversion from her, while she felt that her own presence must be oppressive and full of reproach to her.
But the woman's curiosity was for the moment greater than her anxiety or remorse, and after a brief silence, she abruptly inquired:
"How did that detective find that box of diamonds?"
"He did not find them. I accidentally discovered them," Mona replied.
"You? What were you prowling about in my room for?" crossly demanded Mrs.
Montague.
"I was simply looking for a pair of scissors which I had left there the day before we went South. But why did you lock me in the room, for I suppose it was you?"
"Because I was desperate," was the defiant response. "I had just learned how you had escaped from Louis, but I had not a thought of finding you here. When I saw you in my room, however, a great fear came over me that you would yet prove my ruin. I imagined that you had just arrived in New York, and had come here to take away your things, and were perhaps searching my room for proofs of your identity. So on the impulse of the moment I locked you in, intending to make my own terms with you before I let you go."
"Did you suppose, after my experience in New Orleans, that I would trust myself with you without letting some one know where I could be found?" Mona quietly asked.
"If I had stopped to think I might have known that you would not," the woman said, sullenly. "But how did you get out of that hotel in Havana?"
"Mr. Justin Cutler assisted me."
Mrs. Montague flushed hotly at the mention of that name.
"Yes, I know, but how?" she said.
Mona briefly explained the manner of her escape, then inquired, in a voice of grave reproach:
"How could you conspire against me in such a way? How could you aid your nephew in so foul a wrong?"
"I have already told you—to make our fortunes secure," was the cool retort.
Mona shuddered. It seemed such a heartless thing to do, to plan the ruin of a homeless, unprotected girl for the sake of money.
Mrs. Montague noticed it, and smiled bitterly.
"You surely did not suppose I bore you any love, did you?" she sneered. "I have told you how I hated your mother, and it is but natural that the feeling should manifest itself against her child, especially as you both had usurped the affections of my husband."
"Such a spirit is utterly beyond my comprehension," gravely said the girl, "when your only possible reason for such hatred of a beautiful girl was that my father loved and married her."
"Well, and wasn't that enough?" hotly exclaimed Mrs. Montague. "For years Walter Dinsmore's aunt had intended that he should marry me—that was the condition upon which he was to have her fortune—and I had been reared with that expectation. Therefore, it was no light grief when I learned by accident, three weeks after he sailed for Europe, that he had married a girl who had come to New York to earn her living as a milliner. They went abroad together and registered as Mr. and Mrs. Richmond Montague. I was wild, frantic, desperate, when I discovered it; but I kept the matter to myself. I did not wish Miss Dinsmore to learn the fact, for I had a plan in my mind which I hoped might yet serve to give me the position I so coveted. I persuaded Miss Dinsmore that it would be wise to let me follow Walter to Europe, and I promised her that if such a thing were possible, I would return as his wife. Six weeks after he sailed with his bride, I also left for Europe with some friends. I kept track of the unsuspicious couple for four months, but it was not until they settled in Paris for the winter that I had an opportunity to put any of my plans into action."
"If you please, Mrs. Montague, I would rather you would not tell me any more," Mona here interrupted, with a shiver of repulsion. "My father wrote out the whole story, and so I know all about it. You accomplished your purpose and wrecked the life of a pure and beautiful woman—a loved and loving wife; but truly I believe if my mother could speak to-day she would say that she would far rather have suffered the wrong and wretchedness to which she was subjected than to have exchanged places with you."
"Do you dare to twit me of my present extremity and misery?" cried Mrs.
Montague, angrily.
"Not at all; I was not thinking of these later wrongs of which you have been guilty," Mona gently returned, "but only of the ruin which you wrought in the lives of my father and mother. I cannot think that you were happy even after you had succeeded in your wretched plots."
"Happy!" repeated the woman, with great bitterness. "For two years I was the most miserable creature on earth. I will tell it, and you shall listen; you shall hear my side of the story," she went on, fiercely, as she noticed that Mona was restless under the recital. "As I said before, when they settled in Paris for the winter I began to develop my plans. I went to a skillful costumer, and provided myself with a complete disguise, then hired a room in the same house, although I took care to keep out of the sight of Walter Dinsmore and his wife. One day he went out of the city on a hunting excursion, and met with an accident—he fell and sprained his ankle, and lay in the forest for hours in great pain. He was finally found by some peasants who bore him to their cottage, and kindly cared for him. His first thought was, of course, for his wife, and he sent a messenger with a letter to her telling of his injury. I saw the man when he rode to the door. I instinctively knew there was ill news. I said I knew Mrs. Montague, and I would deliver the letter. I opened and read it, and saw that my opportunity had come. Walter Dinsmore, with many sickening protestations of love, wrote of his accident, and said it would be some time before he should be able to return to Paris, but he wished that she would take a comfortable carriage the next day, and come to him if she felt able to do so. Of course I never delivered the letter, but the next day I went to Mona Forester, and told her that her lover had deserted her; that she was no wife, for their marriage had been but a farce; that he had not even given her his real name; that he was already weary of her, and she would never see him again, for he was pledged to marry me as soon as he should return to America.
"At first she would not believe one word of it—she had the utmost confidence in the man she idolized; but as the days went by and he did not return she began to fear there was some foundation for my statements. Then a few cunning suggestions to the landlord and his wife poisoned their minds against her. They accused her of having been living in their house in an unlawful manner, and drove her out of it with anger and scorn.
"She left on the fifth day after Walter's accident, and I hired the butler of the house to go with her and make it appear as if she had eloped with him. He carried out my instructions so faithfully that their sudden flitting had every appearance of the flight of a pair of lovers. When Walter received no answer from his wife, and she did not go to him, as he requested, he became very anxious, and insisted upon returning to Paris, in spite of his injury. Immediately upon his arrival he was told that his lady had eloped with the butler of the house, and the angry landlord compelled him to quit the place also.
"I did not set eyes on him again for more than two years, when he returned at Miss Dinsmore's earnest request, for she had not long to live. He did not seem like the same man, and apparently had no interest in life. When Miss Dinsmore on her death-bed begged him to let her see the consummation of her one desire he listlessly consented, and we were married in her presence, and she died in less than a month. Then he confessed his former marriage to me, and told me that he had a child; that her home must be with us, and to escape all scandal and remark we would go to the far West. I was furious over this revelation, but I concealed the fact from him, for I loved him with all my soul, and I would have adopted a dozen children if by so doing I could have won his heart. I consented to have you in the family, provided that you should be reared as his niece, and never be told of your parentage. He replied, with exceeding bitterness, that he was not anxious that his child should grow up to hate her father for his lack of faith in her mother, and his deep injustice to her.
"We went to San Francisco to live, but I hated you even more bitterly than I had hated your mother, and every caress which I saw my husband lavish upon you was like a poisoned dagger in my heart. But he never knew it—he never knew that I had had anything to do with the tragedy of his life, until more than a year after our marriage.
"My own child—a little girl—was born about ten months after that event; but she did not live, and this only served to make me more bitter against you; for, although my husband professed to feel great sorrow that she could not have lived to be a comfort to us and a companion to you, I knew that he would never have loved her with the peculiar tenderness which he always manifested toward you.
"When your mother fled from him and Paris she left everything that he had lavished upon her save what clothing she needed and money to defray necessary expenses during the next few months; and so after my marriage I found pocketed away among some old clothing belonging to my husband the keepsakes that he had given to her and also their marriage certificate. I took possession of them, for I resolved that if you should outlive your father you should never have anything to prove that you were his child; if I could not have my husband's heart I would at least have his money.
"One day a little over a year after our marriage, on my return from a drive, I was told that a man was waiting in the library to see me. Without a suspicion of coming evil, I went at once to ascertain his errand, and was horrified to find there the butler—the man whom I had hired to act as your mother's escort to London. He had been hunting for me for three years to extort more money from me, and had finally traced me from New York to San Francisco.
"He demanded another large sum from me. It was in vain that I told him I had paid him generously for the service he had rendered me. He insisted that I must come to his terms or he would reveal everything to my husband. Of course I yielded to that threat, and paid him the sum he demanded, but I might have saved the money, for Walter Dinsmore, who had that morning started for Oakland for the day, but changed his mind and returned while I was out, was sitting in a small alcove leading out of the library, and had heard the whole conversation.
"Of course there was a terrible scene, and he obliged me to confess everything, although he had heard enough to enable him to comprehend the whole, and then he sternly repudiated me; but, scorning the scandal which would attend proceedings for a divorce, he gave me a meager stipend for separate maintenance, and told me he never wished to look upon my face again. He settled his business, sold his property, and returned to New York with you and your nurse, leaving me to my fate. He forbade me to live under the name of Dinsmore, but I would not resume my maiden name, and so adopted that of Mrs. Richmond Montague. But I still treasured that certificate and my own also, for I meant, if I should outlive him, to claim his fortune, and also kept myself pretty well posted regarding his movements.
"Shortly after our separation my only sister died, and her son, Louis, was thus left destitute, and an orphan. I believed that I could make him useful to me, so I adopted him. We have roved a great deal, for we have had to eke out my limited income by the use of our wits. My best game, though, was with the crescents which Miss Dinsmore gave me as a wedding present, and which I had duplicated several times. Early last fall we came to New York, for in spite of all the past I still loved Walter Dinsmore, and longed to be near him.
"I felt as if the fates had favored me when I heard that he had died without making his will, and I knew from the fact that you were known only as his niece, Miss Mona Montague, that you must still be in ignorance of your real relationship toward him. So it was comparatively easy for me to establish my claim to his property. I did not appear personally in the matter, for I was leading quite a brilliant career here as Mrs. Richmond Montague, and I did not wish to figure as the discarded wife of Walter Dinsmore, so no one save Mr. Corbin even suspected my identity. If Walter Dinsmore had never written that miserable confession, or if I had at once turned all his property into money and gone abroad, or to California, I need never have been brought to this. As matters stand now, however, I suppose you will claim everything," she concluded, with a sullen frown.
Mona thought that if the law had its course with her she would need but very little of the ill-gotten wealth upon which she had been flourishing so extravagantly of late. But she simply replied, in a cold, resolute tone:
"I certainly feel that I am entitled to the property which my father wished me to have."
"Indeed! then you have changed your mind since the night when you so indignantly affirmed to Louis that you did not wish to profit by so much as a dollar from the man who had so wronged your mother," sneered her companion, bitterly.
"Certainly," calmly returned Mona, "now that I know the truth. My father did my mother no willful wrong, although in his morbid grief and sensitiveness he imputed such wrong to himself, and never ceased to reproach himself for it. You alone," Mona continued, with stern denunciation, "are guilty of the ruin of their happiness and lives; you alone will have to answer for it. You have been a very wicked woman, Mrs. Montague, not only in connection with your schemes regarding them, but in your corruption of the morals of your nephew. I should suppose your conscience would never cease to reproach you for having reared him to such a life of crime. You will have to answer for that also."
Mrs. Montague shivered visibly at these words, thus betraying that she was not altogether indifferent to her accountability.
But she quickly threw off the feeling, or the outward appearance of it, and tossing her head defiantly, she remarked:
"I do not know who has made you my mentor, Miss Dinsmore; but there is one thing more that I wish you to explain to me—how came that detective to be in my house?"
"He was passing in the street, and I asked him to come in," Mona replied.
"Indeed! and where, pray, did you make the acquaintance of the high-toned
Mr. Rider?" sarcastically inquired Mrs. Montague.
"In St. Louis."
"In St. Louis!" the woman repeated, astonished.
"Yes. You doubtless remember the day that I rode with you and your nephew in the street-car, when you were both disguised."
"Yes, but did you know us at that time?"
"No, I only recognized the dress you had on."
"Ah! What a fool I was ever to wear it the second time," sighed the wretched woman, regretfully.
"I knew it was very like in both color and texture the piece of goods that Mr. Palmer had once shown me. I was almost sure when I saw that it had been mended that it was the same dress that Mrs. Vanderbeck had worn when she stole the Palmer diamonds, and immediately telegraphed to have the fragment sent to me."
"And Ray Palmer had it and had kept it all that time!" interposed Mrs.
Montague, with a frown. "I hunted everywhere for it."
"He sent it to me by the next mail, and I began my hunt for the dress, although at that time I did not suspect that it belonged to you," Mona continued. Then she explained how, while assisting the chambermaid about her work, she had found the garment hanging in a wardrobe, and proved by fitting the fragment to the rent that her suspicions were correct.
"You will also remember," she added, "how you chided me a little later for going out without consulting you. I had been out to seek a detective to tell him what I had discovered."
"Ha! that was how you made Mr. Rider's acquaintance?" interrupted Mrs.
Montague, with a start.
"Yes. He told me he was in St. Louis on business connected with that very case. He was very much elated after hearing my story, but when he went to make his arrest he found that Mrs. Walton and her so-called son had both disappeared. I was, of course, very much disappointed, but I never dreamed—"
"That I and my hopeful nephew were the accomplished sharpers," supplemented Mrs. Montague, with a bitter laugh. "Well, Mona Dinsmore, you have been very keen. I will give you credit for that—you have beaten me; I confess that you have utterly defeated me, and your mother is amply avenged through you. No doubt, you are very triumphant over my downfall," she concluded, acrimoniously.
"Indeed, I am not," Mona returned, with a sigh. "I do not think I could triumph in the downfall of any one, and though I am filled with horror over what you have told me, I am very sorry for you."
"Sorry for me!" repeated the woman, with skeptical contempt.
"Yes, I am truly sorry for you, and for any one who has fallen so low, for I am sure you must have seasons of suffering and remorse that are very hard to bear, while as for avenging my mother, I never had such a thought; I do not believe she would wish me to entertain any such spirit. I intend to assert my rights, as my father's daughter, but not with any desire for revenge."
Mona's remarks were here suddenly cut short by the return of the four gentlemen, and Mrs. Montague eagerly and searchingly scanned their faces as they gravely resumed their seats.