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Title: Shadowed by a detective
or, The woman in wax
Author: René de Pont-Jest
Translator: Virginia Champlin
Release date: June 3, 2026 [eBook #78812]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1899
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78812
Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHADOWED BY A DETECTIVE ***
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_To the Reader_
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SHADOWED BY A
DETECTIVE
OR
THE WOMAN IN WAX
BY
VIRGINIA CHAMPLIN
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
238 WILLIAM STREET
Copyright, 1885,
By J. S. OGILVIE & CO.
Copyright, 1899,
By STREET & SMITH
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. The Kidnapping 5
II. What Became of the Heroine 12
III. Robertson Brothers & Co. 26
IV. Honorable Willie Saunders becomes Thoroughly Mad 43
V. Shakespeare’s Tavern 53
VI. The Morgue at Bellevue Hospital 62
VII. Saunders almost loses his Mind, while Captain Young loses
his time 74
VIII. Taking a Cast of the Dead 84
IX. What the Honorable Coroner Davis thought, and what
Robertson, Jr., was convinced of 92
X. A Mohick tells of a visit big Kelly receives which he
little expected, and how William Dow transforms
a visitor into a prisoner 100
XI. A Criminal Court in the State of New York 115
XII. How the worthy Mr. Midler exhorted his penitents to die
like Christians 127
XIII. In which James Gobson escapes the Gallows, and the
Honorable Coroner Davis’ remorse 137
XIV. In which Willie Saunders passes from despair to amazement,
and from amazement to anger 149
XV. William Dow’s Remorse 161
XVI. William Dow’s Revenge--seeking the unknown 169
XVII. A Souvenir of Love 184
XVIII. Two Villas at Jamaica Plain 196
XIX. What happened on leaving Barker’s 204
XX. A wife’s love and a maid’s love 217
XXI. The murderer of a Dead Woman 226
XXII. Kitty Bell’s Story 238
XXIII. Wharf 32 247
Shadowed by a Detective;
OR,
THE WOMAN IN WAX.
CHAPTER I.
THE KIDNAPPING.
One evening, in the winter of 1865, a grand ball was given at No. 17
East Twenty-third Street. It was at the house of Miss Ada Ricard, the
new star in the great American city, but a star whose brilliancy the
profane knew only by reflection, for her life was enveloped in mystery,
and she was never seen in any public place.
All that was known of her past was that she had been married to a
wealthy merchant in Buffalo, James Gobson, a brutal individual, whose
matrimonial yoke she had succeeded in throwing off, but who had left
her certain ineffaceable souvenirs of his affection.
Gobson, in fact, who adored his wife, and was very jealous of her, had
one day so abused her that after the violent scene she was left with
one ear torn and one tooth the less. It is true she concealed the cut
on her pretty ear behind a huge diamond, but she had always refused to
replace the pearl lacking in the jewel casket of her rosy lips.
“By this,” she said, “I shall never be likely to forget what a husband
costs, and if any mad ambition or foolish love is about to make me
forget it, it will be sufficient to smile at myself in the glass to
recall the past.”
Thus armed against her own weakness, she boldly launched herself into
a life of flirtations. Being worth from ten to twelve thousand dollars
through her husband, she made her _debut_ by expending them even to the
cents in order to establish herself in luxurious surroundings, knowing
that men, in their pride, attach as much value to the splendor of the
temple as to the charms of the idol.
Having done this, and having her beauty as her only capital, she was
careful not to waste it on the first comer; she waited patiently,
seldom showing herself abroad, absolutely refusing all homage until a
certain Thomas Cornhill, the proprietor of inexhaustible oil wells,
seemed worthy of her heart.
Unfortunately, three months after, Thomas Cornhill suddenly died, and
Miss Ada, though bereft, was left with one hundred thousand dollars in
ready money, and an equal sum in jewels.
Ada mourned him for a few weeks; then, having an essentially practical
mind, she changed her retinue of servants before the advent of Willie
Saunders, an immensely rich cracker-merchant, who soon succeeded poor
Cornhill.
When Willie Saunders found his homage accepted, he was greatly
flattered. He was a stout man of about fifty, sensitive, simple and
vain. He truly adored Ada, and believed himself tenderly beloved by
her. Therefore, ready to listen to all her caprices, he made only a few
remarks for form’s sake when she told him about the masquerade ball
she wished to give, but he was very jealous. He knew Ada was sought by
many adorers, among whom was a certain Edward Forster, a colonel in the
Union Army, and one of the most fascinating gentlemen in New York high
life.
However convinced the worthy cracker-merchant might be of Ada’s love,
he naturally supposed that her adorers, Forster first of all, would
profit by this evening to pay her more attention than agreeable to
himself, and it troubled him. But the pretty, wicked little creature
managed so artfully that Saunders did not long resist.
Besides, she was a wonderful creature, and the upstart-millionaire had
high stakes to play for. A blonde, with large, steel-blue eyes and a
tall, admirable figure, with the feet and hands of a child; with a
laughing mouth, bold-faced, and fearing nothing, Ada Ricard had every
attraction to lure the man of the world. The memory of her former
husband sometimes disturbed the young woman in her new life. Having
retained the recollection of his brutal love and jealousy, she also
remembered with terror that he swore to avenge himself for her leaving
him. But, since arranging the money settlements, she had not heard of
him, and even his friends in Buffalo did not know what had become of
him. One fine morning he made a fortune, and went West. He was last
heard from at San Francisco, where Saunders told her he was living a
fast life, evidently trying to drown recollection.
Ada’s mind was now at rest, and never had she been so gay as at the
masked ball. Many women in good society had ventured to attend in order
to get a near view of the mysterious and powerful beauty.
Toward eleven o’clock the parlors of the ex-Mrs. Gobson presented a
truly picturesque appearance. Every period, every class of society,
and every legend were represented, from the companions of Christopher
Columbus to the trappers of the far West, and from Mephistopheles to
the Venetian harlequin. Among the women there was a dazzling display
of precious stones and dominos of every color. Ada Ricard herself wore
the splendid costume of an Indian woman of the time of the Spanish
conquest. In her ears she had diamonds worth ten thousand dollars,
around her throat a triple necklace of pearls of at least equal value,
and on her arms and wrists very heavy bracelets of massive gold.
All the men who knew her only by sight, and the women who had heard so
much of her, literally devoured her with admiring eyes. Saunders, who
was to give five or six thousand dollars toward this ball, did not take
his eyes off of her.
Looking very grotesque in the dress of a Highlander, he tried every
moment to draw near her, but Ada reminded him by a word, look or
gesture that she wished to devote herself wholly to her guests, and he
docilely moved away, uttering a sigh which was charitably answered by
bursts of laughter by those of his friends who were acquainted with his
weakness.
The ball, which had been rather quiet for two or three hours, had
become very lively, even noisy.
Soon the buffets were pillaged, the champagne flowed in streams; a few
masks fell off, and Miss Ada Ricard, readily refraining from reminding
her guests of what was good form--for all this noise could only do the
greatest honor to her reputation--thought only of getting away as far
as possible from the hubbub.
She had just taken the arm of one of her adorers instead of that
which the unfortunate Saunders had offered, and was proceeding toward
a little boudoir where some quiet people had taken refuge, when a
formidable hurrah caused every head to turn toward the door.
It was the entrance of three Sioux Indians that had excited the
enthusiasm of the company.
They indeed deserved this reception, for they were really superb in
their horribly truthful costumes, in which nothing was lacking, neither
the head-dress of feathers, the tomahawk, nor scalping-knife, nor even
in the belt, half a dozen scalps, sinister trophies of late raids.
Ada Ricard turned and added her applause to that of the company; then,
like them, she tried to recognize those who had chosen this curious
disguise; but she did not succeed.
No doubt, not caring particularly to tattoo their faces, the three
mysterious personages wore masks which wholly concealed their features,
and to every question they answered only with guttural cries and
exclamations which completely changed their voices. After opening a
passage through the crowd, they reached the mistress of the house, and,
drawing her away from the friend who was accompanying her, they began
to perform around her in a circle a fantastic dance which gradually
brought her to the main hall.
Supposing, like every one else, that the Sioux Indians were three
admirers, Ada gayly watched their contortions and dance, and was the
first to burst into laughter, when the tallest of the three masks
seized her in his arms and, lifting her as if a child, bore her to the
threshold of the door.
Standing before her captor, his two companions chanted a war-song and
swung their tomahawks as if to protect his flight.
One would have thought him a great chief carrying away his squaw
according to the customs of the Indians of the plains.
This joke was so thoroughly American that the crowd accepted it with
ringing bravos.
Suddenly the warrior who bore the young woman faced about and, leaping
with one bound, sprang out upon the steps of the house, whose doors
were wide open, and then into a splendid landau which was standing
before the door.
The two Indians who had followed him had quickly climbed the box,
and the carriage, the coachman no doubt having received his orders,
immediately set off at a double-quick gallop.
This kidnapping had been so quickly performed, that no one would have
had time to prevent it if they had attempted it.
Of Ada Ricard’s guests, moreover, not one had thought seriously of it
excepting the unhappy Saunders, whose jealousy, always on the watch,
made him think the conduct of the three masks very queer.
He attempted to approach Ada Ricard, but his friends restrained him in
spite of his grotesque supplications; and, when she disappeared in the
arms of the Indian, he hastened to the balcony of the house, where the
enthusiasm reached delirium on the departure of the carriage.
A tremendous hurrah covered the silvery laugh of Miss Ada when she
found herself being enveloped in the fur pelisse which one of the Sioux
had flung over her shoulders, and the unfortunate cracker-merchant, who
was dragged away from the balcony, had immediately become the pivot of
a comical dance in the middle of the drawing-room.
What no one heard, was the cry of amazement or fright uttered by Miss
Ada Ricard the moment the carriage rattled along the pavement of East
Twenty-Third Street.
CHAPTER II.
WHAT BECAME OF THE HEROINE.
When the friends of Mr. Saunders, exhausted by their war-whoops and
dancing, deigned to grant a little respite to their victim by opening
the circle which they had pitilessly formed around him, the big man,
half-crazed and breathless, sank upon a lounge, listening absently to
those who were trying to console him. He not only suffered through his
love, but his vanity was equally wounded, for he did not doubt that
his misfortune would be known all over New York the next day, and that
he would become an object of public ridicule. It seemed to him that
Ada must have connived with her kidnappers, being too blind to suppose
that violence had been done her. But who were those men with whom
the unfaithful woman had consented to be an accomplice in the scene
that covered him with ridicule? For whose benefit had this kidnapping
been made? For one of her adorers, no doubt, but which one? He was so
completely absorbed in his meditations and despair that he did not
perceive that the guests were disappearing one by one, and only the
voice of Ada’s maid brought him to himself.
He raised his eyes, the parlors were deserted, and he was left alone in
the room from which the woman he loved had so strangely disappeared.
On recognizing Ada’s maid, he felt the satisfaction of a man whose
anger, long restrained, can at last vent itself on some one.
“Ah! you at least can explain to me what all this means,” he cried,
springing up and seizing the maid by the arm.
“I!” answered Mary, somewhat alarmed, and trying to disengage herself
from Saunders’ grasp. “I! how should I know any more than you?”
“Did you not recognize those masks?”
“I saw them only while they were carrying off madam.”
“Did not Ada receive any letters during the day?”
“None whatever.”
“Nor a call?”
“You know very well that she receives only you.”
“Then you have no cause for suspicion?”
“None.”
“It is incredible. Your mistress and you are two cheats.”
Saying this, the merchant gave Mary a push, and, having arisen as
quickly as his corpulence would permit, strode up and down the parlor.
At the very grotesque contrast between the disturbed face of the stout
man and his Highland costume, whose short frock displayed his large
bare legs, the maid could no longer restrain herself and burst into
laughter, crying:
“Heavens, sir! how droll you look. If madam could see you what fun she
would have.”
Made furious by this remark, which turned the dagger round and round in
his wound as if with delight, Saunders approached the insolent girl to
strike her; but he probably felt that he would gain nothing by threats
and violence, for he suddenly softened and said:
“Come, my little Mary, be good now. Haven’t I always been kind to you?
If you will tell me where madam has gone I will give you one hundred
dollars.”
“If you were to give me one thousand dollars,” answered the maid
saucily, “I could not give you exact information, for I know nothing
myself; but give me the one hundred dollars all the same and I will
tell you something that will comfort you.”
The love-sick merchant quickly drew out of the little leather bag that
danced upon his stomach, from his Scotch wallet, the sum demanded,
and handed it to Mary, who took it, slipped it into her corsage, and
continued:
“Do you know, sir, that I have an idea that this affair was done on a
wager. You know how many are in love with madam, but she loves you too
much to deceive you, and has always refused the most splendid offers.
Three of her admirers, therefore, wished to avenge themselves upon her
and you, and so have carried her off. It won’t accomplish much, for you
know madam isn’t a woman to be made to do what she does not wish. They,
no doubt, have taken her into some house in the neighborhood, from
which she will find a way to escape if they try to retain her by force.
Before noon she will be back here.”
“Yes, you are right,” said Saunders, somewhat consoled; “that is how
it will be; but I swear to you that they shall pay for this joke.
Suppose I go and notify the police?”
“Are you crazy? Madam will be back before a detective can find a trace
of her. I should not be astonished if Forster was at the bottom of it.”
“Colonel Edward?”
“That’s the man. He is dead in love with madam, although she never
would receive him.”
“I will go to his house at once.”
“That would be absurd, for it certainly is not to his own house that he
has taken Miss Ada.”
“What shall I do then?”
“Go to bed and rest, but change your dress first. You don’t intend, I
suppose, to walk around in that costume all day,” and Mary, to prevent
herself from laughing again, bit her lips until they bled.
“Of course not,” he answered, glancing into the mirror which gave him
back his burlesque image; “but you must send me word as soon as Ada
returns.”
“I promise you.”
“Then send for a carriage.”
Mary hastened to send one of the servants to the nearest carriage
stand, and a few moments later, after giving a thousand commands to
the young girl, the poor lover carefully wrapped in his cloak, and
heaving the loudest of sighs, sank back out of sight in a corner of the
carriage.
“Fool!” muttered Mary for farewell, as Saunders disappeared from sight;
“if you see your lady-love to-day I shall be greatly surprised.”
And without taking notice of what was passing below-stairs, where the
festivity that had been interrupted in the parlor was being noisily
continued, the servant re-entered Ada Ricard’s apartments and shut
herself in.
During the scenes we have just described, the landau that bore away the
young woman, on leaving Twenty-third Street turned to the left, and
proceeded along First Avenue toward the eastern part of the city.
The deepest silence had not ceased to prevail inside of the carriage,
and it had been rolling on half an hour when the coachman suddenly
stopped his horses.
The neighborhood was dark and silent.
The two Indians, who had mounted the box, sprang down upon the
sidewalk, exchanged a few words with the mask, by the side of which
still sat Miss Ada, and then, darting toward a neighboring narrow
street, vanished in the darkness.
The landau resumed its course, and soon reached the first houses of
Yorkville, a locality of bad repute, where in miserable shanties was
huddled a large population, mostly composed of Irish.
It was the retreat of innumerable pickpockets, malefactors and
rag-pickers of the great American city, and is attached to one side of
it like an incurable leper. Honest people hardly dare venture, even in
daylight, through this horrible locality, which extends to the banks of
the East River, almost opposite Blackwell’s Island, where the prisons
and hospitals are.
Having reached the entrance of Yorkville the carriage stopped a second
time, the man who was inside alighted, bearing in his arms the young
woman whom, with an oath, on account of the bad weather, he informed
that they had at last arrived. He gave an order to the coachman, and
the latter, turning his horses, drove back at a gallop. As for the
unknown man, still laden with his precious burden, he walked rapidly to
a lane a few steps distant.
The place was evidently familiar to him, for without hesitating a
moment, although it was very dark, he reached a small house, the door
of which was opened at his first touch, and which he quickly closed
behind him.
In less than a quarter of an hour the same person reappeared in the
street, wearing a large hooded cloak, which concealed his previous
disguise, but he no longer carried his lady companion. She was walking
at his side, choosing as well as she could in the darkness the cleanest
places on the sidewalk, and drawing her furs closely around her, for
the night was chilly. They walked thus in the direction of the East
River without exchanging a word. Soon they reached the banks, which
were deserted, there being nothing to be seen but the lights of the
steamboats which ploughed its waters night and day.
The unknown descended to the edge of the water to a little boat which,
no doubt, he expected to find there, jumped in first, then offered his
hand to the young lady, who embarked without hesitation, and seated
herself in the stern, while her companion took possession of the
oars. Ten minutes later, by skilful rowing, the boat drifted along
Blackwell’s Island, then, bearing to the left, moved to the opposite
bank. In order to row at his ease, the amateur sailor had thrown off
his cloak. The persons in this boat made a fantastic sight, being
composed only of an Indian and a woman in the costume of the time of
the Incas, and who at this hour of the night were crossing this arm of
the sea, on which the current and darkness rendered navigation doubly
dangerous.
The lady was evidently anxious, for she tried to peer through the fog
that surrounded her. Unable to do so, she finally asked her companion:
“Have we long to wait?”
“Less than half an hour,” he answered, with a vigorous stroke at the
oar, and pushing away from a steamer that was going to New York, at
full speed, and belching forth smoke and cinders.
“What was your idea in coming this way?”
“There is no other; the colonel appointed the opposite shore, at
Greenpoint.”
“Then he was quite certain that you would succeed?”
“So it seemed. Confess, however, regardless of the pride of the author,
that it was a skilfully managed kidnapping.”
“Indeed, it was; but Saunders will be seeking us to-morrow, and,
although you paid the coachman well, he will pay him more generously
still, and the man will not hesitate to tell where he stopped his
carriage.”
“That is the least of my anxieties, for when the fat imbecile discovers
the house we came out of, he will find no one in it. Do you think I am
going back there to wait for him?”
“Where is Colonel Forster to take me?”
“Ah! that is his affair and yours. He promised me a thousand dollars if
I would carry off Ada Ricard, with whom he is madly in love.”
“Without having seen her?”
“So it seems. I have carried off Ada Ricard. I shall get my thousand
dollars, and the rest does not concern me.”
“I cannot, however, remain in this costume.”
“Oh! the colonel is a perfect gentleman; he will have a complete
wardrobe for you, I am certain. Look! there are the lights at
Williamsburg. In ten strokes of the oar we shall arrive.”
In fact, ahead of the boat the lighted buildings of that important
suburb of New York were plainly seen. The boatman bent over his oars,
and in five minutes they touched the shore at Greenpoint. Before
disembarking the mysterious man gave a shrill whistle, which was
immediately answered by one like it.
“Come,” he said to the young woman, and jumping out on the bank he
helped her to reach the ground. Then, taking her by the hand, he led
her to the road, where shone the light from the lanterns of a carriage.
“Is it you?” asked a man keeping guard.
“It is I, colonel,” answered the Indian; “all has passed off well; Miss
Ada has not been very dreadfully shocked.”
“Oh! madam,” said Colonel Forster eagerly, for it was he who came to
meet her, “will you forgive me for this violence?”
“I cannot tell you at present, sir,” answered the young woman,
“for just now I detest you. You must confess that it was a brutal
proceeding, a veritable kidnapping from the midst of my guests, who,
the simpletons, thought it only a carnival joke. At first I was greatly
frightened, and now I am frozen.”
“Let us go at once to my coupe; later I will make my excuses and will
repair all my wrongs.”
“What! your coupe. Where are we going?”
“On board of my yacht, which is waiting for us at Brooklyn; afterwards
wherever you wish.”
“Excepting to my house?”
“Excepting to your house,” repeated the American officer, gallantly.
While exchanging these words all three had reached the carriage, the
horses of which were stamping impatiently.
The colonel helped the pretty New Yorker to enter, and after seating
himself by her side, said to the pseudo-Indian, holding out a
portmonnaie:
“Here is what I promised you; remember, not a word. You know that if I
have Saunders or the police at my heels, I shall be after you; whereas,
if you are discreet I shall have the same sum at your disposal again.”
“Count on me, colonel,” said the stranger; “it is for my interest to be
silent.”
Then, as he closed the door, he added: “Tell me, Miss Ada, have you
not some commission to give me for Twenty-third Street? Your people,
perhaps, are anxious.”
“No, it is useless,” answered the strange woman; “I shall write to my
maid to-day to ask for what I need. I have confidence in her. Besides,
I hope the colonel will not keep me a prisoner long.”
The officer protested against this supposition, looking affectionately
at his companion.
“Then, all right; a pleasant journey to you,” said the Indian, finally,
closing the door of the coupe, and the coachman immediately started the
horses.
Quickly regaining the river, the Indian sprang into his boat, which he
pushed off, and returned in the same direction by which he had come a
few moments before.
Meanwhile Edward Forster’s carriage was crossing Williamsburg and
moving toward Brooklyn, which it reached in less than twenty-five
minutes. The colonel employed the time on the road in making a thousand
protestations of love, which his companion hardly answered. When the
coupe finally stopped at the Brooklyn wharf, he was ten steps off from
a large yacht which was evidently waiting for passengers, for it was
under steam.
“We have arrived, Miss Ada,” said Forster; “come.”
He had sprung to the ground and offered his arm to help her cross the
planking between the yacht and the wharf.
“Have you the right pressure?” he asked the officer who had appeared at
the coupe to receive him on board.
“Yes, colonel,” was the answer.
“Then set sail at once, and go by the way of Staten Island.”
Having given his orders, Forster gently led his victim to the stairs
opening to the interior of the boat. A few moments later he escorted
her to a spacious, delightfully-furnished cabin, and said to her as he
knelt before her:
“Miss Ada, you are even more beautiful than I dreamed; tell me that you
forgive me.”
Ada had seated herself on a lounge, and her fur cloak had fallen from
her shoulders. The colonel gazed at her in admiration. He was a very
handsome young man, and one could easily understand the jealousy with
which he had inspired the stout Saunders. Hardly thirty-five years old,
a blonde with a slender figure, both elegant and robust, he was a true
representative of the Anglo-Saxon race. Besides he had a great fortune
and was one of the most distinguished officers in the Union Army.
It was this, probably, which influenced her, for after a moment’s
silence she decided to answer him with a smile.
“I think, colonel, it is time to come to an explanation. You have
carried me off. That is a very military proceeding; now what are you
going to do with me?”
“Make you the happiness of my life,” interrupted Forster. “You know
that I adore you.”
“That is a matter of course; but how came you to conceive such a wild
plan? It cannot be simply because I refused to receive you.”
“You had not been in New York a fortnight before I loved you, and
Cornhill did all that he could to rouse everyone’s curiosity and to
increase my love for you. He belonged to my club, and not a day passed
that he did not talk to us about your wit and beauty. From that moment
dates my first efforts to meet you; but, you remember, I hardly had an
opportunity after two or three attempts to catch a glimpse of you and
speak to you a few seconds. When Cornhill died I was absent from New
York. I went to Louisiana on a commission, which I cursed on my return
when I knew that Saunders was devoting himself to you, and to seek a
quarrel with him, when he did not belong to my set in society, would
have made me ridiculous.”
“You were afraid of a scandal.”
“True, not knowing what to do, for I felt that every day I was loving
you more; I should certainly have committed some folly, for you did not
answer my letters, and your door was pitilessly closed to me, when one
morning a man whom I did not know came to propose that I should carry
you off and bring you on board my yacht. I confess that I did not for
an instant trouble myself as to how the man had learned of my love
for you; I saw only the end to be attained. He spoke to me with such
assurance that I accepted his offer: we agreed upon the condition. I
promised him a certain sum if he should succeed, and the same if he
would keep silent. He has succeeded; that is why we are this moment
descending the East River, and why I am at your feet asking your
forgiveness and begging you to forgive me.”
“We will talk about it at another time.”
“I have obtained a three months’ leave from the Secretary of War, and I
have told my family that I should be absent on a trip to the South.”
“The plan is perfectly arranged; it lacks only my consent.”
“It is late to refuse me that.”
“Do you think so?”
“I hope so.”
“What of poor Saunders?”
“Oh! I beg you, don’t mention his name.”
“You know that he will kill you when he learns what has happened.”
“That would not be a misfortune unless he killed me before you make me
happy by loving me.”
Ada could not resist this chivalrous sally of the colonel. She answered
by holding out her two little hands, which he pressed warmly in his own.
“Well, I am conquered. We will shake hands; no one could have done
more brusquely or more gallantly. But I cannot remain in this carnival
dress.”
“I foresaw that,” answered the colonel, rising; “you will find there,”
pointing to a cabin, the door of which was partly open, “all that you
need. If anything is wanting we can send one of my men to New York for
it tomorrow.”
“Really, you are charming,” answered the young woman, with a smile. “I
will join you in a moment.”
“While waiting for you, I shall order supper. You must be dying of
hunger.”
“Truly, I am. You forget nothing,” saying which she disappeared in the
adjoining cabin.
In less than a quarter of an hour she returned, attired in a lovely
robe of blue silk. They seated themselves at a table, delicately
served, and Colonel Forster, as a prelude to the repast, gave an ardent
toast to the beauty of his passenger.
The yacht was steaming out into the main roads, and all this time the
unhappy Saunders, who had settled down in his own home and divested
himself of his Highland costume, was in the depths of despair,
wondering what could have become of his beloved Miss Ada Ricard.
CHAPTER III.
ROBERTSON BROTHERS & CO.
Notwithstanding his chagrin, the Hon. Saunders finally succumbed to
fatigue and fell asleep. When he awoke--toward one o’clock in the
afternoon--and his valet told him that no caller or letter had come, he
sprang from his bed, dressed in haste, and, without allowing himself
more for breakfast than about a dozen sandwiches, washed down by half a
dozen cups of tea, he jumped into a cab, ordering the driver to stop at
No. 17 East Twenty-third Street. Ten minutes later he arrived.
“Is there any news?” he asked the servant who opened the door.
“Nothing, sir,” answered the man, who would have been greatly
embarrassed to have been obliged to deliver a longer sentence, for he
was still half intoxicated on account of the festivity of the evening
before. Saunders quickly ascended the first flight, and found Mary in
Ada’s apartment. She was quietly arranging dresses and linen.
“Well,” he asked, sinking into an arm-chair, “so madam has not
returned?”
“No,” replied the maid; “but I have heard from her.”
“And you did not tell me at once.”
The stout merchant made a movement as if to rise.
Mary stopped him with a gesture, saying--
“Oh, sir! it is because the news will not afford you much pleasure.”
“What--what is the matter? Nothing has happened to madam? But tell me;
you make my blood boil.”
“Not more than a quarter of an hour ago I received a letter from Miss
Ada. Here it is.”
Saunders tore from the maid’s hands the letter she held out to him,
and, after reading it, uttered an angry cry. The letter contained five
lines only, but they were enough to drive the loving Yankee mad.
“My good Mary,” she said, “put the house in order, dismiss the
servants, giving each a fortnight’s extra pay, and wait for me
patiently. I shall be absent a month, at least; perhaps two or three. I
rely upon you--Ada Ricard.”
“What does all this mean?” he cried, at last, when he had recovered his
speech.
“I know no more than you, sir,” answered the maid. “You see I am
fulfilling madam’s orders.”
“And not a word for me,” groaned the unhappy man, crushing in his hand
the cruel letter. “Ah! the cheat shall pay for it. Who brought the
note?”
“An unknown messenger, who must belong to another neighborhood.”
“Didn’t you ask where he came from?”
“He spoke to the cook and immediately left. His errand was no doubt
paid for in advance.”
Saunders buried his face in his big hands and murmured--
“O, yes, I will avenge myself, but how?”
Mary, shrugging her shoulders, had resumed her work.
An excellent idea evidently was suddenly working in the troubled mind
of the cracker-merchant, for, rising abruptly, and without addressing
a word to the unfeeling servant, he left the room and house of his
faithless Ada.
“To the central office of the police,” he ordered as he climbed into
his carriage. The chief of the metropolitan police was at that time
a Mr. Kelly, who was always spoken of as “Fat Kelly,” a very large,
churlish man, often rough but quite intelligent, and possessing besides
all the scepticism indispensable to his important duties. Saunders sent
in his card, but Fat Kelly, before receiving him, rang for one of his
secretaries in order to obtain some information about his visitor. Five
minutes later this clerk handed his chief a note as follows:
Willie Saunders, wealthy cracker-merchant, vain, of ordinary
intelligence, very much smitten with a woman, Ada Ricard, on whom he
has already lavished $100,000 or more. Willie Saunders is worth at
least a million and a half.
“Very well, show him in,” ordered the chief of police, after becoming
acquainted with this not very flattering document, of whose existence
Saunders was certainly ignorant.
Summoned by an office boy, the unfortunate merchant plunged like an
avalanche into Mr. Kelly’s private office.
The latter gentleman could not conceal the pleasant, spontaneous smile
which wreathed his lips at the sight of a man almost as stout as he;
but, his nature gaining the ascendancy, he hastened to say in a curt
tone to the grotesque individual:
“What do you wish? Be quick, I have a load of business on hand.”
Without being greatly disconcerted--for he was so completely absorbed
in his own anxieties that he heeded nothing--Saunders answered:
“I have come, sir, to request your most powerful protection; I am the
victim.”
“Of a theft? Where, how? Of what sum? Is the guilty man, or him you
suppose guilty, one of your employes?”
“No sir; I----”
“So much the better, for theft by anyone in your pay is an aggravating
case.”
“But, sir, it is not a case of theft.”
“Ah! What is it then?”
“Kidnapping, sir; real kidnapping.”
“They have carried off your wife, your daughter?”
“I am not married.”
“Who, then? Your mother, or your sister, or your cousin, or your aunt?
Devil take it, do be precise. I can’t guess and enumerate all your
family.”
“They have carried off my Ada.”
“Your Ada, who has had your hundred thousand dollars, and who, of
course, deceives you.”
“Sir, are you acquainted?”
“And who has carried off this interesting person? One of her lovers?
What do you wish me to do? There has been no violence.”
“Oh, yes; on the contrary.”
“No; it is improbable, inadmissable; consequently I can have nothing
to do with your affair. I wish you a very good day. Go and make your
claims for Miss Ada elsewhere. What have I to do with such matters?
You are wealthy; this lady will return to you some day, be sure of it.
And you will receive her, and she will make you believe anything she
wishes, and you will ask her pardon. You are all great fools, one as
much as the other.”
And Fat Kelly, drawing a bundle of papers toward him, began to turn
them over in furious haste, without paying further attention to his
visitor.
Saunders, in spite of his moderate intelligence, as the descriptive
document stated, understood that he would obtain nothing from the chief
of the police, and without bowing, which did not disturb the latter at
all, but deeply humiliated, and grumbling aloud with a freedom wholly
American, he left the office of the intractable police officer. But
when he reached the threshold of the administrative office where he
thought to find assistance and protection, he questioned himself as to
what he should do, and perhaps he was about to decide to go to Colonel
Forster’s house, when an individual accosted him and said politely:
“You seem greatly annoyed, sir.”
“What is that to you?” was the gruff answer.
“Why,” replied the unknown, without being ruffled by this cool
reception, “because if you did not obtain the information you desire
from the central office, I might be able to give it to you.”
“You?”
“Or at least the important house of Robertson Brothers & Co., of which
I have the honor to be one of the head clerks.”
“The house of Robertson & Co.?”
“Yes, sir, the most honorable, most discreet, and the safest agency----”
Saunders, the stout, tapped his forehead; he understood.
The man who was addressing him was simply one of those ferrets by whom
the informing agencies scour the city. The most skilful of all its
rivals, the house of Robertson Bros. & Co., always had one of its men
standing around in the neighborhood of Mr. Kelly’s offices, in order to
recruit on the way some client for whom the official police had refused
to become the instrument. It must have been Heaven that sent Saunders
this aid.
“Where is your office?” he asked the agent.
“In Nineteenth Street, No. 22,” answered the clerk.
“Close to her,” murmured Saunders, with a sigh.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, come into my cab, give the address to the coachman, and take
me to the house.”
The man obeyed, and in a quarter of an hour the carriage stopped before
a very honest-looking house, whose mahogany door bore on a large copper
plate: “Robertson Bros. & Co., solicitors.”
Messrs. Robertson Bros. & Co. make a great deal of money, but they have
a better reputation than their professional brethren. They even pass
for honest people and that explains itself, for all New York knew the
causes of the creation of their agency, which, at the time when the
events took place herein described, had been established but three or
four years.
It was well known that Mr. Robertson, Sr., had founded his
establishment merely through political spite and hatred toward Mr.
Kelly, the chief of the metropolitan police.
A candidate for election at the same time as Kelly, Edward Robertson
had been beaten by his rival, after a fierce contention and a truly
American exchange of invectives. Robertson reproached Kelly with being
an ignorant, drunken brute; Kelly accused his competitor of being
ambitious, a slaveholder, and libertine.
The Yankee electors no doubt preferred the faults of Kelly to those of
Robertson, since they nominated Kelly; but when Robertson learned that
his enemy was called to the important functions of the chief of police,
he judged that the moment had come to avenge himself. Then he organized
his agency of secret police, in order to test his skill against that of
the official police of his former adversary.
He relied upon occasions, not lacking, to show the superiority of
his mind over that of his victor in the elections, and he hoped that
his victories would enable him some day to take his revenge in a new
political struggle. Several times already, in cases where Fat Kelly had
failed, notwithstanding the aid of all his policemen and detectives,
Messrs. Robertson had succeeded; and it can be easily judged whether
Robertson, senior, was proud of his victories, and had made them tell
for the reputation of his house.
Saunders, who was well acquainted with this police rivalry and these
strange customs, crossed the threshold of the house of Robertson
Brothers & Co., without the least repugnance.
After leading him to a small, severely furnished room on the ground
floor, his guide introduced him into the private office of one of the
chiefs of the agency.
The love-sick manufacturer of crackers found himself in the presence
of a man hardly thirty years old, freshly shaven, with hair curled
(pomaded), foppishly dressed, and having no indication on his
physiognomy of the interloping police officer.
As he partly reclined in a spacious leather arm chair before a large
desk loaded with documents, with his white hand and smiling lips, one
would have taken him for a young member of Congress.
“Mr. Robertson?” asked Saunders.
“Robertson, Jr.,” answered the second head of the house, slightly
bowing, and signing to his visitor to be seated. “To whom have I the
honor of speaking?”
“Willie Saunders, sir.”
“Mr. Willie Saunders, the proprietor of the great manufacturies in
Brooklyn, the noted Mr. Saunders?”
“The very one, sir.”
Greatly flattered at being so well known, the poor man took an
arm-chair and tried to settle his mind.
After a few moments of meditation, he said: “This is what brings me
here, sir. A young woman in whom I am deeply interested, Miss Ada
Ricard, was carried off yesterday during a ball that she was giving at
her house, No. 17 East Twenty-third Street.”
“Carried off!” interrupted Robertson, Jr.
“Yes, sir, carried off!” And Saunders related in detail the event of
which he had been a witness; then, with many groans, he told what the
maid had said about her mistress, and his useless application at the
central office of the metropolitan police.
“You think, then,” said the young man, who had listened without
interrupting, “that Colonel Forster is the kidnapper?”
“I think so,” answered the jealous man, with flashing eyes.
“You would like to make certain of it?”
“Yes, and to know what has become of Miss Ada. Is that possible?”
“Everything is possible; it is only a question of price.”
“Set your own.”
“It is necessary first that I should have a likeness of the lady.”
“I always carry one.”
Poor Saunders drew forth a photograph and presented it to Robertson.
“She is very pretty,” said the latter, gallantly.
“Alas, yes,” sighed the stout man.
“Let me ask you a few questions? Are you married? Have you
children--daughters in particular?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You will understand. If you have children--daughters especially--we
shall have to act with the greatest caution in order to avoid scandal,
in the interest of decency, which needs no explanation. Then our
expenses would be larger, and consequently our commission higher.”
“Very well. No; I am a single man.”
“That is perfect. One thing more. How much money have you spent in your
devotion to this bewitching Miss Ada?”
“How much must I----”
“Of course, you will see why. You are very rich and generous. If
you have spent but little for Miss Ada, it is because you love her
moderately; consequently, you have only a moderate desire to find her.
If, on the contrary, you open your purse wide, it is because you are
deeply in love with her; therefore, you have a proportionate desire to
see her again. Now, our search and movements being regulated by your
sentiments, it is indispensable that we should be exactly informed.”
The worthy Robertson, Jr., expressed himself so coldly and calmly but
also with such precision, and moreover with such logic as regarded his
estimable business, that Saunders could but give an approving wave of
the hand, saying in answer:
“You are right. Well, Miss Ada has had a big pile of money from me, and
because I love her still, and because I wish to avenge myself on her
and her kidnappers, I subscribe in advance to your conditions.”
“If it is Colonel Forster who carried off this young woman he is a
formidable adversary,” he observed.
“Then what will it cost?”
“Then, my dear sir, it will cost five hundred dollars, in advance; then
you will give us five hundred dollars more on the day when I shall have
the pleasure of informing you what became of Miss Ada Ricard, and where
you must go to find her.”
For answer, Willie Saunders majestically handed a check to Mr.
Robertson, Jr., saying--
“As for the other five hundred dollars, when you give me the
information you promise you can have a check.”
“That will be in a few days, I hope. But try nothing on your part; you
might, without meaning it, counteract some of my plans.”
“I will be careful, sir. Ah, don’t mislay that photograph, I beg, as it
is the only one I possess. I have destroyed all the others.”
“I will return it, with my note.”
“I did not wish Miss Ada to have a single one to give away.”
“That was prudent.”
“It has served me well.”
“Ah, do not too quickly accuse that charming woman; she may have been
the victim of some violence.”
“But her letter, sir, her letter to her maid.”
“Who can assert that she was not forced to write? Be calm and patient;
remain quietly at home, and have confidence in the house of Robertson
Brothers & Co.; it has solved mysteries more difficult than yours. From
to-day your interests are ours.”
Touched by these kind words, the unfortunate cracker-merchant deigned
to extend a hand to Mr. Robertson, Jr., and returned home more
cheerful. The days, however, seemed endless to him, and, although
he did not find in Mary a very faithful echo of his grief, he could
not help going three or four times in every twenty-four hours to No.
17 East Twenty-third Street. But at each call the maid invariably
answered: “Since madam has written that she will be absent a month at
least, do as I do--wait.”
Saunders went along Twenty-third Street holding on to the railings of
the houses, for his step had become feeble.
The adventure was noised abroad; thanks to the servants who had been
dismissed, people knew the slightest details, and Miss Ada’s unhappy
lover was the laughing-stock of every one. They watched his coming and
going, but he was so completely absorbed in his sad thoughts that he
perceived nothing of it.
When he was at home, the business instinct roused him a little from his
preoccupation, but his mind quickly reverted to its one thought, and he
changed so from hour to hour that he became pitiable to behold. Those
of his friends who at first had most mercilessly joked him now pitied
him.
Matters remained thus four days, and Saunders becoming very anxious at
Messrs. Robertson Brothers’ long silence was about to call upon them,
when one morning he received a large envelope, proudly bearing the seal
of this honorable house. He hastened to open it. It contained Miss
Ada’s picture, a letter of a few lines and a very long note, headed
“Confidential.”
SIR--The enclosed document proves to you that we have succeeded
according to your wishes. We have spared neither skill nor any
possible step, and we have the honor of reminding you that upon
presenting the said document you have to pay us a sum of five
hundred dollars. Our clerk, the bearer of this paper, will give you
a receipt. We have not forgotten that we are ready to follow your
orders in this affair.
Yours, respectfully, etc., etc.
Willie Saunders, deeply impressed, quickly turned to read the note of
Messrs. Robertson Brothers & Co., solicitors, which was drawn up in the
following style:
Miss Ada Ricard, carried off from her house on the night of Tuesday
last, left in a carriage hired by an unknown man the night before
from Mr. Thompson, No. 4 Sixth Avenue, for the sum of twenty-five
dollars for twenty-four hours. The stranger said that this carriage
would have to take him to several masked balls, that he did not wish
any footmen, for his own would accompany him, and that he would come
for the carriage himself when he needed it. They had it ready for
him, and he arrived at half-past one in the morning, with two men
in large dominos and masks. He wore a heavy cloak, but, although he
also was masked, it was easy to recognize by his headgear that he
was costumed as an Indian. The coachman was named Tom Katters. By
the order of the unknown man he drove to East Twenty-third Street,
where he remained in the file of carriages standing before No. 17.
One of the dominos alighted and disappeared for about half an hour.
At the end of this time he returned and exchanged a few words in a
foreign language with the other two masks, who got out of the landau.
They had removed their dominos and were all three disguised as Sioux
Indians. Before leaving, one of the three men, who seemed to command
the others, gave his instructions to Tom Katters. The latter was
to stand directly before the door of the house and when the three
travelers returned to start his horses off at a gallop. They gave
him five dollars extra to induce him to be exact in obeying orders,
and promised him as much more if he would prove himself intelligent.
In less than twenty minutes after their departure the three masks
returned. The largest bore in his arms a woman, who was laughing; he
got into the landau with her; the other two Indians mounted the box
with Katters, who, according to their order, drove at full speed up
Twenty-third Street as far as First Avenue. A little beyond Hell Gate
the two men sprang down to the sidewalk, and after telling Katters to
pursue his course to the entrance of Yorkville, they disappeared.
Katters obeyed, and did not stop until he had reached the place
indicated. There the only remaining traveler in his turn alighted. He
bore the young woman in his arms, because the ground was damp with
the rain, and he was reassuring her, no doubt, for Katters heard him
say: “It has rained cats and dogs, but we have arrived.”
“Miserable cheat,” murmured Saunders, whose anger increased at each one
of these details; “she had an understanding with her kidnappers. Oh! I
shall avenge myself.” And, washing down this vow with a large glass of
sherry, he resumed his reading.
The report continued in these terms:
Before leaving, the unknown man gave the promised five dollars to
the coachman, and the latter, without disturbing himself as to
what was to become of his generous client, turned his horses round
and returned to the city. It seems certain that the man and woman
immediately went to the East River to embark in a boat waiting for
them, for James Davis, the mate of the steamer Liberia, remembered
having seen, while he was on watch Tuesday or Wednesday night, at
three o’clock, below Blackwell’s Island, a yawl, rowed by an Indian,
and in the stern of which sat a woman. This yawl passed so close to
the Liberia that it came near being capsized, and the frightened
passenger uttered a cry of fear. Our information permits us to add
that Colonel Forster, Monday, had his yacht, the Gleam, conveyed to
the Brooklyn wharf, which he visited Tuesday, and this same yacht
was provisioned for a trip of a certain number of weeks. Wednesday,
in the day-time, the Gleam passed before Castle Garden, and a young,
elegant woman was plainly seen on board. Then it took the route for
Staten Island, and there it came to anchor on account of some injury
to one of its cylinders. Captain Reynolds, who commands the Gleam,
having sent ashore for workmen, one of my agents quietly slipped in
among them, and easily recognized Miss Ada, owing to the photograph
he had in his hands. The same agent learned that as soon as the Gleam
was repaired it put out to sea for some unknown destination. It would
be impossible to say how long this voyage or excursion will last, for
Colonel Forster, who has not left shipboard, has a leave of absence
for three months.
If Mr. Willie Saunders desires, the house of Robertson Brothers & Co.
can hire a steamboat, and one of the most intelligent agents can set
out in pursuit of the fugitives. Mr. Robertson, Jr., will wait for
the instructions of Mr. Willie Saunders. The hiring of this steamer
will cost one hundred dollars a day. Mr. Willie Saunders must deposit
one thousand dollars in advance, which shall be paid to Messrs.
Robertson Brothers & Co., whatever the result and duration of the
expedition.
“Well, that is an idea,” murmured the stout man, whom anger and the
desire for vengeance made ready for anything; “Robertson Brothers & Co.
are men of skill. Yes, even if it costs me double and treble what they
ask, I will confound the wretch. Ah! that brutal Kelly imagines that I
will forgive him. Well, we will see.”
And in a state of fierce excitement, Saunders took his hat and rushed
to the door of his office.
“Pardon, sir,” said an individual, stopping him on the way, and who
had been there a long time and whom he had quite forgotten, “pardon,
you have five hundred dollars to remit by me.”
“Ah! that is true,” answered the cracker-merchant, recognizing the
clerk of the agency. “Present that at the bank.”
He had scrawled an order in one of the pages of his note-book, and
handed it to the man.
Then he jumped into the first cab which he saw and was driven to the
police intelligence office, where Robertson, Junior, received him, as
on his first visit.
“Sir,” said Saunders to him, “your idea of pursuing Miss Ada’s
kidnapper seems to me excellent. I approve of it, but be prompt.
According to the information you have sent me, Colonel Forster’s yacht
may still be at anchor off Staten Island, and if I could reach there
before her departure----”
“What! you wish to go yourself,” observed the elegant Robertson.
“Yes, myself. I wish to provoke that insolent officer, and avenge
myself afterwards on the woman who has made sport of me.”
“You know our conditions?”
“Here are the thousand dollars in advance.”
“That is perfect,” said the agent, slipping the check into his safe;
“be at Battery wharf in two hours; we will set out together. I am
really interested in this affair, and would like to accompany you
myself.”
Saunders was profuse in thanks, and returned home to make his
preparations.
CHAPTER IV.
HONORABLE WILLIE SAUNDERS BECOMES THOROUGHLY MAD.
Two hours later, when the cracker-merchant reached the place of
rendezvous, convulsively pressing the enormous six-shot revolver in his
pocket, he espied Mr. Robertson, Jr.
“You see,” said the latter, “that with the house of Robertson Brothers
& Co., you have only to express the wish.”
“And a check,” Willie Saunders might have answered.
But silently he proceeded to the little steamer which was under steam,
alongside the wharf. It was a screw propeller, small at the bow, and of
elegant shape, which could easily make her twelve miles an hour.
“The Firefly was just manned and free,” resumed the agent, joining Miss
Ada’s poor lover. “Her owner was exacting, but I did not hesitate.”
“Let us embark, then; let us embark,” said Saunders, who acted like a
madman.
“Let us go on board,” repeated Mr. Robertson, Jr., and, pointing out
the way to his victim, he quietly crossed the planking, the boards of
which groaned under the infinitely great weight of the heavy Yankee.
The Firefly was immediately unmoored. Two moments later, it was sailing
out in the harbor in order to double the point at Brooklyn.
“Three o’clock,” said the agent of the lavish client, after having
consulted a superb chronometer which was fastened to his waistcoat by a
massive guard-chain.
“So much the better,” answered Saunders; “we can anchor nearer the
Gleam without being recognized. There will be the devil to pay if,
during the evening or night, the wretch does not betray her presence on
board her lover’s boat. Then, tomorrow morning, I swear, this doomed
colonel must exchange a few pistol shots with me, or I will kill him
like a dog, and her afterwards.”
“Dear sir, don’t commit any act of violence in my presence, at least.
I should not like to be accused of complicity in such an affair. Come,
calm yourself a little. In the first place, if you will take my advice,
be less expressive, and don’t talk so loud about your business. It is
not necessary for my crew to know the cause of this little trip.”
“Yes, you are right; but, truly, I am beside myself. To have been duped
in this manner--”
It was while walking the deck of the Firefly that these gentlemen
exchanged these thoughts. They remained on deck until the steward
announced that dinner was ready.
Saunders’ first impulse was to refuse to go to the dining-room, but
Robertson, Jr., proved so convincingly that dieting was injurious to
mind and body, that the unfortunate merchant finally placed himself at
the table, and ate with a very good appetite.
The dinner was just ended, when the captain of the steamboat notified
his passengers that they were nearing Staten Island, and that the Gleam
was in the harbor.
The stout New Yorker made but one bound from the room to the deck.
It was night, and the sky indicated that it was to be dark and stormy.
Nevertheless, one could see plainly enough to distinguish Colonel
Forster’s yacht, which was at anchor near the shore.
After taking time to wrap himself in his overcoat, Mr. Robertson, Jr.,
with a cigar in his mouth, cool, calculating, and methodical as usual,
joined the irascible Saunders.
“Suppose we cross the bows of the Gleam at once,” proposed the latter.
“Don’t think of such a thing, dear sir,” answered the agent. “In the
first place, I think that our captain would refuse, the maritime law
having foreseen this kind of collision on the part of a boat in motion
with a ship at anchor; besides, how would it help you? You do not wish,
I suppose, to rejoin Miss Ada Ricard by such a dangerous movement?”
“I must see her,” was the answer.
“Have patience. Besides, I do not think she is on board at this moment.
You will observe that the porthole of the main cabin does not show any
light. I should not be surprised if Colonel Forster was at this moment
in his country house at Staten Island, yonder, a hundred steps from
shore.”
“We must assure ourselves of it.”
“That is why we are going to anchor here.”
Without consulting his unhappy client any further, Mr. Robinson, Jr.,
ran to give his instructions to the commander of the Firefly, who stood
in the stern near the helm. Two minutes had hardly elapsed before the
chain was payed out through the hawse-hole, and the anchor of the yacht
lay at the bottom of the bay. They were only about half a cable’s
length, that is a hundred metres, from the Gleam.
“Then you believe that Colonel Forster is not on board?” asked Saunders
of the agent.
“I am sure of it,” answered the latter. “If your rival were on the
Gleam it would not be so still, for he would be anxious about our
arrival and anchoring so near him.”
“I have an idea, my dear sir.”
“What is it?”
“Do you know where the colonel’s villa is?”
“Perfectly well; if the fog were not so dense we could see the lighted
windows from here.”
“What do you think of taking a little walk on land? If Forster is at
home it would be easier for me to meet him than on board ship.”
“That is true; but you will observe that the night is very dark and the
sea quite rough.”
“If you are afraid, I will go alone.”
“The heads of the house of Robertson & Co. are afraid of nothing or
nobody, Mr. Saunders. I will have a boat manned for you and will not
leave you;” and immediately giving the necessary orders, the young man
preceded the stout Yankee on the ladder, to the foot of which a boat
came instantly. It was a graceful, solid fishing boat, in which the
worst weather might have been braved. Four vigorous sailors manned it.
Robertson, Junior, and Saunders placed themselves in the stern, and
the latter, who had been a seaman in his youth, took hold of the helm,
ordering the men to push off. The boat moved off, heading toward land.
The agent, guiding himself by the lights on the island, indicated the
route to his companion; but the fog soon became so thick that just as
they were about to enter the channel which leads to the harbor, the
boatmen had to rest their oars.
“Listen!” said Saunders, suddenly leaning over on a level with the
water in order to try to pierce the fog; and Robertson listened. They
heard distinctly, coming from the land, a regular sound of the oars of
a boat vigorously worked.
“Ah,” said the agent, “there are fine fellows who know their route
better than we do ours.”
The boat, in fact, was rapidly approaching. Suddenly a metallic,
silvery laugh echoed by the sonorous waves, made Mr. Saunders give a
bound.
“It is she, the cheat!” he growled. “Row, boys, row. Let us reach the
entrance of the channel before them. A hundred dollars to you if we go
in first.”
Stimulated by this promise, the sailors of the Firefly bent over their
oars and the boat sped along like an arrow.
But Colonel Forster’s boat--for it was really he who was returning to
his yacht--was not so far away as the cracker-merchant thought. Lost to
sight in the bank of fog, he did not see it coming, or rather, perhaps,
did not wish to see it, and before the agent could avoid it, by a turn
of the rudder, a frightful collision took place between the two boats.
The shock was so severe that the fishing boat, receiving it abreast,
careened about, heading to shore, from which it was separated by a
few yards only, and on which the sea dashed heavily. As for the yawl
being driven to the other side of the channel, its situation was still
more grave. At the same instant, as if to prove it, a terrible cry was
heard--a woman’s cry--whose tone sent a chill of horror through Mr.
Saunders, who, thrown backwards from his seat, and covered with water
and spray, had been flung upon the sandy shore. Then it seemed to him
that a second cry, stifled like a sob, succeeded the first, and, with
his eyes looking haggard and his hair standing on end, he tried to leap
into the waves, but Robertson stopped him.
“It is she, it is she! I wish at least to try and save her!” he cried,
endeavoring to free himself.
“Are you mad?” answered the young man, holding him firmly. “If anything
has happened you do not know where. If Miss Ada has not been saved by
those accompanying her it is too late, for the tide is going out.”
The agent had spoken truly, the fog had become so dense that one could
not distinguish anything two steps off. Moreover, on account of the
tide going out, the sea was so rough at that place in the channel, that
the best rower could not struggle a single second against the current
and waves.
In despair at his powerlessness, and frightened at the consequences of
his angry act, the unfortunate Yankee had fallen to the ground. There,
oppressed and breathless, he listened attentively to the sounds of the
deep, in the hopes of catching some sign of life to relieve him. But
none reached him. He heard only the murmuring ripples on the shore. The
bank of fog extended around him like a winding-sheet, and the silence
of death reigned over the whole bay. Meanwhile the sailors of the
Firefly, happy at getting off with a cold bath, plugged up the hole
which the collision had made in the boat, and were setting it afloat.
They succeeded after an hour’s labor. Saunders imagined that a whole
century had passed, when Robertson, rousing him from his exhaustion,
told him to embark. The fog had lifted a little and they perceived
beyond them, like a star in the gray sky, the headlight of the Firefly.
Transported so suddenly from his peaceful life into the most frightful
tragedy, the unhappy Saunders obeyed, tottering toward the boat. When
once embarked he fell heavily upon the locker of the stern, but he was
careful not to take hold of the helm again. Remembering with horror the
use he had made of it an hour before, he feared that it might burn his
hands.
“Great God!” cried Mr. Robertson, all at once: “the Gleam has put off.”
Roused from his dejection by these words, Saunders wildly peered across
the bay.
The Firefly alone was tossing at anchor.
“This is an ugly trip and a sad affair,” said the agent to his
companion.
“Horrible! dear sir, horrible!” repeated the latter in a choked voice.
“Evidently some misfortune has happened, and Colonel Forster, in order
not to be compromised, for he could not suppose we were there for his
sake, has gone to sea, or he would have remained in the roads. In any
case, how can the truth be known?”
“Yes; how?”
Then, seized by a sudden inspiration, Saunders continued, addressing
the sailors:
“Boys, there is a hundred dollars for each of you if you do not tell a
word about what has just happened.”
“That is understood, sir,” answered the seamen in chorus, who, however,
did not know the reason of the presence of this stout passenger on
board the steamboat, and had seen in the meeting of the two boats only
one of those accidents at sea which they almost daily witnessed or took
part in. They did not suspect that the life of a woman was at stake,
and that, perhaps, she was drowned with her other companions, excepting
through the exclamations of Saunders himself.
Ten minutes later the fishing-boat came alongside the Firefly, and
Robertson learned that the Gleam had raised anchor but half an hour
before.
The fog had not prevented them from seeing in what direction it had
gone. However, in the hope of meeting his rival at daybreak, Saunders
did not wish to leave the roads; but the next day the steamer made the
circuit of Staten Island in vain; the Gleam had wholly disappeared.
There was but one course to take, to return to New York and preserve
silence about the frightful scene, in which the cracker-merchant had
played so compromising a part. The unfortunate Yankee understood it; he
handed each of the sailors the promised one hundred dollars, and with
remorse gnawing at his heart he hid in his cabin, and did not leave
it until Robertson told him that the Firefly was again moored to the
Battery.
Night permitted him to land and reach his house without being
recognized, but when he entered his room he shut himself in as if he
had all Mr. Kelly’s agents on his tracks, and he fell into an alarming
state of nervous prostration. His night was terrible, and the next day
he strictly forbade admission, even guarding his door, and would not
read a paper or exchange a word with his household. He refused even
to hear about business. This lasted four days, and he began to grow
somewhat calm, when his valet, disobeying orders, handed him toward
three o’clock, a paper marked “personal and urgent,” and bearing the
seal of the central office of the police. The unhappy Saunders opened
the letter trembling, and, when he had glanced over five lines, he
felt himself grow pale with fear. He had read:
The chief of the metropolitan police invites Mr. William Saunders
to appear without fail at the central office to furnish all the
information within his knowledge in regard to the disappearance of
Miss Ada Ricard.
What should he say to that brutal Kelly, whose rudeness he had already
experienced? Could he preserve enough self-possession not to compromise
himself? Was the event at Staten Island discovered, or still unknown?
Why should the chief of police, who would not listen to him when he
went to beg him to seek Ada Ricard, disturb himself to-day about her
disappearance?
All these questions, which he did not know how to answer, succeeded
each other in the shattered brain of the ex-lover of Miss Ada, and he
trembled in advance at the idea of the questioning which he should have
to undergo.
However, he resigned himself to obey, and, after laying out a course
from which he promised himself he would not depart, and trying his best
to be calm, he appeared before the terrible Kelly.
The chief of police received him immediately, but five minutes later
the stout Saunders reeled out of the central office with a pale,
disturbed countenance, and his forehead bathed in a cold sweat. He
jumped into his cab and said to the coachman, in accents of terror:
“To the Bellevue Hospital.”
Forty-eight hours before an event had occurred which strangely excited
public curiosity, but of which Saunders did not know, for since his
dramatic expedition he had not left the house or read a paper.
CHAPTER V.
SHAKESPEARE’S TAVERN.
The sign on this tavern was not spelled exactly as we have given it at
the head of this chapter. Shakespeare was printed on it in two words,
so that if it recalled the celebrated English tragic poet to the rare
literary men who crossed its threshold, it meant only the “Tavern of
the Skilful Spearman” to the sailors, wharfingers, lumpers, and others
who were the ordinary frequenters.
Situated on the wharf, on South Street, opposite Brooklyn, this tavern
was admirably placed as regards patrons. Besides, the police kept a
pretty sharp eye upon it, and affrays, pistol-shots, and violent scenes
were less frequent there than elsewhere.
This was because it was managed by two jolly fellows, who needed no
help to maintain order in the establishment. They were Honorables
Thomas Bright and Davidson, two of the most celebrated boxers in the
United States, formerly bloodthirsty adversaries, but now excellent
friends and associates, so true is it that the closest friendship is
that which exists between men who have fought each other after having
mutually knocked out each other’s teeth and administered the most
terrible black eyes. Thomas Bright and Davidson said to each other
that they had done enough for the public and their reputation, but
too little for their future, and, uniting their savings, they founded
Shakespeare’s tavern, which soon became the most attractive and paying
den of the kind.
The establishment occupied the ground floor of a large room adorned
with heavy tables and benches firmly fastened to the walls and floor,
that they might not be transformed into murderous missiles in the hands
of drunkards, and had a huge bar with a tin top, and an army of pint
measures of the same metal.
Around this bar crowded stray patrons, passers-by, and curious
idlers; in short, those who were not initiated in the delights of the
oyster-room, which one reached only by stumbling down a long flight of
stairs, doubly dangerous because the steps were damp, and an almost
complete darkness reigned, even in broad daylight. At the first step to
the vault of this crypt one coughed, seized in the throat, as it were,
by a dense, hot atmosphere, laden with a thousand varied emanations,
and it was some moments before the eyes could see through the thick
mist formed at the foot of the stairs by the air, which, by reason of
physical laws, sought to renew itself in the atmosphere without.
This second room was less scantily furnished than that on the ground
floor. There were tables and movable chairs, and a very large buffet,
laden with fresh and salted meats. Above an immense oven there was a
gridiron made to receive a whole ox.
The ground was macadamized, and the walls, once white, were now black,
excepting in spots, where, owing to the contact of shoulders, they
seemed gray, and were illustrated with primitive designs and mottoes
which we need not translate. A dozen gas jets, clouded in the smoke,
looking like nebulæ in the mist, lighted as well as they could, if not
as well as they ought, this underground region, which was invaded by
familiar patrons until they had made a day of it.
At the moment when we ask our readers to follow us into the oyster-room
of Shakespeare’s tavern--that is, forty-eight hours after the sad
expedition of Willie Saunders to Staten Island--the house was already
full, although the night was far advanced. The damp, cold atmosphere
had driven from the wharf all the laborers whose presence could be
spared, and only stragglers remained on it. Certain wharfingers
themselves had deserted their posts. Besides these, here and there
one saw, around tables covered with glasses of hot gin, sailors of
every country waiting for the time to go aboard. One of these groups
had so victoriously struggled against the depressing influence of the
inclement weather without that a rollicking, noisy gaiety prevailed
among them.
They were the sailors of the Firefly, who had jovially poured from
their pockets into the cash-drawer of Thomas Bright and Davidson poor
Saunders’ dollars--their hush money.
“Come, one more swig all round,” said one of the sailors; and, rapping
noisily on the table, he shouted: “Here, waiter, fetch us some whiskey,
and mind it is the right stuff, too.”
“No,” observed his neighbor, “we have had enough for to-day; we ought
to have been back two hours ago. Devil take it, to-morrow will be
daylight. You are drunk, Jim.”
“Drunk,” replied the latter, “well, Charley, what of it? The fat man
did not give us a hundred dollars apiece for a pension.”
“It was for no more or less than to make us hold our tongues,” said
Charley, warmly. “No good American sailor will fail to keep his word.”
The other two sailors nodded approvingly, pointing to the adjoining
tables where the other patrons of Shakespeare’s tavern might hear.
“There, that’s enough,” grumbled Jim; “we will be as mute as a whale;
but I am thirsty,” and, seizing one of the waiters as he passed, he
ordered four glasses of whiskey.
It was best for the drunken man’s friends to give in to him. They,
therefore, beckoned to the servant to serve them quietly. Charley then
whispered:
“While we are lounging here, suppose any one should be robbing us on
board ship, as they robbed Toby the other night on his wharf while he
was drinking, instead of watching over his goods.”
“What!” sang out a tall fellow enveloped in oil-cloth from head to
foot; “what of Toby robbed? Why, it was his robber who cheated himself.”
“How’s that?” cried the sailors.
“Yes, to be sure; instead of taking a barrel of brandy, as, no doubt,
was his intention, he carried off a barrel of tar. If it didn’t stick
to his paws he must have hurled it into the water. Here’s to the health
of the imbecile; although I lost my place through him, I don’t care,
for I have come to Shakespeare’s tavern, and it is much livelier here
than at the head of the river;” and, after noisily touching glasses
with the men of the Firefly, the wharfinger, for it was he, tossed off
his glass of gin at one swallow.
“I can’t help it, but I feel no security,” said Charley; “for some time
there has been a regular sweep on board ship and along the river. Come,
let’s be on our way, boys.”
While saying this the seaman had placed Jim’s arm within his, and was
towing him along toward the stairs.
Toby followed them.
They arrived at the wharf in this manner, one shoving the other along.
Day was beginning to break, but the river was still enveloped in
fog. The masts of ships at anchor were faintly outlined above their
invisible hulls. They looked as if suspended in the air. The boat of
the Firefly was moored to one of the piles on the wharf of which Toby
had been watchman only two days.
“Let us go aboard, boys,” said Charley, hauling in the yawl.
“Stop; what’s that over there?” asked Toby, suddenly, who had gone to
the edge of the wharf, and was pointing to a floating object which the
motion of the boat had sent ashore; “a foot!”
“Why, yes, a foot,” said the sailor, raising the member with the end of
his boat-hook; “a foot and a leg.”
“And all the rest,” continued the watchman; “it is a drowned person.
How heavy it is. There must be a stone around the neck to be
head-downward like this. Come, help me, the rest of you.”
The sailors leaned over the river, and uniting their efforts brought
to the surface a body, whose unusual weight was soon explained to
them; a barrel of tar was fastened to the left leg. It was by this
half-submerged barrel that this body had been kept under water.
“It is a woman,” cried Charley.
“And a superb one.”
“What an idea to throw her into the river with a barrel of tar.”
“It is a droll one, to be sure.”
“A barrel of tar. Perhaps it is the one stolen from me.”
While exchanging these exclamations, the seamen, aided by Toby, had
raised the body and extended it on the planks of the wharf, without
unfastening from its leg the barrel which a stout rope held secure.
It was, indeed, the corpse of a young woman. It showed no signs of
wounds and was not decomposed. The face alone was slightly swollen, but
by no means disfigured.
Hardened as they were to every emotion, the sailors gazed at this body
in horror. The sight of it sobered the drunken men. The men knew that
here before their eyes was the victim of some horrible tragedy. The
discovery of a drowned person, workman or seaman, would not have moved
them; but this woman, young and beautiful, shocked them.
“We cannot leave her here,” said Charley finally. “Go and notify
Shakespeare’s tavern.”
The comrade to whom he spoke hurried away from the other side of the
wharf. Toby, with that sentiment of decency, more common than is
believed among the lowest classes, stripped himself of his oil-cloth
suit and covered the nude corpse.
Ten minutes later, Thomas Bright, Davidson and the patrons who had
lingered in their establishment hastened to the wharf.
Charley acquainted them with what had passed.
“Well, my boys, there is only one thing to do,” said Davidson; “summon
the coroner at Saint Vincent and wait for him, and don’t disturb the
body.”
One of the spectators immediately set out for the police office of the
district, which happened to be in a neighboring street, and several
policemen, whom the crowd had attracted, guarded the body, after
driving away curious idlers on the wharf and retaining about them only
the men of the Firefly and Toby.
Day had dawned, and the fog had cleared away somewhat. The wharf
presented a strange scene, with the silent, motionless men gathered
around this lifeless body.
“It is odd,” said Toby, “that I should find my barrel of tar in this
way. It is really mine, for I recognize the mark upon it.”
“Hold your tongue, you fool,” said Charley, in a low voice; “there will
certainly be a reward for those who put the police on the track of the
assassins; it will be time then to speak.”
The watchman understood, thanked him with a smile, and became silent
again. In less than a quarter of an hour the coroner arrived with his
secretary. Furious, no doubt, at having been disturbed so early, he
interrupted Charley, who had begun the story of his sad discovery, and
said:
“That will do; I understand all about it. Now let two willing men carry
this body to the morgue. The rest of you, who drew it out of the water,
must follow me, to make your depositions.”
Two men raised the body; a third carried the barrel which the coroner
bade them not unfasten. Then, preceded by the policemen, accompanied by
the sailors of the Firefly and Toby, and escorted by curious idlers,
the gloomy procession started off. After walking ten minutes they
reached their destination. The door of the morgue opened to admit the
bearers of the body and witnesses, and closed upon the crowd. In a few
moments the coroner received the depositions of the sailors and the
wharfingers; then, after having taken their names and addresses, he
dismissed them.
The men on the yacht hastened to their boat to return on board ship,
while Toby, who was careful to show no recognition of the tar barrel,
but who had again donned his oil-cloth suit, went back to the wharf,
where the crowd, which had considerably enlarged, immediately gathered
around him.
He had to tell his story twenty times over, and news of the event
spread so rapidly that Shakespeare’s tavern, to the great delight of
its honorable proprietors, was soon thronged as on a holiday.
Meanwhile, the coroner at Saint Vincent had made his report, despatched
the body to the central morgue at Bellevue Hospital, and had presented
himself to Mr. Kelly at the general police office. The fat officer
listened to his subaltern without a shadow of emotion, approved what he
had done and immediately sent an order to the director of the morgue to
photograph the dead woman.
The corpse was afterwards delivered to Dr. O’Neel in order that the
autopsy might be made without delay. When this was performed it would
be exposed according to the regulations.
Having given these instructions and dismissed the coroner, the
honorable Kelly quietly proceeded to his dining-room, where, as usual,
he lingered long over his breakfast. Not until three o’clock did he
remember the drowned woman, when he took a cab for Bellevue Hospital.
CHAPTER VI.
THE MORGUE AT BELLEVUE HOSPITAL.
The event having made a great stir through the noon editions of the
papers, an immense crowd gathered in the vicinity of the morgue, and
was with difficulty kept back by twenty policemen.
The corpse was already exposed, and the impatient crowd were jostling
each other in order to satisfy their curiosity by a sight of it.
This was the condition of things when the massive Kelly alighted from
his carriage at the door of the Bellevue Hospital.
The body found in the river by the sailors a few hours before occupied
the middle of the exhibition hall, hardly a yard away from the glass
partition before which the curious filed by. Completely nude, as it
was when taken from the water, excepting a leather apron which reached
the knees. The corpse was seen to be a woman about twenty-five years
old, who must have been remarkably beautiful. With a figure above
medium height, of rich but not exaggerated proportions, her shoulders
and limbs were admirably modeled. Her hands were small, and her feet
not so large as those of a young girl of fifteen. Around her head
floated her long fair hair. Her features were but little disfigured.
Her countenance betrayed no painful struggle except, perhaps, around
her mouth, the upper lip being slightly contorted. Although her eyes
were open, it was difficult to certify to their color, for they were
beginning to be glazed, but one could divine that their now sightless
pupils had cast many a bewitching glance.
This is what the men said who gazed at it cynically, the majority with
more curiosity than pity, and the policemen had some difficulty in
making the line of spectators, to whom the drowned woman was unknown,
move on.
At the same time, the chief of police had received Doctor O’Neel’s
report, and, after casting an indifferent glance at the dead, he
returned to his office, where, comfortably ensconced in his large
leather arm-chair, he began to examine the work of the legal physician.
* * * * *
The document read as follows:
The body submitted to my examination and of which I have this day,
Wednesday, made an autopsy, is that of a woman from twenty-two to
twenty-five years old. In spite of its perfect state of preservation
it would be impossible for me to say within two or three days how
long it has been in the water, for the use which the living must have
made of arsenic like a great many American women, with the intention
of preserving the freshness of their complexion and the roundness
of their forms, retards, as is well known, to a great degree the
decomposition of corpses. That which I can attest is that the body is
not that of a drowned woman. Indeed, I have proved that there is no
trace of foam in the larynx. The lungs are congested, but they have
not increased in volume or density. Now the absence of a frothy mucus
in the air passages is an incontestable proof that death is not due
to submersion. This woman had ceased to live when she was thrown into
the water.
What kind of death did she suffer? This is impossible to state. It
was not a case of strangulation nor poisoning. The neck shows no
sign of violence, and a chemical analysis of the stomach, liver, and
intestines has not so far shown the presence in these organs of any
poisonous substance; but it will be necessary to wait several days to
obtain absolute certainty on this particular.
No wound, no contusion on the body, excepting above the right knee,
where there is a bluish mark of the rope fastening the tar barrel to
the body, and which, in the belief of the murderer, would hold his
victim at the bottom of the water.
On the contrary it was this barrel of tar, staved in by fermentation
or the shock, which caused the body to float sooner than it would
otherwise have done.
The woman had a good constitution and no organic affection. She took
nice care of herself.
I have observed that among her teeth--which are very beautiful--the
second canine on the right is wanting, and that the inferior lobe of
her left ear bears the scar of an old wound.
To resume, I think that this woman, surprised in her sleep, must
have been overpowered by inhaling some strong narcotic--chloroform
or ether. But I have not discovered any natural disturbances in the
organs to absolutely confirm my hypothesis. Three or four hours had
elapsed between the death of the victim and her last meal.
(Signed) O’NEEL,
Head Surgeon at Bellevue Hospital.
“Well, well, all this is curious,” murmured Fat Kelly. “When this young
woman is recognized, Master Young will put himself in the field; if she
is not recognized then, that dear William Dow must take it up.”
Master Young, as the chief of the metropolitan police familiarly called
him, was the captain of the detectives. William Dow, whom Kelly so
affectionately designated, was a strange and mysterious character.
Less than two years before the time in which this story took place,
William Dow was one of the most distinguished, most wealthy, and
honorable physicians in Philadelphia; but one day he suddenly left that
city to establish himself in New York. There he joined the force of the
chief of police, and had gradually become one of his auxiliaries, as a
voluntary aid, who showed himself disinterested and very useful.
Several times already he had done wonderful things, quietly, by the
means of his sole resources, intelligence, courage, persistency, and
energy.
What was the reason of this transformation of a doctor into a
policeman? It was a mystery to everyone, even to Mr. Kelly. We may
reveal it some day.
Meanwhile let us return to the honorable chief of the metropolitan
police of New York, who had rung for his secretary, and had given him
the order to send for Captain Young. The latter appeared a few minutes
later. He was a tall man, about forty years old, built like a giant,
and brave as a lion, but of moderate intelligence, and as obstinate as
a mule. When he was on the wrong track he would stick to it, whatever
effort was made to put him on the right one. The administration kept
him in his position because he was good at a blow, and no one was more
intrepid than he in a hand-to-hand scuffle.
The pickpockets and malefactors in the city and State of New York
feared him alone more than all his brigade. When he, at the head of his
men, made a raid in the most dangerous quarters of the city, in the
midst of an affray or a riot among working-men, there was a general
stampede.
But when there was any delicate mission, one of those cases that need
working up, finesse, a keen scent and patience, Master Young was
stupid; the game would slip through his hands.
He was then delighted to see the intelligent William Dow appear on the
scene, of whom he was a little jealous, but whose superiority he had
the good sense to recognize.
“Captain,” said Kelly, giving Young the report of the Saint Vincent
coroner, “read that and set to work. It is about the drowned woman
found near Wharf 32, opposite Shakespeare’s tavern. Have Bright’s
establishment watched, and scour all the bad places on the wharf. It is
probable that she is some girl whose clothing and jewelry have tempted
the assassins.”
“I am going to give orders to my men,” answered the detective, taking
the papers.
“Do not forget to station intelligent agents at the morgue and in the
vicinity of the hospital.”
“That was my intention, sir.”
“It will also be well to put one of your agents on the wharf itself in
the costume of a guard. Malefactors can hardly resist the desire to
revisit the places of their crime, and, although the woman certainly
was not thrown in the water where she was found, it might be that those
concerned would be prowling around in that direction. But be sure and
keep me informed of the slightest incidents which take place in regard
to this affair. If the body is not recognized to-day or to-morrow,
there are certain measures I shall think about taking. Go ahead,
captain.”
Young gave a military salute and left to execute these orders, while
the honorable chief, drawing other documents toward him, set himself
to work without thinking any more of the body, past which the crowd,
becoming more and more numerous, continued to move in file.
Night came on and the drowned woman had not been recognized, and the
doors of the morgue were closed; but the event formed the staple of the
evening’s conversation all over the city, and Shakespeare’s tavern was
crowded.
The next morning at daybreak more than ten thousand persons thronged
around Bellevue Hospital, and at eight o’clock the dreary visiting
began again. Suddenly, toward noon, one of the curious crowd cried:
“Why, I recognize her; it is Miss Ada Ricard. Yes, it surely is she.”
“Ada Ricard?” questioned the bystanders.
Without giving him time to answer anyone, the agents on watch at the
morgue hastened to the man who was the first to speak this name, and
drew him to the clerk’s office.
Although somewhat moved, the man was otherwise quite calm, and seemed
to have nothing to fear. He was about thirty years old, correctly
dressed, and seemed to be a servant in some well-to-do family.
“Do you recognize the dead woman?” asked the clerk, to whom one of the
detectives had imparted what had happened.
“Yes, sir,” answered the stranger, “I think so, at least. It seems to
me that it is Miss Ada Ricard, who lived at No. 17 East Twenty-third
Street.”
“What is your name?”
“Robert Fowl; I was Miss Ada’s coachman once.”
“Then you think you could recall her features?”
“Without doubt.”
“And are you certain that you recognize her?”
“To be absolutely certain I must see her nearer. You can understand how
surprised I was.”
“We can understand that. I am going to order the curtains to be drawn
down.”
Around the dead in the New York morgue there are heavy curtains of
green serge with which the windows are covered; in order that the body
may not have to be moved when it is recognized, the officials separate
it from the crowd by dropping the curtains.
A few moments later, while the curious spectators, deprived of their
view, were entertaining all kinds of suppositions and murmuring a
little, the clerk, the director, and Fowl entered the exhibition-room
and approached the corpse.
“Oh! yes; it is really she,” said the coachman, with considerable
emotion, leaning over the face of the drowned woman. “Poor creature.”
“It was Miss Ada you said?” asked the clerk.
“Miss Ada Ricard, yes. There is another way by which I can make sure of
it; I often remarked when Miss Ada laughed, and she was very lively,
that a tooth was wanting on the right side.”
“And this woman lacks a tooth on the right,” affirmed the director
of the morgue, pointing to the dead woman’s mouth, whose upper lip,
slightly raised, permitted them to attest the fact asserted by Fowl, a
fact to which Doctor O’Neel had already certified in his report.
“It is really she, it is really she,” murmured the dead woman’s former
servant.
Convinced that the man could not be mistaken the clerk conducted him
into his office and, after taking his full name, and the address of the
victim, immediately telegraphed the information to Mr. Kelly.
“Ada Ricard!” cried the chief of police, after having read the
despatch; “why, it is that girl about whom that fat Saunders wished to
interest me a week ago--and they really carried her off.” Calling his
secretary he ordered him to invite the honorable cracker-merchant to
immediately call at his office.
We already know the effect of this invitation on the impressionable
Yankee, and in what state of fear he gasped out to his coachman as he
left Mr. Kelly’s--
“To Bellevue Hospital!”
The chief of police had said to him without any preamble:
“They described to me as Ada Ricard the woman who was drawn out of the
river yesterday morning. She is exhibited at the morgue; go and see if
it is she. You will not be mistaken, surely.”
The unfortunate Saunders, without daring to utter a word, went as he
was bidden.
When he reached the door of the hospital he was frightened at the sight
of all the people whom the policemen were driving back; for, since
Fowl’s declaration, the curtains of the exhibition-hall had not been
raised.
He, however, alighted from his carriage, and when, in a stammering
voice, he had told one of the agents the motive that brought him there,
the man made a passage for him.
Saunders crossed the public hall rapidly, but when he reached the door
of the clerk’s office he felt his legs give way beneath him. If an arm
had not supported him just then he would have fallen to the floor.
He turned to thank the person who had aided him so opportunely, and
just managed to stifle a cry of terror, for there beside him, placing
one hand on his shoulder, as if he were a criminal, he recognized the
terrible Captain Young.
“Come in, Mr. Saunders; come in,” said the chief of detectives, in his
rough voice. He knew the cracker-merchant by sight, and knew why he
had come to the morgue. “That man, perhaps, was mistaken, but you----”
While giving him a faint hope, these three words of Young reminded
the unhappy man of the last words addressed to him by Mr. Kelly, with
a kind of sinister irony. “You will not be mistaken, surely,” and,
with his head hung down, he hurried into the clerk’s office, then from
there, followed by the director, Captain Young, and two or three other
persons, into the exhibition-hall.
When he reached the threshold of this horrible place, and perceived the
motionless body they said belonged to her whom he had so much loved,
and with whose death he had reproached himself, he put his hands to his
forehead and veiled his eyes, while his feet were riveted to the damp
flag-stones.
“Come, be courageous; come on!” said the director of the morgue.
Poor Saunders, summoning all the energy that was left in him, moved
forward; but when he found himself face to face with the corpse, he
gave an inarticulate cry and fell on his knees, murmuring:
“Ada, my Ada, forgive me! Unhappy man that I am, it was I who killed
you,” and he sank fainting to the floor.
“By George,” muttered Captain Young, without attempting to conceal his
satisfaction, “we have made a double stroke; we have found the name of
the victim and the murderer in the same hour.”
Turning to the agents who accompanied him, he added:
“Hello, you two watch over this fat fellow here, and when he recovers
take him to the central office. I will go and notify Mr. Kelly.”
The policemen raised Saunders and bore him to the clerk’s office.
“Pardon, my dear captain,” said some one just then to Young, whom the
latter had not perceived, “perhaps you are going ahead rather too fast.”
“Why! is that you, Mr. Dow?” answered the chief of detectives. “Why do
you think I am going ahead too fast? Did you hear the voluntary and
spontaneous confession of this man?”
It was, indeed, William Dow, whom we need not describe to our readers.
Having, like every one else, heard about the drowned woman, he was
at the morgue through mere curiosity. When he perceived the captain
and Saunders as they were entering the clerk’s office, he followed
them there, and then into the exhibition-room, where, cool, calm, and
observing, as he was always to be found, witnessed the scene we have
just described.
“What you call the confession of Miss Ada’s former lover proves
nothing. I can hardly believe that that fat man killed her. He is an
honorable merchant, and very wealthy, and to arrest him on a suspicion
is, perhaps, imprudent.”
“What is to be done, then?” asked the detective, visibly embarrassed.
“Is it my advice you are asking?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, if I were in your place, I should take Mr. Saunders home, for he
seems to me to be threatened with an attack of apoplexy. If he is not
the murderer, he is an important witness. Do not kill him in advance
until he has told you all he knows or thinks about this strange event.”
“You are right, Mr. Dow--always right.”
The long-legged Young hurried into the office, where Mr. Saunders was
beginning to recover consciousness.
“Ada, poor Ada,” he stammered, looking around him wildly.
Then he added, in a low voice:
“Oh, that colonel, I will kill him! He is the cause of everything.
It is not I, gentlemen, it is not I; I loved her too much. Oh, the
wretched masks--the Indians!”
“You see he is talking at random,” whispered William Dow to the chief
of the detectives, and approaching the merchant, he said to him: “Come,
sir, have courage. It is a misfortune, but what can you do about it?
A man ought to have more pluck. We must now find the assassin. Return
home; the magistrate in charge of the affair will question you when it
is time. Do you wish me to accompany you?”
“Yes, sir, yes,” gasped Saunders, making an effort to rise.
William Dow took hold of his arm to support him, and, both leaving
the clerk’s office, they passed through the crowd which had already
learned the name of the drowned woman, and respectfully moved aside
for the man they took for the father or one of the near relatives of
the victim. The detective helped the cracker-merchant to enter his
carriage, seated himself near him, and they drove off, while Captain
Young jumped into a cab to give an account to Mr. Kelly of what he had
just witnessed.
CHAPTER VII.
SAUNDERS ALMOST LOSES HIS MIND, WHILE CAPTAIN YOUNG WHOLLY LOSES HIS
TIME.
As soon as Captain Young had reported what had passed at the morgue,
Mr. Kelly’s first act was to notify the sheriff of the district to meet
him at No. 17 East Twenty-third Street, and he set out immediately
for this place in company with the detective. The chief of the police
wished to see things for himself, and to profit by the occasion that
was offered him to visit the house of this Ada Ricard, of whom he had
heard so much.
These two gentlemen found on the threshold of the house Sheriff
Mortimer waiting for them. In a few words they acquainted him with the
situation, then rang the bell. Mary, who answered it at once, could not
help a movement of terror at the sight of these three stern-looking
men, who were unknown to her. The sheriff gave his name, and the
visitors entered a small reception-room on the ground-floor.
“Who are you?” then asked stout Mr. Kelly, of the young girl, as he
sank into a chair.
“The maid of Miss Ada Ricard,” answered Mary, with a certain calmness.
“Well, Miss Ada Ricard, your mistress, is at the morgue; she has been
found drowned in the river,” said her questioner, abruptly.
“Miss Ada drowned!” cried the servant; “it is impossible.”
“Why impossible?” resumed Kelly. “Did you know where she was?”
“No, not positively; but I believed her on a voyage, for the day after
my mistress was carried away she wrote me that she would be absent a
month at least--perhaps more.”
“She has returned sooner, but dead. You say that she wrote you. Where
is the letter?”
“I gave it to Mr. Saunders, who came just as I had received it.”
“Did your mistress receive any one else?”
“Never.”
“Did she go out often?”
“Very seldom, and I am certain she had no relatives in the city. She
had confidence in me and told me everything.”
“Had you had any news of her after that letter of which you speak?”
“No, sir; and I was perfectly free from anxiety. Miss Ada ordered me to
dismiss the servants and take care of the house until her return. I
cannot believe that she is dead.”
“You must go to the morgue to identify her.”
“I am ready to obey your orders, sir.”
“In the first place show us the house; are you alone here?”
“Quite alone.”
Saying this, Mary showed the magistrates into the dining-room; then,
while the terrible Young visited the kitchens down-stairs, she ascended
the first flight with Kelly and the sheriff.
“Ah! Ah! It is very fine here; there are signs of Saunders’ gifts, he
is a lavish fellow,” the sceptical Kelly could not help saying as he
crossed the parlors where we conducted our readers in the first chapter
of this story.
Let us continue. They passed into the sleeping-room. It was a
delightful room, hung in blue satin, embroidered with flowers and
birds. The bed was a marvel of costliness and taste; the floor was
completely covered by a soft Turkish rug.
“Is that all?” said the chief of police.
“Perhaps the gentlemen would like to see the dressing and
bathing-room,” suggested the young girl.
“Dear me,” said Kelly, looking at Mortimer with a peculiar smile.
Mary raised the heavy portiere and introduced the two magistrates into
an adjoining room, the sight of which drew an “o-o-oh!” of admiration
even from the grave sheriff himself.
It would be impossible, indeed, to dream of anything more dainty than
this room, for Ada Ricard had made it a real boudoir. The smallest
articles of the toilet were objects of art, as well as Venetian mirrors
and the small Bohemian glass lamps which hung from a ceiling draped
with rare Japanese material. As for the bath-room, which communicated
with the dressing-room, it was of white marble and silver. This room
alone must have cost a large sum. It was there that Captain Young
rejoined the two officers.
After searching the basement, the chief of detectives had visited the
upper story, where were the linen closets and servants’ rooms, and
he stated that he found no one there or in the kitchens, and that
everything was in order.
The house, indeed, had no appearance of being abandoned. It looked
like one whose mistress was soon to return. When one thought that its
mistress was lying on the slabs in the morgue, it sent a chill to the
heart.
Kelly’s besetting sin was not sensibility. The delight of this wealth
awoke in his mind but one thought, “Who will be the heir of all this?”
and it naturally led him to say to Mary: “Where are the jewels of your
mistress?”
“Those which madam did not wear on the day of her departure,” she
answered, “are in a little scarlet chest in the wardrobe of her
sleeping-room. Miss Ada, no doubt, has the key about her, for I have
not found it in looking over things, and her bank notes and money must
be in that same chest. There were only twenty dollars in gold on her
dressing table, of which I made use to settle the servants’ accounts.
The remainder of the sum is up in my room.”
“Are you acquainted with Miss Ada’s family?”
“No, sir. I know that my mistress had been married, but I do not know
the name of her husband. He lived, I think, in Buffalo. She never spoke
of any relatives.”
“They must be found, however, for now everything here belongs to them.”
“Oh, they will present themselves fast enough if it is found that madam
is really dead.”
“You soon will cease to doubt.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you are going to the morgue to identify the body. Captain
Young will accompany you, and escort you afterwards to the judge to
make your statement. After which you will return to pack up your
clothing and receive my orders.”
“Very well, sir.”
Greatly impressed, either by the mere fact of the terrible news which
she had just heard, or by the manner in which the big, surly man had
talked to her, Mary went up to her room accompanied by the terrible
Young, who did not say a word, but disturbed her by looking at her in
a manner he fancied searching, and grumbling disconnected sentences.
On reaching her room, the young lady hastily put on her hat and threw
a cloak over her shoulders, and then rejoined the magistrates in the
large parlor on the first floor. Mr. Mortimer was making an entry in
his note-book.
“In the first place,” said Mr. Kelly to the maid, “lock up the
furniture, and give the keys to the sheriff.”
Still accompanied by the giant detective, Mary went over the silent
house again, from basement to attic, and a moment later returned and
handed a bunch of keys to Mortimer.
“Now,” said the chief, “we can leave.”
They all four descended the steps, and when they had reached the
street, the sheriff locked the doors of the house; then after calling
a policeman from the sidewalk opposite, bade him watch the house, and
went away with Kelly. As for Captain Young, after stopping a carriage
passing, he entered it with the maid, shouting to the driver in a
stentorian voice: “To the central morgue, Bellevue Hospital.”
A quarter of an hour later they arrived. Night was coming on; and the
exhibition-hall was somewhat dark when Mary entered it with Young and
the clerk. At the sight of the corpse the girl, already excited, began
to tremble, and the detective had to support her.
“Come,” he said rudely, “come and look at it.”
“But I can’t see a thing, sir,” she murmured.
The director of the morgue had foreseen this, and beckoned to one of
the workmen who had a lantern, and turned its light upon the face of
the dead woman. It stood out in the glare of light, while the body
remained somewhat in shadow, and was horrible to see; not that it was
disfigured, but because of the optical conditions in which it appeared.
Mary, whom the captain, still holding by the arm, had led up to touch
the corpse, uttered a cry of terror.
“Well,” said the pitiless guide, “let’s get through with it. It is
really your mistress, isn’t it?”
The young girl, fortifying herself with all the courage she possessed,
resolved to look straight at the corpse, and immediately answered:
“No, no; that woman is not Miss Ada.”
“What!” cried the clerk and Young at the same moment, in a tone of
amazement impossible to convey. “Not Miss Ada? Why, her former coachman
recognized her at once.”
“But I don’t recognize her,” said Mary with certain positiveness. “This
woman resembles her very much, but I don’t think it is she. At least
I could not declare it is. Yet, it is strange; but, oh! dear, I am
afraid, gentlemen; do let me go away.”
“We must have a positive answer,” said the captain. “Devil take you, do
try. Take one good look at her.”
“I cannot, my mind, my eyes are confused, my head swims, take me away,”
stammered the young girl turning aside her head.
On saying these words she had, indeed, become pale, and had it not been
for the aid of the detective would have fallen to the ground.
Finding that they could accomplish nothing further for the moment, at
least, they led her to the clerk’s room. There she became calmer, and
in a few moments was able to enter the carriage with Captain Young, who
took her to the sheriff’s.
The maid, who had recovered her composure, declared to this magistrate
that she had not positively recognized her mistress in the drowned
woman, but that her emotion, it was true, had not enabled her to look
with sufficient attention. Mr. Mortimer made her sign an official
report to this effect, and they then returned to poor Ada’s house, from
which the young girl took away her belongings.
By agreement with the coroner, while waiting until the worthy sheriff
had appointed a watch over the house, in which it had been decided that
Mary should be included, that she might recognize persons who might
appear, she was required to live in a house in the neighborhood and
hold herself at the orders of the justices.
These formalities arranged, and Mary being established at Washington
Hotel, Mr. Mortimer hastened to the chief of police to tell him how
things had gone on at the morgue.
“Oh!” said Kelly, “the affair is becoming complicated. That foolish
girl was frightened, no doubt, but we shall soon know what to do. I
have given orders to have all Ada Ricard’s former servants appear at
the morgue the first thing to-morrow morning.”
This measure, which would usually necessitate long and difficult
search, was executed in New York with great ease and despatch, by
reason of the intelligent method which the American police employ to
keep the whole body of household servants within call.
Every servant, to whatever class he belongs, receives a dollar when he
goes to the coroner in his district and states that he is to enter into
service at such or such a house, and they also give him one dollar when
he changes his place and gives the address of the new house he is to
enter.
In circumstances like those which arose from the violent death of Ada
Ricard, the police and magistrate thus know where to find at once
people whose information might be of importance.
Mr. Kelly, therefore, was almost certain that the majority of the
former servants of the dead woman would come to Bellevue Hospital
the next day; and as Doctor O’Neel had informed him that, under the
influence of the air and the place in which it was exposed, the body
would rapidly decompose, he had engaged Albert Moor, the skilful
modeler of the Anatomical Museum of the School of Medicine, to come to
the hospital.
As for the unhappy Saunders, whom we left at the close of the preceding
chapter, after leaving the house with William Dow, he returned home in
a state of complete prostration.
His physician, whom they called at once, feared congestion of the
brain, and he forbade visitors. In spite of this order, toward eight
o’clock a man disregarded it, and entered the sleeping room where the
unfortunate cracker-merchant, lying exhausted in an arm-chair, with his
lower lip hanging down, and his eyes suffused, murmured as he gazed at
a photograph:
“Poor Ada! poor Ada! Why did I not jump into the water to save you?”
The man who entered was Robertson, Jr.
Saunders barely recognized him, but his visitor none the less said to
him, trying to make himself understood:
“It is a great misfortune, dear sir, and you must form some plan. But,
you know, communications which we make to our clients are absolutely
confidential, and the steps we take in their interest must remain
secret. I have not the honor of being acquainted with you. I have never
had the pleasure of seeing you, or of taking a walk with you. What the
police may seek, find or not find, is their affair, not ours.”
“Ah, yes; down there at Staten Island, at night,” gasped Saunders.
“I do not know what you mean,” quietly remarked the young head of the
house of Robertson Brothers & Co.
Saunders looked at him with the eye of an idiot, made a visible effort
to answer him, but his face sank heavily in his hands, and he repeated:
“Poor Ada, poor Ada!”
Mr. Robertson shrugged his shoulders and left. His lips formed into
a smile of satisfaction, for, in his opinion, the former protector
of the drowned woman had not had a gleam of reason in his brain for
twenty-four hours.
Meanwhile the intrepid Young scattered his agents all along the
wharves, and ransacked the innumerable dens from Shakespeare’s tavern
to Harlem, but in vain, finding no sign of any useful information.
CHAPTER VIII.
TAKING A CAST OF THE DEAD.
The next day, before noon, the majority of the former servants of Miss
Ada had presented themselves at the morgue, and all, unhesitatingly,
with the exception of two or three, had recognized the unfortunate
woman. The girl July, whose place Mary had taken at No. 17 East
Twenty-third Street, furnished some information, which, of itself
alone, would have sufficed to dispel all doubts, if any had remained
after these successive affirmations.
July remembered having seen, as she dressed her mistress’ hair, that
her left ear was torn. Now, this wound had not escaped the eye of Dr.
O’Neel, and he specified it in his report of the autopsy.
The drowned woman was really Miss Ada Ricard. This was the first
indisputable point made at the inquest, of which Coroner Davis took
charge.
Therefore, it was not necessary to study any further into the identity
of the victim, but to seek her murderer.
First of all, it was necessary to proceed to burial, but not without
taking an absolutely faithful image of the corpse, in order to reserve
the possibility of any other recognition, or of even confronting it
with the murderer, should he be discovered. It was for this end that
the chief of police had made an appointment with Albert Moor, the
sculptor.
The woman had been photographed, and the likenesses had been reproduced
and distributed in great number; but Mr. Kelly required even more.
Albert Moor had been at the morgue a long while when Mr. Kelly arrived,
who explained to him that he wished a cast of the woman’s head. The
artist, who had examined the corpse, found that the work could not be
deferred until the next day, and promised to do it at once.
Being sure that his instructions would be faithfully followed, the
chief of police ordered the manager of the morgue to transport the body
into the autopsy-room, and to keep it at the disposal of the sculptor;
then he returned to the central office to arrange with the sheriff and
coroner about the rewards for those who had given important information
in the cause of justice.
Mr. Kelly, as a chief of police and a lawyer, did not hesitate to make
known to the public, by posters and through the press, that a reward of
one hundred dollars would be given to any one who would furnish exact
information in regard to the particulars of the crime, and that whoever
would arrest or deliver up the assassin would receive one thousand
dollars.
The intelligent officer was ready to double or triple the sum if,
after waiting a while, he obtained no result. Having done this, and
feeling convinced that, like Titus, he had employed his day well, the
honorable chief of the metropolitan police seated himself at his
dinner-table in a cheerful mood, and afterwards went to his club.
At the same hour, Albert Moor and his guide reached the morgue,
provided with all the apparatus necessary for their work. The manager
of the establishment escorted them to the autopsy-room, where, after
one of the workmen had lighted the gas, for it had become dark, he left
them alone.
According to orders, the drowned woman had been removed from her stone
bed to one of the large metal tables used for authorized medical
operations. Her face and features were in a good state of preservation,
but, from her chest down, there was a horrible gash, for the surgeon
who had examined the body to discover the causes of death, had but
partially drawn the flesh together, and here and there were dark
streaks upon it.
The flesh on the upper portion of the form was still firm; the
shoulders were like marble, and the abundant hair so completely hid the
opening in the skull that the luxuriant beauty, being thus preserved,
strikingly recalled Miss Ada as she was in life. The limbs still
retained their perfect shape.
After examining his subject for a moment with the real curiosity of the
artist, Albert Moor prepared for his work. He first slipped a cushion
under the head, that it might be slightly raised, pushed back the hair
and secured it in a piece of cloth, then washed the face and neck as
carefully as this operation is performed by the people of the extreme
East. Having done this, by the aid of a large brush he moistened those
parts of the body with an oily liquid, intended to prevent the adhesion
of the plaster, and from the top of the head to the chin, and in
various other directions, extended cords, which enabled him to divide
the cast, before it had stiffened, into as many parts as he thought
necessary, for the perfect execution of his work.
While he was making these preparations his assistant was tempering, in
a large wooden bowl, a plaster fine as starch.
The sculptor first covered the face and all the parts of which he
wished to take a cast, then he thickened the layer with successive
layers, under which the outlines of the form slowly disappeared.
He had reached this point in his work when he heard some one softly
open the door. Thinking it was the director of the morgue, whom
curiosity had drawn thither, and being absorbed in his work, he did not
turn round; but he could not check a movement of surprise when he saw
at the head of the dead woman a face unknown to him.
How did this stranger introduce himself into this gloomy place, to
which admission was forbidden?
He immediately had the key to this riddle, for the newcomer, bowing,
gave his name.
It was William Dow.
Now, although the sculptor did not know the celebrated detective by
sight, he knew him perfectly by name, for in a previous criminal
affair, for several months no one was so much talked of as this retired
doctor.
Thanks to him, the police of New York had finally put their hands on a
band of counterfeiters who, for more than two years, had boldly drawn
from the coffers of the government.
Although he did not understand the motive of this nightly visit, the
operator returned William Dow’s greeting with an expression in his face
which told how flattered he was to find himself with a man for whom he
professed real admiration. Both, in their way, were artists.
“You know, sir,” said the detective, “how curious I am about all that
in any way concerns the discovery of a crime; you therefore will not be
astonished at my presuming to come here. You are doing a great service
to the cause of justice, and I wish to see for myself how you perform
this delicate operation.”
The sculptor willingly explained to his visitor what he had already
done, and after assuring himself that the plastic was in the necessary
state of cohesion, he took the end of the cord extending the length of
the face, and, raising it skilfully, cut the mask in two. He did the
same with the other cords arranged in various directions, saying:
“Now, I must wait until the plaster takes the form sufficiently, then
I remove each of these parts which, united, will give me a cast into
which it only remains for me to pour the material of which I am to make
the bust. If I wish to have anything more finished, absolutely perfect,
I go over the bust again with the chisel to correct imperfections, and
use it for a second cast, from which is obtained a work of art which
needs only finishing touches.”
“That is very ingenious, sir,” said William Dow, “but when I examine
this body, I truly regret that you have taken a cast only of the upper
part. Do you not think that it is one of the most beautiful models for
sculpture that could be found?”
“It is, indeed, admirable in its shape and proportions.”
“Why, then, did you not take an entire cast?”
“Mr. Kelly asked me only for the head. To do more would be considerable
labor, and very difficult besides, for Doctor O’Neel, who made the
autopsy of the unfortunate woman, left the body open. After filling in
the vacuum caused by the removing of the viscera, and which occasions
the alteration in the flesh, it would be necessary to draw together
the separated parts in order to have a model without solutions of
continuity. Don’t you see?” Saying which, Albert Moor removed the cloth
from the body that William Dow might judge of the state of things for
himself.
“It is true,” answered the detective, examining with the coolness of
a practitioner the open body; “but it does not seem to me impossible
to remedy this obstacle. I have some surgical knowledge, and I think
I could myself put this body in a suitable condition. Give me five
minutes to go to the doctor on duty at Bellevue Hospital to obtain the
necessary instruments, and, if you then think the thing possible, I
shall beg you to do it, and charge your own price for the entire cast
of this woman. I think, in the interest of art, it would be a useful
work.”
“I think so, too, sir,” said the sculptor, delighted to have an
opportunity to earn a large sum. “My plaster is sufficiently dry;
during your absence I shall take it off. We can then do the whole body.”
William Dow left. He was, no doubt, well known in the establishment,
for in a few moments he returned to the autopsy-room in company with a
hospital nurse, who brought all the articles needed for the peculiar
operation about to be performed.
Albert Moor had disengaged the head from its covering, and the face now
appeared of a yellow ivory hue. The moulding had succeeded perfectly.
The detective began his work at once. After filling in the cavities of
the stomach and bowels with oakum saturated with an aromatic solution
and corrosive sublimate, in order to retard decomposition, he drew
the sides of the opening together, and united them so skilfully that
the body soon took its natural form. He did the same with the other
solutions of continuity which Doctor O’Neel had made in the throat and
the top of the cranium, to find proofs that the poor woman had not been
asphyxiated by submersion, and that she had not succumbed to an attack
of apoplexy. Then he arranged the rich mass of hair with such art that
the head did not show the least sign of the autopsy.
It was really a moving, peculiar spectacle of which this silent little
room was the scene in the still hours of the night.
“Is that all right?” asked William Dow, when he had finished his
horrible task.
“Perfectly, sir,” answered Albert Moor, and then setting to work
himself, the sculptor prepared the body as he had done the head.
The detective watched him attentively. In less than an hour, all was
done. The corpse was lost to sight beneath a thick coating of plaster,
which after removing cords was divided into twenty fragments. It looked
like a block of snow.
“In the morning,” said the artist, “I will take off my mould; we can
then decide on what is to be done with it, as you think best.”
“We will come to an understanding about that. Meanwhile I must thank
and compliment you on the skill with which you have performed this
difficult work.”
While they were exchanging these words they had made their preparations
for departure; but Albert Moor did not wish to leave until he had told
the watchman at the morgue not to touch or let anyone touch the cast
before his return.
As for William Dow, before leaving the autopsy-room, his intelligent
eyes gazed long and thoughtfully at the inert mass, and he murmured:
“Who knows if this will not be more than a work of art, and if this
woman of stone will not accuse herself some day.”
CHAPTER IX.
WHAT THE HONORABLE CORONER DAVIS THOUGHT, AND WHAT ROBERTSON, JR., WAS
CONVINCED OF.
Mr. Davis, the coroner charged with this mysterious affair, was an
intelligent, laborious man; but, like all his colleagues in the
American magistracy, he had so often encountered the difficulties with
which judicial inquests are armed in the Northern States, that he
hardly hoped to obtain a prompt result.
A fortnight later the inquest had made great progress, owing to the
reward of one hundred dollars promised to each person who should
furnish useful information in the cause of justice.
Toby naturally presented himself to declare that the barrel of tar
fastened to the leg of the drowned woman was the one stolen from him on
the night of the ball, at two or three o’clock in the morning. He was
certain of it, for it was at that very moment that he left his post as
watch on Wharf 43 to go and warm himself in Anchor tavern. This inn was
on the wharf, seven or eight hundred yards above Shakespeare’s tavern,
going up toward Yorkville.
After Toby came Thompson, the keeper of the livery stable, and his
driver, Tom Katters; but the latter could only tell the magistrate of
his traveling in company with three Indians and a woman as far as the
first houses in Yorkville.
Beyond this stopping-place the legal officers lost all traces of the
unhappy Miss Ada and her kidnappers.
Captain Young and his skilful agents searched in vain all the taverns,
lodging-houses, dens, and suspicious places from the borders of the
river to Yorkville, and discovered nothing which could throw light upon
the matter.
This campaign served only to accomplish the arrest of a hundred
offenders against the law--people important to capture, but absolutely
innocent of the crime which excited public opinion in the highest
degree.
Mary, on being questioned several times, invariably told the same story
of the kidnapping, which she had witnessed, as had all Miss Ada’s
guests. The servants affirmed--and there was no reason to suppose that
she lied--that she, like every one else, had taken the scene for a
carnival joke.
Mary took care not to speak Colonel Forster’s name, whom she evidently
suspected as she had told Mr. Saunders, for she feared to compromise
herself, and be accused of being an accomplice. Besides it might be
that her silence was caused by her thinking it impossible that the
brilliant officer could have had any part in the crime of which her
mistress had been a victim, admitting that the drowned woman really
was, whatever she had said, the unhappy Miss Ada. Moreover, when the
coroner had proposed to her to return to the morgue to again examine
the body, the young girl began to tremble and weep, and said that
probably she was mistaken, but that not for any amount of money could
she have the courage to confront such a spectacle a second time.
Mr. Davis, therefore, had to resign himself to go no farther with the
maid; but, without her suspecting it, he placed her under a constant
surveillance.
However, the examination of this girl had not been useless, for to her
Mr. Davis owed the enumeration and detailed description of the jewels
which Miss Ada had on the day when she was carried off.
Mary, in giving this information of utmost importance, showed so good
a memory and so much intelligence, that the coroner could have each
of these jewels estimated, drawn, and photographed--they easily found
those who had sold them--so that the principal jewelers in America and
Europe could be notified.
The assassin, it is true, could change the setting of the necklaces,
bracelets, and rings; but the coroner counted much on the ear-rings
of the victim, for the discovery of the murderer. He knew that these
diamonds were solitaires, valued at ten thousand dollars. Now, it is
difficult to get rid of stones of this cut without awaking suspicion,
even in America.
What baffled the honorable magistrate was that Miss Ada had been taken
beyond the wharf from which the barrel of tar had been stolen.
Now, as the report of Doctor O’Neel demonstrated that the victim had
ceased to live before being thrown into the water, he concluded that
the murderer had retraced his steps with the corpse, and, that, not
being provided with a rock to sink the body he took the first object he
could lay hands on.
This first deduction naturally led the coroner to a second--that the
assassin had been able to descend only by water from the place where
Tom Katters had parted from him--Miss Ada being still living, since the
coachman had heard the man who brought her talking to her--to Wharf 43,
from which the barrel had been taken.
Mr. Davis thus succeeded in establishing this first point: On leaving
the carriage, the unknown had embarked with the young woman, had
choked, poisoned, or asphyxiated her by means of a poison or narcotic
impossible to state what, and had afterward thrown her into the river.
The lieutenant of the Liberia had come to make the intelligent
magistrate the declaration which he had previously made to the
Robertson agency, that on Tuesday or Wednesday night, the night of the
kidnapping, he came near running down a boat in which were an Indian
and a woman--a boat going towards Williamsburg--and that this woman had
uttered a cry of fear; but this only made it supposable that the crime
had been committed on the other side of the river, for all these shores
receiving tides, the body might have been as easily carried out by the
waves as to have descended from the top of the river with the current.
On the opposite shore, at Greenpoint, Williamsburg, and Brooklyn, the
search had not produced any better results than at Yorkville.
None of the men of the Firefly, not even those of the boat we saw
skirting Staten Island, came to the aid of the police. In the first
place, the crew of the yacht were absolutely ignorant of the aim of the
excursion which we have described, and, moreover, although the sailors
of the boat knew that they had run into a yawl, they knew no more.
In their natural haste to save themselves they were no more anxious
about those who had made them run so great a danger than about the
stout man, who, no doubt, as an apology for the cold bath he had made
them take, had given them each one hundred dollars.
As for Saunders, it was impossible to obtain anything, whatever,
from him. Two or three times Mr. Davis had gone to his house, and
had questioned him as shrewdly as possible; but the unhappy man, at
the mere name of Miss Ada, rolled his haggard eyes wildly, muttered
incoherently, accused himself of her death, asked her forgiveness,
burst into sobs, then offered ten thousand dollars to anyone who would
discover her murderer.
He talked at random, with such good results, that the coroner, agreeing
with Mr. Kelly and Mr. Mortimer, gave up tormenting him, and this
in spite of Captain Young, who swore at them, and remembering the
recognition he had witnessed at the morgue, bet one thousand dollars
against two hundred dollars that the wealthy merchant was the murderer.
There was only one call which Mr. Saunders received without
terror--that of William Dow. He remembered that the latter had offered
him his arm to lead him from Bellevue Hospital, and in his presence he
wandered a little less.
So the gentlemanly detective went to see him from time to time, under
the pretext of inquiring about his health.
Mr. Robertson, Jr., who followed the progress of this search with
interest, as will be understood, reasoned quite differently from Mr.
Davis, and it must be acknowledged that his deductions, considering the
facts within his personal knowledge, were no less honorable than those
of the magistrate.
According to the intelligent agent, Miss Ada was accidentally drowned
on the shore of Staten Island. Her body, borne off by the current, did
not come to the surface until out to sea, where some fisherman may have
drawn it up in his nets, and, tempted by the precious jewels that the
young woman wore, the man had completely robbed her, then thrown her
into the water, after fastening to her leg a tar barrel, whose presence
in his fishing-boat was very natural. This tar barrel might be that
which had been stolen from Toby, or the fisherman might have stolen it
himself a few days before, or some one might have sold it to him; but
it might also simply be a barrel bearing the same mark as those stored
on Wharf 43, and not the particular one that had disappeared from that
wharf.
It will be seen that Davis and Robertson, while starting from a
different point, reached the same result--the certifying the identity
of the body of the drowned.
The coroner also had taken every measure to learn the past of Ada
Ricard, and by some brief information collected in New York, and made
more complete by former servants of the young woman and by the friends
of her first lover, Thomas Cornhill, he had been able to go as far back
as her marriage with James Gobson, which took place at Buffalo, but, as
we know, only to be broken at the end of a year by the divorce courts.
The documents relative to this case described the brutality of
Gobson toward his wife; and, when he learned that this man--who had
disappeared for more than six months--had been seen at Jefferson,
forty-eight hours distant from New York, a few days before the crime,
Mr. Davis no longer doubted that he was the guilty man.
It was equally the opinion of William Dow, contrary to all the
reasonings of the terrible Captain Young.
Now it only remained to arrest James Gobson; but this was not easy,
for it was very evident that the murderer, having committed the crime
and taken possession of the jewels, had made all despatch to put all
possible distance between him and the law.
Now, unfortunately, they had only one of those imperfect clews which
serve no end, and no photograph, whatever.
William Dow, who had gone to Buffalo, had brought back nothing
interesting in regard to the antecedents of the unfortunate Ada, as no
one had been able to give any information.
Gobson, who, when he lived at Buffalo, was often absent on business,
had one day returned from the West with her whom he had made his wife,
and as this union with a girl whose past and family he did not know,
had separated the merchant from his relatives as well as the majority
of his friends, it became almost impossible to find out about Miss Ada
before the time of her marriage.
Was the name of Ricard, which she had taken or resumed on arriving in
New York, her own? Mr. Davis would not have ventured to affirm it, and
Mr. Dow doubted it.
Matters, as we see, were progressing slowly, and the mystery seemed to
become more impenetrable every day.
Albert Moor was the only one who had brought his work to a successful
end. In a fortnight after his night at the morgue with William Dow he
had delivered to Mr. Kelly a head in wax, which in the opinion of all
who had known Ada Ricard was her striking image.
This head had been placed, according to regulations, in a glass case
outside the exhibition-room, in the large public hall, and every day
attracted considerable of a crowd.
It was to remain there until the matter was settled, in some way or
another, to be afterwards placed in the museum of curiosities at
Bellevue Hospital, where they keep the heads of murderers and those of
their victims.
CHAPTER X.
A MOHICK TELLS OF A VISIT BIG KELLY RECEIVES WHICH HE LITTLE EXPECTED,
AND HOW WILLIAM DOW TRANSFORMS A VISITOR INTO A PRISONER.
A month had already passed without the inquest having advanced a step,
and the irascible Kelly, much disturbed by public opinion which was
against his course, was tempted to doubt even the skill of William Dow,
when, one morning as he was talking with the latter, an office boy
brought a card on which was a name which gave him a start.
The name was James Gobson, from Buffalo.
“We have been mistaken,” he cried, passing the card to the detective.
The latter read it, and immediately answered with his shrewd smile:
“Oh! that proves nothing; or, at least not much of anything.”
“Let him come in,” said the officer, and in a few seconds the visitor
was admitted.
He was a tall man, about forty years old, tolerably good looking,
wearing his beard in the American style, without a mustache, and
seeming by no means embarrassed.
“Is this card yours?” asked Mr. Kelly, brusquely; for he did not
possess those qualities necessary to his situation--coolness and
self-control.
“It is mine,” answered the stranger with much assurance. “I read three
days ago at St. Louis, where I happened to be on business, that a woman
named Ada Ricard had been found drowned. Now the woman from whom I have
been divorced bore that name, and I at once took the train to come on
here, and here I am, ready to give you my aid, if I can be useful to
you in discovering the assassin.”
“What makes you suppose the woman was assassinated?”
“All the accounts in the newspapers so stated. They relate that when
she was taken from the river she was completely nude, and that a barrel
of tar was fastened to one leg. Her death, therefore, cannot be a
suicide.”
“Have you been to see her head at the morgue?”
“No, sir; I thought that my first duty was to come to you.”
“But you, at least, have a photograph of the dead. They are circulated
everywhere.”
“I heard of this event on the very morning of my arrival at St. Louis,
and none of these likenesses came under my eye.”
“Where had you come from?”
“From a long trip to the Rocky Mountains, where I had gone to visit the
mines.”
“I think, then, that the first thing to be done is for you to go to the
morgue.”
“I will go there immediately.”
“With me, if you will?”
“I have told you, sir, that I am at your orders.”
Mr. Kelly had rung the bell and said a few words in a low voice to the
secretary, who had quickly come at the call.
Almost immediately two agents presented themselves in the office of
their chief.
James Gobson did not betray any astonishment at the arrival of this
reinforcement. His coolness was that of a man perfectly sure of himself.
“Let us start, sir,” said the chief of police, rising and slipping in
his pocket the revolver, which was always within reach on his desk.
William Dow, who had not taken his eyes off of the former husband of
Ada Ricard, also arose.
“All ready, sir,” answered the stranger, putting on his hat.
All three went down stairs, followed by the agents, and found in the
yard of the central office two carriages harnessed, and the drivers on
the boxes.
Kelly, William Dow and James Gobson entered one, and the policemen the
other.
The chief of police advised the latter not to lose sight of Gobson for
a single instant, and he sent one of his secretaries to Mr. Davis to
beg him to immediately repair to the morgue.
In less than a quarter of an hour the party alighted at Bellevue
Hospital.
Mr. Kelly pointing out the way to his companions proceeded to the
clerk’s office without passing the public gallery, where curious
lookers-on were numerous, and he ordered the officer to dismiss the
crowd and close the doors. A few moments later, there was no one left
in the place where the head of the drowned was exhibited.
“Come,” said the officer to Mr. Gobson, when the clerk informed him
that the gallery was empty.
Without the least hesitation James Gobson kept pace with his escort,
and, followed by William Dow and the two agents, arrived at the glass
window.
At the sight of this wax face of the most admirable execution and
truly life-like beauty, the American wore an expression which William
Dow, who was watching him attentively, was not ready to interpret, and
then Mr. Gobson turned at once to Mr. Kelly and said with the greatest
calmness:
“It is really extraordinary, sir; I did not think such a resemblance
was possible.”
“Then, you recognize Miss Ada?” asked the chief of police, indignant,
in spite of his scepticism, at seeing the almost smiling face this man
wore in presence of this cast of the head of her who had been his wife.
“No, not at all, not at all,” answered James Gobson, quickly; “you
hardly understand me. Here are the features, and even the expression of
her who bore my name; but the unhappy woman of whom this cast has been
made was not Miss Ada.”
The tone in which he said this would have made one think that he really
regretted that it was not Mrs. Gobson.
“What! not Miss Ada? Take a good look,” resumed Mr. Kelly. “Through
her parted lips you can see that a tooth is missing, and that there
is a cut on the left ear. Now, the two servants who were successively
employed by your wife--”
“Pardon, my former wife.”
“Very well, your former wife; the two servants who were successively
employed by her, perfectly recalled these two details so decisive in
the certifying of the identity.”
“Did they both recognize Miss Ada?”
“Certainly they did.”
Mr. Kelly did not state the exact truth, since Mary, it will be
remembered, had at first denied that her mistress was the drowned
woman, and that she afterwards, hesitatingly, admitted her identity
that she might not be forced to re-visit the morgue. But the magistrate
thought a little fib like that of no consequence.
“Well,” said James Gobson, at the “certainly” of the impetuous officer,
“I do not recognize her.”
Annoyed, and hardly knowing what to do, the chief of police looked at
William Dow. Ada Ricard’s former husband caught the questioning look,
and immediately resumed:
“Please understand, sir, that it is for my interest to hold your
opinion.”
“How so?” said Kelly, surprised anew.
“Simply because between this former wife of mine and myself there was
an insurance contract which the divorce court could not break, and this
contract was made in favor of the survivor. If you absolutely insist
that this unhappy victim whose head I see here was Mrs. Gobson I should
be very foolish to deny it any longer, for with the certificate of
death which you have made out, and of which you will not refuse me a
copy, I shall have only to present myself at the Gresham Company to
immediately receive twenty thousand dollars.”
While the widower, no matter how he felt, was thus expressing himself
with the most perfect coolness and with a smile on his lips, Mr. Davis
had entered the gallery and had joined the spectators of this strange
scene.
“I think,” said William Dow, speaking to both the chief of police and
the coroner, “that the most simple thing to be done is to draw up an
official report of the declaration which you have just heard, and
deliver to him the certificate which he asks for. The death certificate
must be at the morgue.”
The detective, as he made this proposition, gave Mr. Kelly and Davis a
look which they understood, for they immediately followed him into the
directors’ office, but having first signed to the two policemen to look
after James Gobson.
The latter, at the firm, grave voice of this man, whom he had not
observed until then, could not conceal a slight shudder.
It seemed as if he had a presentiment of an adversary, for he turned
quickly toward the man who had made a proposition so in conformance
with his expressed wish, but he had already disappeared. However, after
the departure of the magistrates and their companion, he began to walk
up and down, with the evident intention of warming himself, the place
was so damp and chilly.
Outside was heard the crowd, which, having become quite large, was
breaking into noisy complaint at having so long been deprived of the
spectacle to which it had a right, and people were entertaining all
kinds of suppositions as to the cause of locking the doors of the
morgue.
After crossing the clerk’s office, William Dow led Mr. Kelly and Davis
into the directors’ private office, who were absent at that moment.
When there alone with them, he said:
“This man is Miss Ada’s murderer, I am convinced.”
“It is quite possible,” answered Kelly. “I have a bad opinion of him.
What do you think, my dear Mr. Davis?”
“You know,” said the coroner, “that I have always thought Miss Ada’s
husband guilty. But the voluntary appearance of the man, and what I
have just heard trouble my conscience somewhat. I do not dare to give
an opinion.”
“Follow me a moment in what I have to say,” resumed the detective, “and
without entering upon any hypothesis, let us reason only on what we
have seen and heard.”
The worthy Kelly, who liked nothing as much as to listen to his friend
Dow, and who, besides, asked nothing better than to be rid of the whole
affair, sank back in an arm-chair and crossed his arms; and the coroner
signified that he was ready to listen.
“Here is a person,” resumed the retired doctor, “who pretends that
he did not hear of the violent death of this woman whose husband
he was, until he reached St. Louis three days ago, and in that city
where her photographs are on exhibition everywhere, he did not seek to
assure himself, by examining one of them, that it really was his wife.
Then, this man who through the same papers in which he read the event
certainly was aware of the suspicions of which he was the object, and
the reward promised for his arrest, this man arrives here, affects to
know nothing of the fact, which, however, so directly affects him, and
instead of hastening to the morgue where he knows that the head is
exhibited, he does not concern himself an instant about the identity
of the victim, but goes straight to the police. Does not this conduct
betray in the most evident manner a system adopted in advance, and
matured after deep reflection, a system one basis of which is the
non-recognition of the drowned woman, which has just been observed?”
“Eh! eh!” murmured Mr. Kelly, with a smile, “that is very well
reasoned.”
“Gobson, in your presence, is calm, and a perfect master of himself,”
continued William Dow, “and when you ask him how it happens that he has
known this event for so short a time he answers you that he comes from
the Rocky Mountains, where he has been several months. Now, Mr. Davis
knows that a few days before the crime, hardly six weeks ago, James
Gobson was met at Jefferson, in Missouri; why then does he tell this
lie?”
“It is true,” said the coroner, in his turn; “there is a contradiction
about it which is indeed of a nature to arouse suspicion.”
“That is not all. When, just now, after he said that he did not
recognize Miss Ada, you insisted on this point, that she was recognized
by the two maids, Gobson committed the imprudence of addressing you
this question: ‘Both of them, do you say, both of them recognized Miss
Ada.’ Why should he have this doubt in regard to both recognitions? One
of them, then, astonished him, which one? Mary’s, of course, who, in
fact, refused to recognize her former mistress, whose features were,
however, fresh in her memory. Does not this coincidence strike you? Do
you not see in it the beginning of a proof of an understanding between
these two persons?”
“That is indisputable,” said Kelly, radiant.
“That is very possible,” confessed Mr. Davis, more prudently.
“Gobson tells you, it is true, that it would be for his interest
to recognize Miss Ada, since her death would give him twenty
thousand dollars, but he has this moment a much greater anxiety than
gaining that sum--that of escaping accusation, and this kind of
disinterestedness is one of the weapons he proposes to use. In the
first place the theft of the jewels of his victim is a compensation
for abandoning the twenty thousand dollars; moreover, he hopes, no
doubt, that this money will not be lost to him, for, in the matter of
a contract of life insurance, the forfeiture having a long term, he
reserves for himself certainly the chance to maintain his rights,
when, either through prescription, the uselessness of the inquest, or
by acquittal, for he has foreseen all, he will be safe from pursuit as
a criminal, therefore to recognize his wife was more dangerous from
every point of view than not to recognize her.”
“Very just, very just,” observed the chief of police; “but why has that
fool come to give himself up?”
“My dear Mr. Kelly,” answered Dow, “because he is a bold and skilful
man. What is passing between us is a reason for it. Even yesterday Mr.
Davis and you did not suspect his culpability, while now, just because
he has come to you, you hesitate to believe it. Did he not fear being
arrested some day? In order to boldly dispose of the stolen jewels at
a later period, in order to get the premium on his insurance policy,
should he not first be free from the hands of the law. He plays a
shrewd game who comes forward to meet danger. I do not know whether we
shall succeed in convicting him, but my reason and conscience tell me
that he is the assassin, or at least the accomplice of assassins.”
“Apropos of accomplices,” interrupted Mr. Kelly, “how happens it that,
in spite of the reward offered, a reward that I have raised to two
thousand dollars, the two men who aided in carrying off Miss Ada have
not presented themselves? Knowing, thanks to the declaration of the
driver, that they left the carriage before it reached its destination
and, consequently, that they are not accomplices of the assassination,
I have re-advertised through the papers that they had no pursuit to
fear.”
“The silence of these two men,” answered the detective, “may be
caused by two very different motives. In the first place it would not
be impossible that these aids were accomplices in the crime in the
complete acceptation of the word; that is, that they met Miss Ada
and her kidnapper after the departure of the carriage, to receive
their share of the jewels. It will be readily understood that they
cared little for your reward. Then, it may also be, and this idea
was suggested to me by certain information which I promise myself to
control and to complete, that these two aids, as you very justly call
them, might have been unconscious aids only, brought from afar by James
Gobson to help him in his enterprise, without knowing his real purpose,
then sent away by him to places where it is certain that neither our
papers nor even the rumors of our cities will reach.”
“What do you mean?”
“That, if these Indians, so true in their costumes, singing and
dancing, were real Indians from the prairies, it would not astonish me.
Now you must know that among the Sioux or Comanches the story of the
assassination of Miss Ada is unknown.”
“By George, my dear Dow, you are admirable!” cried Kelly in the
greatest enthusiasm.
“Then you are going to arrest Gobson?”
“I think I shall, if Mr. Davis is of the same opinion.”
“It is exactly my opinion,” answered the coroner, who having a shrewder
mind than that of the chief of police, was no less astonished at the
deductions of the detective. “Now I am convinced, and as I have here in
my pocket-book the warrant which I have issued against James Gobson,
his arrest is the simplest thing in the world. Come, I will take charge
of it.”
“Here, my dear William, is a haul for your net for which my worthy
Young will never forgive you,” observed Kelly, laughing and opening the
door of the clerk’s office. “Hark! there he is.”
The great Young was, indeed, in the next room. Being warned by one of
his agents that the crowd was becoming more numerous and noisier than
usual around the morgue, the captain of detectives hurried to the spot,
and, seeing the doors of the dismal building closed, he went to the
clerk’s room to inquire the cause of this riotous crowd.
“Then, let us leave him the pleasure and honor of arresting Gobson,”
proposed Dow.
“Very well,” said the coroner, who, perhaps, had no intense longing to
accomplish this mission himself, and he rapidly acquainted Young with
what had happened and what had been decided upon. Then he gave him the
warrant.
The captain, although he still adhered to his belief in the culpability
of Saunders, did not make any remark; he turned upon his heels and went
to the door which led from the clerk’s office to the public gallery.
“One word, my good Young,” said William Dow, signing him to stop.
“Take your precautions; he is a solid customer, and I should not wonder
if he were armed.”
This was all that was needed to excite the daring of the terrible
detective. He answered with a proud smile, and pushed open the door.
James Gobson, leaning against the heavy railing which protects the
glass window, behind which the bodies are exposed, from the rudeness of
the crowd, was quietly reading the New York Herald, but he read it with
only one eye, for, at the sound of men leaving the clerk’s office, he
drew himself up, let his paper fall, and took a few steps backward.
His face was so perfectly calm that one could not have said that he was
putting himself on the defensive.
But when he saw this powerful man, whom he did not know, coming toward
him, he reached the end of the gallery with one bound, and hearing
Young call out to him in his stentorian voice: “It is useless to
resist, sir, I have orders to arrest you,” he drew a revolver from his
pocket, aimed it at the captain, and answered him in a tone which left
no doubt as to his intention:
“Why arrest me? If you come near me I shall kill you. A citizen of this
free country cannot be arrested like this.”
“That is what I feared,” murmured the stout Kelly, who, although very
brave, did not care to risk his life in such an adventure; so, thinking
it wise to parley with him, he took Young by the arm and said in answer
to Gobson:
“As an American, your remark does not lack justice; but as the former
husband of Ada Ricard it is not common sense, for you are suspected
of being her murderer, and there is a writ against you which must be
executed.”
“I, the assassin--it is false!” cried James Gobson, and his arm still
preserved its horizontal position.
At the same moment a great shouting was heard outside. The crowd had
divined what had passed; they wished the murderer to be delivered up to
them, and threatened, in spite of the policemen, to invade the morgue.
“You understand,” resumed the chief of police, “if you do not give
yourself up with a good grace I shall order the doors to be opened.”
Miss Ada’s former husband turned somewhat pale, for he knew how the
people in America set to work to administer justice; however, he
replied in a voice none the less steady:
“I am innocent. Anything rather than deliver myself up like a coward.”
But he had hardly uttered these words when a pistol shot was heard, he
gave a cry and his shattered revolver fell from his hand.
All this was due to William Dow, who had entered the exhibition-room,
and had slipped behind the curtain until he was opposite James Gobson,
and a ball skilfully sent had disarmed without wounding him.
Understanding that all resistance had become useless, Gobson
immediately surrendered to Captain Young, who sprang forward.
Mr. Kelly ordered the prisoner to be taken to the hospital through the
clerk’s room and the inner courts, for it did not seem to him prudent
to face the crowd, whose excitement the pistol shot had increased. Then
he rushed out of doors that he might himself announce the arrest of
Miss Ada Ricard’s murderer.
At this news, a thousand enthusiastic hurrahs arose, and the chief of
police felt the gentle satisfaction of having his ears shattered by the
shouts of “Three cheers for Kelly! Kelly forever!” shouts that not only
flattered his pride, but assured his re-election.
A few moments later, William Dow joined him, and Kelly affectionately
pressed his hand, for it really was to his intelligence and skill that
he owed this new victory.
As for Captain Young, although but half convinced of the guilt of his
prisoner, he conveyed him in a carriage--a quarter of an hour later--to
the Tombs, with much advice to the director.
CHAPTER XI.
A CRIMINAL COURT IN THE STATE OF NEW YORK.
That same day the arrest of James Gobson was known all over the city,
and in the evening the principal papers were full of the most absurd
and sensational details of the scene at the morgue.
The pistol-shot fired by William Dow was represented by some of these
papers as a veritable volley of musketry. Some said that Miss Ada’s
assassin did not give himself up until he had fought and overpowered
half a dozen policemen; others, that it was necessary to fire at and
disable him in order to capture him.
Not until the next day were the facts exactly known, owing to the
eagerness with which the police of America inform the public, to give
it every means of control, not only by communicating official reports,
but by authorizing journalists to visit the prisoners.
James Gobson found his cell besieged by a troop of reporters, but the
story he told the first could have served for all the others, for it
did not vary a syllable.
He had fully recovered his coolness; he ate, drank, and smoked like a
man whose conscience is perfectly quiet. When he read anything severe
about himself in the papers, he merely shrugged his shoulders.
When he was confronted with the witnesses, skilfully brought together
by Mr. Mortimer and Davis, Thomson, the livery stable-keeper, and Tom
Katters, his driver, who had recognized him by his features and voice,
then with ten of Miss Ada Ricard’s guests, who declared that his form
and bearing were those of the Indian in whose arms the unfortunate
woman had been carried off, he answered them firmly, but without anger,
that they were mistaken.
As for Mary, she could say nothing since she had seen the kidnapper
only at a distance, beyond the throng of dancers.
But James Gobson had convinced none of his innocence, Mr. Davis less
than anyone, for he refused to give him any liberty whatever, and
notwithstanding the efforts of the lawyer Macready, who called to his
aid all the ruses which the arsenal of the American law provides, the
examination was so quickly ended that a month after his arrest the
prisoner was informed that he was soon to appear before the Criminal
Court.
The grand jury referred the indictment to the common jury.
“Do you plead guilty, or not guilty?” asked his defender on bringing
him this news.
“Not guilty, Mr. Macready, not guilty,” answered the prisoner, warmly.
“Do you doubt my innocence after all the proof I have given you?”
“Heaven forbid. I am certain of it, and I promise you that the lawyer
for the State--the illustrious O’Brien--will have some ugly hours to
pass,” and leaving his client with this kind promise, Mr. Macready went
to once more look over his documents.
As for James Gobson, we must confess, that when he was alone in his
cell, he did not so well conceal the anxiety which he had felt for
several days and which visibly increased as the hour for his trial
approached.
Public opinion, which has such great weight in matters of justice in
the United States, was not favorable to him; and he lacked, what to the
accused is a defensive weapon, often all-powerful--he belonged to no
political party or any religious sect.
Now, James Gobson had not this advantage on his side. Politics were
quiet, and without very great difficulty, in spite of the trickery
of his defender, they had drawn the twelve necessary jurors, a more
difficult operation in the United States than elsewhere.
Mr. Macready, who was an able man, had full confidence in the result of
the trial, and so well convinced his client of this that on the morning
when he was to appear before the criminal court, he breakfasted with
an excellent appetite. Toward eleven o’clock, when the guards came to
take the prisoner before the audience, he quietly put on his gloves,
followed them with firm step, and took his place before the judges more
as a curious spectator than as an accused man.
The crowd was large, and occupied, as it was, by the wax head of Ada
Ricard, which had been placed on a small table, the people turned their
looks away to fasten them on James Gobson, whom, perhaps, not one
present knew by sight. But this movement of curiosity did not for a
moment disturb the accused, who was sitting near his lawyer and talking
to him in a low voice.
James Gobson raised his head only when the chief justice, Mr. Douglas,
announced that the court was open.
It is useless to say that Mr. Mortimer and the coroner, Davis, were
present, as well as our friends, William Dow and Young.
When the usual formalities were gone through with, Mr. O’Brien, the
lawyer for the State, took up the arguments to review the facts on
which the accusation rested.
If, among the auditors, there remained any persons still doubting the
guilt of James Gobson, they were soon convinced of it, for, after
having traced the accused back to the time of his marriage, to review
his conduct toward his wife, his divorce, his habits, his vows of
revenge, and his adventurous life, Mr. O’Brien showed him a few days
before the crime at Jefferson preparing everything for its execution.
Then he traced him to the livery stable-keeper, followed him to the
ball at Miss Ada’s house, accompanied him to Yorkville, and then
taking as a basis the ingenious deductions he had made, he got on
board the boat with James Gobson and his wife, to make those present
who were listening to him, witness the terrible scene that took place
on the river at night. They saw the assassin choke Miss Ada, rob her of
her jewels and clothing, and leave nothing on her by which she could be
recognized in case she should come to the surface of the water later,
fasten to one of her legs the barrel of tar stolen from Wharf 43; that
the body, kept down at the bottom of the river, could not float before
decomposition had made it quite unrecognizable, and finally, to fling
into the deep the unhappy victim of this frightful murder.
“Having accomplished his crime, then,” said his accuser, “James Gobson
had only one anxiety--to prepare an alibi to escape all suspicions.
He then set out for the Rocky Mountains, where he remained not three
months, as he pretended, but only one month; and when he returned and
presented himself at the central police office it was to affirm that
he had heard of the crime only a few hours, and that the drowned woman
was not the one who had borne his name. Fortunately for justice, two
honorable inhabitants of Jefferson saw James Gobson in that city only a
few days before the crime, and ten witnesses found in him the features,
voice and stature of the man who hired a carriage, gave orders to the
coachman, Tom Katters, and so audaciously carried away Miss Ada Ricard
from her guests. As for his accomplices, if they did not betray him,
it was because they received their share of the booty, and because
silence alone could save them.”
After this plain conclusive presentation of Mr. O’Brien, the court
heard the witnesses. All confirmed their preceding testimony, all again
recognized the poor woman in the wax head, excepting Mary, who, without
daring to raise her eyes, murmured--
“I did not recognize my mistress at the morgue; how do you expect me to
recognize her here?”
Only one witness failed to appear, and that was the fat Saunders; but,
after a medical examination, the court and Mr. Macready excused him
from appearing. Since we saw him last his condition had not improved;
when Mr. Davis made a last attempt with him, he threw himself on his
knees crying:
“It is I who am the cause of her death, but I did not mean to drown
her. Oh! that colonel, I will kill him.”
And seeing in these inexplicable exclamations only the despair of a
lover maddened by the loss of his loved one, the coroner said that
Saunders before long would completely lose his reason.
As overpowering as the first part of this testimony might have been to
him, James Gobson lost none of his calmness. He interrupted neither Mr.
O’Brien nor the witnesses; he merely smiled at times.
The honorable chief justice, Mr. Douglas, had not addressed a word to
James Gobson, and was about to let Mr. Macready have his turn, when
Mr. Gobson suddenly arose and said in a firm voice:
“Your honors, and gentlemen of the jury; my lawyer, I am sure, is
going to prove to you, without much trouble, how unfounded are the
accusations which you have just heard. I wish only to tell you this:
That all the witnesses who declare that they recognize me for the
person of whom they speak are misled by a strange resemblance, as well
as those who find in this wax face the features of the former Mrs.
Gobson. I am no more the murderer of the drowned woman of whom that
cast is taken, than the drowned woman is Ada Ricard.”
Having uttered these words, without feeling disturbed at the murmur
with which the spectators had received them, the accused seated himself.
Mr. Macready then took the stand, and although his task seemed
difficult, one would have thought from his very first words that there
was not the shadow of a doubt in his mind as to the acquittal of his
client.
“Whether the victim of this mysterious event,” were his opening words,
“is or is not the woman called Ada Ricard, having first been Mrs.
Gobson, matters little. Some recognize her, others do not, and the man
whose greatest interest it would be to find the features of his wife
in this wax face sees only a resemblance which did not for a moment
deceive him. Yes, gentlemen, the greatest interest, for if Miss Ada
Ricard were dead, her former husband, James Gobson, would receive
twenty thousand dollars from Gresham Insurance Company. I know, and
James Gobson knows as well as I do, that the assassination of one by
the other of the contractors annuls the contract; then you would have
to accuse my client of complicity only, for bold and skilful as you
believe him, he would never have been so simple as to make himself
unworthy of the only benefit he might obtain from the death of her
who had been his wife. The very situation in which you have placed
him makes the crime impossible; he had no object to commit it only
through vengeance. To give himself that cruel satisfaction, he would
have risked his honor, his life, and twenty thousand dollars; that is
a great deal. Oh! I know very well that my opponent would like to make
him out not only an assassin but a thief, who not only killed his wife
but even robbed her of her jewels, and that they were the reward of his
crime, a reward that would compensate, and how greatly indeed, for the
loss of twenty thousand dollars.
“Well, where are these jewels? Has he sold them? To whom? Have you
found them at his house, in his trunks? It is not sufficient to say of
a man that he has stolen; if he has not been caught in the act, it must
be further proven what he has done with the articles stolen or discover
a trace of them. In this case you make the accusation of a theft and
the main proof nowhere exists. I affirm, then, that you cannot condemn
him as a murderer, for, apart from the theft, he would have acted like
a fool if he had made himself the murderer of his wife.
“Let us consider. If he had murdered and robbed Ada Ricard, what would
have been his object in presenting himself to Mr. Kelly? Consider, I
say, that here is a man who, having a certain fortune, has committed
a crime which brings him nearly one hundred thousand dollars. He can
escape pursuit, yet he delivers himself up to the police. Is the
idea admissible for a single instant? No; the truth is this: When,
learning the death of the former Mrs. Gobson, James remembered his
assurance policy; and his sole aim in coming to New York was to obtain
a death certificate to benefit by the clauses of this policy, and it
was he--even when he could not doubt your suspicions, ready to break
forth into an accusation--it was he who cried out, sacrificing his own
interests: ‘You are all mistaken, that is not Ada Ricard.’
“Does not common sense, logic and reason overthrow your romantic
construction? Unless it was committed by some blood-thirsty brute,
is not all crime a speculation? A monstrous speculation, but still a
speculation. Well, is James Gobson a brute? No; then what could his
speculation have been?
“Let us pass now to these facts which the lawyer for the State links
with such skill, or what he thinks he does. They will not bear
examining an instant; he is no wise man who accepts them. You wish to
make out that James Gobson killed his wife because he tells you that
he was in the Rocky Mountains at the moment of the crime, and that two
persons saw him a few days before at Jefferson. In the first place
were not these persons mistaken? But admitting that they tell the
truth, I do not think you have made a point as regards the assertion.
“James Gobson must then be forced, under penalty of being regarded as a
criminal, to recall what he was doing during that night that Miss Ada
was entertaining her friends? I confess to you, for my part, that if I
had to say what I was doing and where I was three months ago at that
hour, I should be very much embarrassed; and I defy any one here to
declare on his honor that he can precisely answer such a question. And
then, is it my mission to prove that my client is innocent? That is a
mistake; it is you, whose mission it is to prove him guilty. Now you do
not do so. You present a man disguised and masked. You do not tear off
the mask. You give him accomplices and do not find them again. You say
that he has stolen, and you do not know what has became of the articles
stolen. All that is very serious, and have I not a right to cry out?
A crime has been committed--a mysterious crime--whose victim even,
is not absolutely recognized; a crime that has deeply stirred public
opinion, which you wish to bring to your side and calm, and you think
it indispensable to offer a guilty man; whoever it may be, were it even
James Gobson, a perfectly innocent man.”
This, it will be understood, is only Mr. Macready’s plea abridged, for
he spoke more than five hours, and often succeeded in winning a portion
of his hearers. But his influence was not so great on the jury, for,
after less than an hour’s deliberation, they brought in a verdict of
guilty.
On hearing the head juryman declare his client guilty of murder, with
extenuating circumstances there could be no question about it--nothing
of the kind being allowed in the American law, Mr. Macready, who had
arisen, sank back overcome on his chair. As for James Gobson, he did
not betray the least surprise, but a smile of scorn was on his lips.
Hon. Mr. Douglas now arose. He read in a loud voice the various
articles of the penal law relating to the case, and pronounced the
accused condemned to death. Then, after consulting an almanac, he added:
“James Gobson, unless you have some serious objection to the day, you
will be hanged on the twenty-fifth of this month. To-day is Tuesday; it
will be a fortnight from to-morrow.”
“I should prefer, your honor,” answered the condemned man, with much
coolness, “to live a little longer, but I have no other remark to make.
Wednesday awakens no repugnance in my mind. On that day you will cause
an innocent man to die.”
After putting on his hat and clasping the hand of his defender, James
Gobson retired as calm as when he had come there.
The crowd, from which there had not been the slightest murmur of
approbation or disapprobation, moved quietly away. It was evident,
nevertheless, that Mr. Macready had gained a certain number of his
hearers. To the minds of some there was a doubt as to the guilt of his
client.
The intrepid Young was one of the latter; for, as he was leaving the
court-room in company with William Dow, the latter asking him if he was
convinced, he answered:
“Not at all. That devil of a man did not betray himself a single
minute; he had the calmness of an innocent man. Besides, what vexes me
is that we cannot put our hands on his accomplices or the jewels of
Miss Ada. Mr. Macready is right, if he stole the jewels why did he come
and give himself up?”
“To believe a thing you have to see it.”
“Well, deuce take it, when I see a thing I know it.”
“Then, when the wind carries away your hat you do not believe it is
the wind because it is not visible. Ah, my dear captain, you are the
bravest soldier I know, but you will never be a wise detective. Well,
now, to please you and quiet your conscience, I promise to find you
James Gobson’s accomplices and his wife’s jewels.”
“Ah, that day my admiration for you will be unbounded.”
William Dow received this flattering assurance with a sad smile, which
said that he had a very different aim than the puerile satisfaction of
vanity; then he pressed the hand the chief of detectives offered him
and left, saying:
“Yes, certainly, I shall find the accomplices, or rather the aids, of
James Gobson, and before long, I hope.”
CHAPTER XII.
HOW THE WORTHY MR. MIDLER EXHORTED HIS PENITENTS TO DIE LIKE CHRISTIANS.
William Dow resided in Sixth Avenue, in a pretty and comfortably
furnished house. He lived very retired, with a charming child of
sixteen, Miss Jane, who called him “my friend,” and showed him the most
tender affection. Who the young girl was none knew, and the few who
tried to question Mrs. Wandright, the governess, gained little, for the
good woman invariably answered: “Miss Jane is the daughter of a distant
relative of Mr. Dow; she was an orphan, and he adopted her.”
However it was, Miss Jane was an adorable young girl, morally and
physically. She was a blonde, slender, but not fragile, with a rosy,
smiling mouth, large blue eyes, both lively and gentle, and was pretty
enough to set the least poetical Yankee to dreaming. When one knew the
kindness of her heart, the uprightness of her mind, and the refinement
and purity of her sentiments, he could not but adore her.
William Dow adored her, but with a reserve, tinged with melancholy,
that caused a struggle with his affectionate impulses.
When Miss Jane gazed at him with her pure eyes, after one of his
frequent absences, and throwing her arms around his neck, covered his
forehead and cheeks with innocent kisses, scolding him gently for
leaving her so often, William, whose strength of will we already know,
would turn suddenly pale and look sad.
When unobserved he gazed at the child, who looked smilingly at life, a
shadow rested on his forehead and his eyes became moist. One would have
thought Miss Jane was to him both the source of happiness and remorse.
She occupied all of the first story of the house. She had a dainty
sleeping-room and a large parlor, fragrant with flowers, and filled
with birds. Mrs. Wandright occupied a small room near her pupil’s
apartments.
William Dow reserved the ground floor for himself, the principal room
being his study. There he received the chief of police, Captain Young,
and a few rare friends, but the most of his time was spent in solitude,
his only companions being the books in his library.
Sometimes Miss Jane would come and take her friend away from his work,
and he would then smile at the little girl he so dearly loved that she
might have no anxiety. Occasionally they went out together, sometimes
on horseback, sometimes on foot, and he completed her education during
this exercise by interesting and instructive conversation. In a word,
between these two, whom a mysterious event had united, there existed
an intimacy of admiration and love on the part of the child, and
protection and duty on the part of the man.
“How learned you are, my friend,” cried Jane, when, in his clear,
precise way of stating things, her professor had explained to her some
physical phenomenon or some controverted point in history.
William Dow, turning aside his head, blushed as if the compliment awoke
some sorrowful memory.
Although Miss Jane was carefully guarded against indulging unhealthy
curiosity, she learned, as every one in New York, the history of the
drowned woman, James Gobson’s arrest and his appearance before the
Criminal Court. Therefore she was impatiently awaiting William Dow, and
when she heard him come in she ran to meet him in her eagerness to hear
the news.
“Confess it was just,” said the detective, “the wretch is condemned to
death.”
The young girl, in the kindness of her heart could not restrain a cry
of pity, and, no doubt, she was about to ask for the details, but
William Dow adroitly changed the conversation.
In the city hardly anything was talked of that evening but the sentence
of James Gobson; and the next day when the papers gave the arguments,
there were two opinions as among the hearers in court. The majority
thought the sentence just, while the minority believed the explanations
of the lawyer Macready, regarding the innocence of the condemned, or at
least, the doubt, of which he ought to have the benefit.
But James Gobson belonged to no political party or religious sect, or
any small church, and as none, in consequence, had any direct interest
through party spirit in making himself his defender, the excitement
rapidly died away, to be roused again on the eve of the execution.
All this time, Mary, who was on guard at the abandoned home, had been
making an inventory of the unfortunate Miss Ada’s wardrobe, while the
condemned man passed the last days allowed him by his honor Judge
Douglas, with considerable bravery.
“He is a very agreeable boarder,” said Mr. Peters, the manager of the
Tombs. “He has received an excellent education, and I enjoy calling on
him. Everything will go very quietly between Master Meyer and him.”
The amiable Mr. Peters smiled as he got off this dismal joke, for
Meyer, as we have said, was the hangman for the County of New York.
It was with him that James Gobson would have to do in a few days.
While awaiting this dreadful moment the prisoner seemed to be taking
things rather philosophically. When the worthy Mr. Midler, the reverend
Methodist, whose charge it was to prepare the condemned for death, came
to visit him, James Gobson politely begged him to leave him in quiet;
then he offered the worthy man, in the place of a religious talk, a
glass of sherry, which was always accepted.
Mr. Midler was a worthy man, gentle and indulgent, having ordinary
intelligence, but an excellent stomach, which made him sometimes
forget one of the fundamental principles of the sect to which he
belonged--to set the example of abstinence. He liked good living and
good wines, which had a visible effect, for he was plump and fresh,
rosy-faced and smiling.
Such was the consoler whom James Gobson received politely, but whose
holy exhortations he philosophically repelled.
However, when a week had elapsed, the condemned lost his calmness
somewhat at times, it required an effort to repress his anger, and when
Mr. Mortimer, the sheriff, who was to be present at his execution,
came to see him on the evening of the fatal day, he arose and walked
directly toward him.
The honorable magistrate, perhaps for a moment, believed that the
prisoner was going to make him some important revelation, but, as if
ashamed of his weakness, James Gobson suddenly resumed his ordinary
demeanor and simply asked his visitor:
“It is to-morrow, is it not?”
“Yes; to-morrow, at nine o’clock in the morning,” answered the sheriff,
“and I come to offer myself as an intermediary in case you have any
legal arrangements to make or any papers to convey to your family.”
“I am very grateful to you; you will find my will in my pocket; it
contains my last wishes.”
“Have you nothing else to say to me?”
“Nothing, unless, as it is, to protest my innocence for the last time.”
“Would you like to receive a call from the pastor, Midler?”
“To-morrow morning, certainly. The worthy chaplain will help me to
finish the bottle of excellent whiskey which the warden kindly sent me;
besides, when one has a disagreeable journey to take it is always well
to be accompanied and encouraged, as long as possible, by a worthy man.”
Finding that he would obtain nothing from the condemned, Mr. Mortimer
wished him good courage and left.
James Gobson returned to his table and leaned on his elbow, hiding
his pale face in his hands. If the sheriff could have seen him then
he would have discovered that there had been more bravado than real
courage in his attitude. It seemed as if, sustained until then by an
imaginary hope, it was now lost.
But he dined as usual, passed the night without complaining, and the
next day at seven o’clock, when Mr. Midler came to him he manifested no
emotion. Now, there remained but a few hours for him to live.
This was his own conviction, and he was listening to Mr. Midler’s
religious exhortations with more thoughtfulness than the latter had
hoped, when suddenly the door of the cell was opened to admit the
warden, accompanied by Mr. Mortimer and Davis.
The prisoner turned somewhat pale, but soon recovering that powerful
self-command of which he had given so many proofs, he said to them in a
firm voice, taking out his watch:
“Why, gentlemen, you are ahead of time; it is hardly eight o’clock, and
the execution is not to be until nine.”
“You will not be hanged to-day, James Gobson,” replied the sheriff.
“Why not? Is there any sudden proof of my innocence? It was time.”
“No; but a serious accident has happened to Meyer.”
“Meyer, ah! I know.”
“He broke his leg a moment ago.”
“Poor man.”
“As his aid is a young, inexperienced man, I have had to telegraph
to have Meyer’s assistant sent me, and he cannot arrive until this
evening.”
“Then it will be to-morrow.”
“It will be to-morrow.”
And, bowing to the prisoner as well as the pastor, the officers left
the cell.
“Supposing we continue our conversation,” said the reverend gentleman
to Gobson, after their departure.
“No,” answered Mr. Gobson, warmly, his face having suddenly recovered
its sceptical expression; “no, Mr. Midler, we will not resume it until
to-morrow morning, if you will be so kind. I have arisen earlier to-day
than usual, and all these successive emotions have made a hollow place
in my stomach. Will you do me the honor to breakfast with me? I have
two bottles of exquisite port which I did not expect to drink; we will
empty them together. I promise to listen to you while eating, and we
will strengthen at the same time both soul and body.”
“Very well, Mr. Gobson,” sighed the good minister, somewhat abashed at
the pleasantry, but evidently touched by the proposition. “It is my
mission to remain with you until the time of----”
“The rope. Well, since an accident to Master Meyer gives me twenty-four
hours more, let us breakfast.”
James Gobson had called the guard and ordered some ham, cold meats and
Chester cheese.
Good Mr. Midler was sitting opposite his penitent.
“To your health,” said the latter, after filling a glass for the
excellent man.
“To the health of your soul,” answered the pastor, with true unction,
and raising his eyes to heaven he devoutly drank the wine, then bravely
attacked the iced partridge which his host had placed before him.
James Gobson also fell to with a will, and there was a momentary
silence between the convivial host and guest.
William Dow himself would have been astonished at the philosophy and
coolness of the man he had caused to be arrested, and Mr. Davis, at the
sight of his calmness, would have remembered his first doubts, which
the arguments, it is true, had quickly banished from his mind.
When his partridge had disappeared, and his glass was emptied a second
time, the Methodist threw himself back, uttering a deep sigh.
“What is the matter, reverend sir?” asked the prisoner, affectionately.
“What a misfortune,” answered Mr. Midler, “that I did not know you
sooner. I should certainly have checked you by my advice on the path
you have entered.”
“Do you think I regret it any less than you, sir? Will you have a slice
of this ham?”
“Resist one’s propensities; everything is in that, Mr. Gobson. This ham
is excellent.”
“It comes from York, where the best wine is had, too.”
“Yours is delicious. We are all predestined to eternal felicity,
and----”
“Will you have a glass of port?”
“With pleasure. And these are the first concessions we make to our
passions, and to our tastes, which lead us on, but----”
“Will you have a little of this cheese, it is perfect for digestion?”
“Yes, epicures think a great deal of it. But if our miserable nature
causes us to fall, God renders our faith a justification and conversion
takes place instantaneously----”
“Do you like coffee?”
“I think it indispensable to every meal.”
“I have not failed to ask for it. One would say that my guard was only
waiting for the proper moment to bring it, for, see, here he comes.”
In fact, the servant appointed to wait on the prisoner was that moment
entering the cell with a waiter, which he placed on the table, then
left.
James Gobson filled Mr. Midler’s cup, who thanked him with a tender
glance.
“Do you smoke?” asked the prisoner.
“No, thanks,” answered the minister; “Mrs. Midler does not allow me to
do so.”
“But smoke does not incommode you.”
“By no means. What was I saying?”
“That God renders faith a justification, and that conversion takes
place instantly.”
“Ah, yes! There is some pleasure in exhorting with you.”
“Talk on, sir, talk on; I am listening to you with the most respectful
attention; but do not let your coffee get cold. You must take it
smoking-hot or iced; otherwise it is a detestable drink.”
“You are right.” And while sipping his wine the worthy Midler resumed:
“The conversion is instantaneous.... God’s miracles work ever ... the
soul is elevated, and if there is any account to settle with men ...
grace renders us worthy of this eternal felicity for which we are all
predestined.”
But Gobson no longer listened, if ever he had listened seriously. With
his chair tipped back against the wall, and leaning back in it, he was
phlegmatically sending rings of smoke from his cigar to the ceiling,
while his preacher, yielding to the influence of digestion, lowered his
voice more and more, gently closed his eyelids, devoutly crossed his
arms on his bosom and fell into his customary doze, murmuring:
“Excellent port ... instantaneous pardon ... York ham ... felicity
eternal.”
CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH JAMES GOBSON MIRACULOUSLY ESCAPES THE GALLOWS, AND THE
HONORABLE CORONER DAVIS’ REMORSE.
By a strange coincidence, while this scene was occurring, an inventory
was being taken of Miss Ada’s furniture and wardrobe.
The owner of the house in Twenty-third Street wishing to take
possession of it unfurnished, the law had decided that all that had
belonged to the unhappy woman should be sold, and that the proceeds of
the sale should be held three years at the disposition of the heirs.
At the expiration of this time the money should be placed in the State
treasury.
Mr. Mortimer’s clerk and the sheriff took charge of this inventory,
and Mary, who, as we have said, was watching the house, was helping
these gentlemen. They had just left the parlor to pass into the
sleeping-room, and the young girl, with many sobs in her voice, was
enumerating each of the articles which the secretary of the justice of
peace was writing down on his list, when they heard a carriage stop
before the house.
“It is the sheriff, no doubt,” said the clerk to Mary; “you must run
and let him in.”
“The watchman is below,” answered the maid.
“Then let us hurry and get through our work.”
But the young girl, who had just taken a bundle of lace from one of the
wardrobes, suddenly stood still and her face became frightfully pale.
She had heard in the hall, and the clerk and his secretary also heard,
a woman’s voice raised to an angry pitch.
Then the sound of hurrying footsteps was heard in the parlor, the door
of the sleeping-room suddenly opened, a woman appeared, and Mary, with
eyes wild with fright, shrieked and leaned against a piece of furniture
to keep from falling.
“What does all this mean?” asked the new comer, with a questioning look
at each actor in the scene.
“Madam, Miss Ada!” gasped the servant. “Miss Ada!” repeated the clerk,
bounding from the arm-chair on which he was reclining.
“Well, yes, Miss Ada,” said the young woman. “Are you all mad? And are
you even more so than the others?” she said, moving rapidly toward
Mary, who threw herself in her arms, crying:
“I said that she was not dead!”
“Dead! What do you say?”
“Why, yes, dead,” repeated the clerk in his turn; “they hanged your
murderer this morning.”
“My murderer?”
“Yes--James Gobson.”
“James Gobson, my former husband?”
“That very man, who killed you and threw you into the water, three
months ago.”
“Killed me--threw me into the water? Unless this is an odious joke you
are playing, gentlemen, it is frightful. Come, Mary, let us run and see
what it means.”
“Oh, it is too late,” observed the sheriff. “Master Meyer must have
finished his work. It was at nine o’clock, at the Tombs, as usual.”
The woman gave a cry of horror and sank into a chair; but she
immediately arose, ran down the stairs and into the street. Without
taking time to put on a hat or shawl, Mary followed her.
The carriage which had brought the traveler was waiting for her at the
door; they both entered it, ordering the driver to take them to the
prison. The horse set off at a gallop.
But when, half an hour later, they reached the square, on one side of
which stood the Tombs, the carriage got into so dense a crowd that it
had to stop.
“It is impossible to go any farther,” said the driver.
Mary sprang to the ground. She had just caught a glimpse of Captain
Young, who, with the aid of one of his agents, was trying to drive away
the curious crowd.
“Captain,” she cried, “in the name of God, let us pass.”
“Will it be too late? Oh, these people alarm me. I beg you, sir, to
help us,” said the young woman beseechingly, having joined her servant.
“Too late?” asked the chief of detectives in his rough voice, advancing
toward them. “What do you mean? There is no execution to-day.”
“What! no execution!” cried the mistress and servant at the same time.
“James Gobson is still living.”
“It is put off until to-morrow.”
“God be praised,” said the chamber-maid with a sigh of relief.
“‘God be praised.’ What is it to you?” repeated Young.
“What is it to us, captain?” answered Mary. “Why, here is Miss Ada!”
“Miss Ada,” exclaimed the detective.
“My God, Miss Ada! My God!”
Amazement would not allow him to say any more; he led away the two
women whom the crowd were approaching, for the nearest among them had
heard the few words that had been exchanged, and they repeated them
aloud, pointing to the young woman.
The agents made a passage for their chief, who, after giving an order
to one of his men, immediately introduced mistress and maid into the
prison yard, then from there into the directors’ office.
Mr. Peters, who was bending over his desk, raised his head at the
captain’s noisy entrance, and at the sight of his two proteges,
understanding nothing of the unexpected visit, he opened his eyes wide.
“Miss Ada Ricard!” said Mr. Young, who not having quite recovered from
his amazement could not utter another word.
“Miss Ada Ricard,” said the officer, rising suddenly; “the wife of....”
“Her very self, sir,” affirmed the visitor; “the divorced wife of that
unfortunate James Gobson, who came near losing his life this morning
through a frightful mistake.”
Mr. Peters gave one bound toward the woman who said these words, and
immediately recognizing her he could not find words to express his
astonishment. His looks wandered wildly from her to the chief of
detectives, who repeated: “My God, my God, what an adventure; I told
Mr. Dow so.”
“You must notify Mr. Kelly and Mortimer at once,” said Mr. Peters
finally to the captain, when he had recovered somewhat.
“I sent at once to one of my agents at the Central office,” answered
Young.
“Meanwhile, gentlemen, cannot Miss Ada see Mr. Gobson?” asked the young
girl.
“It would be cruel,” added her mistress, “to leave him any longer in
his horrible situation.”
“You are right,” said the director, moving toward the door. “I have,
besides, no right to refuse the prisoner a visitor. What a scandal it
will be. Come, accompany us, captain.”
In passing the former, Mr. Peters crossed the clerk’s court to reach
that part of the prison in which were the cells of those condemned to
death.
The worthy officer walked so quickly, shaking his head and
gesticulating, that the two women could hardly keep up with him.
Captain Young, who brought up the rear of the procession, exclaimed:
“Ah! this will be a sad story to tell friend Dow.”
They thus reached, almost on a run, the corridor on which James
Gobson’s cell opened. When he had reached the door the director had it
opened by the guard, who immediately approached, and he hastened in.
The prisoner was still in the position in which we left him. Lolling
back in his chair, he was finishing his second cigar, and the worthy
Mr. Midler, who was hardly awake, was psalmodizing tenderly:
“Yes, my dear Mr. Gobson, a second of repentance on the part of the
sinner is sufficient to pay for all his errors, and....”
But the sudden entrance of Mr. Peters cut short the words of the good
Methodist, and when he saw the two women who were accompanying the
director, he rubbed his eyes, imagining perhaps that he was still
asleep.
As for James Gobson, at the sight of the visitors his face betrayed
more strongly than it had done since his sentence a violent emotion,
but through a strong effort of will he did not make a gesture or utter
a cry, and after having fixed his eyes upon the young woman for a
moment he turned to his guest, saying to him in a perfectly calm voice:
“Dear Mr. Midler, permit me to present to you the former Mrs. Gobson,
Miss Ada Ricard, my unfortunate victim.”
The reverend gentleman no longer thought he was asleep--he believed he
had become crazy.
“Pardon me James for this horrible calamity, of which I involuntarily
came near being the cause,” said the woman whom the prisoner at once
recognized. “It is fortunate that I came in time.”
“If Master Meyer had not broken his leg you would have come too late,”
answered the prisoner dryly.
“I beg you to pardon me,” entreated the young woman, approaching Gobson
and holding out her hands.
“Yes, certainly, I pardon you, since you are here;” and rising, he took
in his and affectionately pressed the hands of her who had saved his
life.
At the same instant Captain Young respectfully made way for a new comer.
It was Mr. Mortimer whom the messenger sent by the chief of detectives
met when within a few steps of the prison.
The sheriff was very pale and he stammered to the pretty American:
“Are you Miss Ada Ricard?”
“I think so, sir,” answered the latter, smiling.
In order to prove this identity, if the magistrate had wished to call
to his aid one of the well-known details in the person of the former
Mrs. Gobson, a detail specified by Dr. O’Neel in his report of the
autopsy, he would have seen, when she smiled, the space in her superb
teeth; but he paid no attention to it, for doubt was not possible.
“You arrive just in time, madam,” he continued, “to prevent an
irreparable calamity; while waiting for the legal examination have the
kindness, I beg, to explain your long absence.”
“I am quite willing to do so, sir, but not here,” she said, blushing.
Mr. Mortimer understood, and invited her to follow him into the clerk’s
room.
“I am ready to obey your orders, sir,” said Miss Ada; “but what are you
going to do with James Gobson? Are we going to leave him here?”
“Oh, I find it very pleasant in the worthy Mr. Midler’s society,”
observed the condemned, smiling at his consoler.
The good Methodist could thank him only with a low bow, for he hardly
knew what he was about.
“Madam,” said the sheriff, “I cannot give any orders in regard to the
prisoner.”
“I understood the law did not foresee my case as it now stands,”
interrupted James.
“The sentence must be revoked,” said the magistrate; “but I think that
Mr. Gobson can be set at liberty at once.”
“Whatever sum is fixed I will pay,” said the young woman, warmly;
“it is the least I can do for a man whose life my absence came near
costing. I will see you soon again, James Commany.” While saying these
words, the former Mrs. Gobson had walked toward the corridor, where Mr.
Mortimer awaited her.
The prisoner now held out his hand to the pastor, saying:
“This does not prevent me from being quite grateful for your holy
exhortations, my reverend friend; of course you did not expect what
has just happened; nor I, either. Suppose we finish our spiritual
conversation with a glass of brandy.”
“The designs of God are unfathomable, dear Mr. Gobson,” devoutly
answered the good man, holding out his glass; “but still preserve
yourself from the danger you have run, most certainly, for the
punishment of your errors.”
“Oh, I will never forget it. Here’s to my resurrection and your health.”
While drinking with Mr. Midler the prisoner resumed on his chair that
position essentially American in which his deliverer had found him.
The latter meanwhile was saying to Mr. Mortimer, with whom the director
had left her alone in his office--
“Unless it is indispensable to do otherwise, I should much prefer, sir,
not to confess the motives of my journey, for the recital would oblige
me to name someone who is very desirous of remaining unknown. Let it
suffice you to know that this kidnapping, laid to the account of my
murderers, was planned in advance, and that I passed the two months and
a half, partly on the sea and partly at Havana. The only interesting
point to the law is that here I am, alive and in very good health. All
else belongs to my private life, and none has a right to ask an account
of it, for I am not, or rather I am no longer married.”
“You are right, madam,” answered the sheriff, “you will, however,
confess that this is very extraordinary.”
“What is more so, still, is your singular mistake.”
“The mistake was general.”
“Not so, for neither Mr. Gobson nor Mary recognized me in that
unfortunate woman.”
“You will see the cast which has been made of it and you yourself will
be amazed.”
“But Mr. Saunders ought not to have been mistaken.”
“Mr. Saunders is a little out of his head. We have not been able to get
anything out of him.”
“Poor man; this news pains me deeply.”
“He accuses himself of your death. To believe him, he killed you
himself.”
“He!”
“At least as far as it was possible to understand him.”
“But, first, I hope you are going to let me go home to my house.”
“Certainly. I have notified Mr. Davis, the coroner in your district.
In a moment he will be here, and we will make out the necessary
formalities.”
Mr. Mortimer did not think he spoke so truly, for that very moment
the office door opened and Mr. Kelly and Davis came out. In each of
these magistrates emotion was betrayed according to their respective
temperaments. The face of the big chief of police was flushed as in
a congestion, and that of the coroner was of a livid pallor. After
looking a few seconds at the charming face of the young woman, they
exchanged despairing looks. It was no longer to be doubted, ridicule
would fall on both of them.
Mr. Davis, whose elevated mind saw only the error committed, asked
himself in horror what would have become of his honor as a magistrate,
if the absent woman had not presented herself in time. He certainly
could not have endured the shame.
Mr. Kelly, who was more positive, saw in this strange event only a
calamity, which would singularly affect his political career.
When they had recovered somewhat the officers questioned Miss Ada, who
told the same story as to Mr. Mortimer.
“It is very well, madam,” answered the chief of police, with
difficulty conquering his anger; “but you might have dispensed with
that mysterious journey. Devil take it, there was no one to object
to your going. You were free to jilt that stupid Saunders for some
one else. Who can that woman be who resembles you so greatly? She was
even prettier than you. She had a tooth broken out and an ear torn
expressly--just as you have.”
Kelly was so furious that, not very gallant usually, he became
absolutely rude. For sole answer to these rude questions, the one to
whom they were addressed gave him a gracious smile, which disclosed the
casket that lacked a pearl, and approaching him she raised with one
pretty little finger the big diamond beneath which was concealed the
slight wound which she had in her rosy and exquisitely shaped ear.
All this was so coquettishly done that the gruff officer could not help
murmuring:
“By George, she is a superb woman.”
“Captain, you will go with the sheriff to escort madam home and to
put her in possession of her house. You will afterwards join me at
the central office, and notify Mr. William Dow. This time he was less
shrewd than every one else. His blunder will perhaps cost me dear.”
Not thinking it prudent to defend his friend, the chief of detectives
gave a military salute, and pointing out the way to Miss Ada, who had
taken Mary’s arm, left the prison with them.
The crowd on the square was immense; it already knew the error
committed by the law, an error that would have been irreparable, but
for the accident to the executioner, and the young woman was received
with enthusiastic hurrahs.
If the captain had not kept the most excited ones at a distance by
means of his agents, they certainly would have had to unharness the
horses from the carriage in which he was riding in company with Mr.
Mortimer, Miss Ada and Mary.
Suspecting that a different reception was waiting for him, Mr. Kelly
hastened to take another direction with Mr. Davis.
“God be praised,” said the coroner, crossing the threshold of the
Tombs, “I should never have forgiven myself that mistake.”
“By George,” sighed the chief of police, “I fear that my electors will
never forgive me. Devil take William Dow.”
CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH WILLIE SAUNDERS PASSES FROM DESPAIR TO AMAZEMENT, AND FROM
AMAZEMENT TO ANGER.
The news of the return of a woman whose corpse a thousand persons had
seen, caused an emotion difficult to describe. At first the event
seemed so impossible that no one would believe it; and the lawyers were
accused of conniving with the police to save the life of the condemned.
But when the papers published special supplements describing in detail
the scene that had taken place at the Tombs, the most incredulous were
obliged to accept the evidence. The few defenders that James Gobson
had among the people had the best of the matter, and the excitement
increased so rapidly that the minister of justice, the justice of the
criminal court, Mr. Kelly, and the sheriff and coroner thought it
prudent to release the prisoner on bail without further delay.
For political reasons they set the sum, without further consideration,
at the insignificant figure of one hundred dollars. They knew,
moreover, that if they had asked ten thousand dollars, a hundred
individuals, to gain a little popularity, would have come to offer it
themselves. Having come to this decision, Mr. Mortimer ran at once to
the Tombs to erase the prisoner’s name from the jail register.
James was about to play a game of chess with the good Mr. Midler. When
the magistrate had apprised him of what had been done, he quietly made
his preparations, went down to the clerk’s office, counted out the one
hundred dollars for the keeper of the prison, Mr. Peters, and after
shaking hands with the worthy Methodist, whose eyes filled with tears,
he went out by the door through which Mr. Kelly and Davis had passed a
few hours before, in order to avoid the crowd.
“Where are you going to put up?” asked the sheriff, who was
accompanying James Gobson.
“To the ‘United States,’ where I am unknown, sir,” he answered; “but
I think it polite to devote my first moments of liberty to Miss Ada
Ricard. Although she came near arriving too late, I nevertheless owe
her a visit of thanks.”
And, hailing a passing hack, James bowed to the sheriff, then entered
the carriage, giving orders to drive to No. 17 East Twenty-third Street.
At the same moment William Dow reached the central police office.
Learning through public rumor of the return of the drowned woman, he
did not wait for Mr. Kelly to send for him.
“Well,” said the latter, “what do you think of this foolish event?”
“I think, Mr. Kelly,” he answered, “that it is a foolish mistake, and
that it is very fortunate that it did not become an irreparable error.”
“You are, in a measure, the cause of it.”
“I! Was it I who recognized Miss Ada in the dead woman, whom I had
never seen?”
“No; but it was you who had James Gobson arrested.”
“I arrested him only a little sooner, perhaps, than you would have
ordered the arrest yourself. Confess that the body, really being that
of Mrs. Gobson, the guilt of her husband could be doubted by none.”
“Evidently. The lawyer for the State proved it as plain as daylight.
O’Brien never was so eloquent.”
“To Mr. Davis especially, who had the examination, the blow is heavy.”
“That is the least of my troubles. What disturbs me is that my
reputation and position are jeopardized. But was there ever such
a resemblance even in the slightest details? One would think some
political enemy chose the corpse particularly to defeat me. There are
not only the same features, but the tooth is gone and the ear cut as in
the drowned woman. It is enough to make one lose one’s head.”
“It is certainly inexplicable, and this coincidence of circumstances
confuses the mind.”
“Here I am with this corpse on my hands. It is not enough to find this
roving woman whom the devil ought to have carried off, and not to
have hung this Gobson, whom the devil would gladly have taken, I am
convinced, but we must now discover the name of the drowned woman and
that of her murderer.”
“We will find out all that.”
“If we fail, my dear Dow, I am a lost man.”
“We shall succeed. Let me study this mystery a little. Meanwhile face
the storm bravely.” And clasping the hand of Mr. Kelly, who hardly
knew what saint to call on, William Dow went home, more anxious than
he appeared. He knew that the chief of police was right, and that
public sentiment, doubly excited, exacted double satisfaction for the
revising of James Gobson’s case and the explanation of the mystery that
surrounded the death of the strange body found near Wharf 43.
During this time the crowd thronged Twenty-third Street, and the
reporters literally besieged Miss Ada Ricard’s house. She had received
several of her former servants, who, through personal interest or
curiosity, had hastened to visit her at the first news of her return.
After generously rewarding them for their sympathy, she dismissed them,
saying that she would not reorganize her house for several days. Then
the tradesmen came one after the other, protesting the sorrow they had
felt and their present delight at seeing her again; and this procession
had already lasted two hours, when formidable hurrahs were suddenly
heard in the street.
“Go see what it is, Mary,” said Miss Ada, becoming somewhat pale.
Mary sprang to the window, and immediately answered laughingly:
“It is Mr. Gobson, madam, whom the crowd has recognized and is
following with cheers.”
At the same moment the bell was rung. Mary ran to open the door; and
Gobson, after giving three ringing cheers by way of thanks, crossed
the threshold of the house. But that was not enough for the curious,
and the cry a thousand times repeated of “Miss Ada! Miss Ada!”
immediately rang out.
“You must show yourself, madam,” said one of the journalists who was
present.
At the same instant James Gobson entered the parlor and held out his
hand to his former wife.
“And show yourself with Mr. Gobson,” added the reporter.
“The gentleman is right,” said the released prisoner, “otherwise these
people might push in your door.”
Then taking the young woman’s arm, who did not seem much inclined to
exhibit herself thus, he went with her out on to the balcony. There
was then an indescribable enthusiasm, and a racket enough to drive
one crazy. The cries of “Miss Ada, Gobson forever!” were mingled with
complaints and epithets not very flattering to Mr. Kelly. This lasted
half an hour, and the crowd did not become quiet until Gobson made a
sign that he was going to make a speech.
“Citizens,” he said, in a stentorian voice, “Miss Ada and I thank you
sincerely for this sympathetic demonstration.”
“Hurrah! hurrah!” repeated the crowd in delirium. James Gobson, after
bowing a last time, gallantly offered his arm to Ada Ricard and entered
the house.
A person who was no less moved at the reappearance of the drowned woman
than those of whom we have just spoken, was Mr. Robertson, Jr., whom
one of his agents had informed of the event at the very first. He, too,
had been deceived like a mere police officer. His vanity was greatly
piqued, whatever joy his elder brother might manifest, for he, it is
remembered, had been the rival of Mr. Kelly in the last elections.
The chief of the agency saw in the error of the chief of police the
surety of a brilliant political revenge, and he congratulated himself;
but Mr. Robertson, Jr., who was more of an artist, could not forgive
himself for having made what he, at the time, thought, the skilful
deductions which we have already placed before our readers. What
consoled him a little was, that in order to avoid being called upon as
a witness, and not to compromise his establishment, he had confided in
none, not even in Saunders, who, however, was not in a condition to
understand him, pursued as the unhappy man was by the fixed idea of
being Miss Ada’s murderer. However, thinking it wise to get credit with
the cracker-merchant for having prevented him from denouncing himself,
Mr. Robertson, Jr., resolved to go and see him immediately.
Mr. Saunders was calmer than when we met him a few weeks before. He had
finally persuaded himself that if Miss Ada had fallen into the water
near Staten Island, that she was not drowned in that spot, but had
been the victim of a crime, of which Colonel Forster, perhaps, might
be guilty. Later, when James Gobson’s guilt was so convincingly shown
at the trial, the worthy merchant did not try to explain how it could
be that Miss Ada had fallen from the colonel’s yacht into the hands
of her former husband; he adopted the conclusions of the State lawyer
and silenced his conscience, to listen only to the voice of his heart,
or to give himself wholly up to the sorrow caused by the death of his
loved one.
His friends urged him to interest himself in business, but he could not
bring his mind to it; he passed almost all his days at home, drinking,
eating, and sighing. It was at this last occupation that Mr. Robertson,
Jr., surprised him. He had not heard a word about the young woman’s
return.
“You are a very welcome visitor,” he said to the agent; “tell me how
that infamous murderer went to the gallows.”
“Dear sir,” answered the young man, “the execution has been postponed
until to-morrow, on account of Meyer having broken his leg, the
accident saved the prisoner.”
“Saved, how?” repeated Saunders, without understanding.
“Yes, saved; for Miss Ada Ricard, the victim, has returned.”
The stout man leaped from his chair and opened his eyes, gasping:
“Miss Ada returned! Miss Ada!”
“Yes, Miss Ada,” resumed Robertson, Jr.
“The devil!”
“Do be calm. You see I was right to advise you to be silent in regard
to the adventure at Staten Island. We should have uselessly compromised
ourselves. Yes, Miss Ada has returned; she was merely on a voyage.”
“In company with that d----d Foster, but what of that other, that
other?”
“The drowned woman. Who she is no person knows.”
“Have you seen Miss Ada?”
“No; but one of my agents who was at the Tombs when she arrived
followed her to her door.”
“Did she return to her house?”
“Two hours ago, at least.”
“And Mary, the wretch, did not notify me.”
“Who is Mary?”
“Her maid.”
On saying this, Saunders had taken his hat and run out of the room.
“Where are you going, pray?” asked Mr. Robertson, running after him.
“Where am I going? Why, to Miss Ada’s house.”
“I wish to tell the wretch what I think of her conduct.”
“Or to fall at her feet.”
The unhappy cracker-merchant suddenly stopped still. The secret agent
had aimed a true blow. It was more love than anger that led the
inflammable Yankee to the unfaithful one.
“Well, yes,” he said, “I still love her; and I wish to see her,” he
added, with a deep sigh.
“Then I will accompany you,” proposed Robertson.
“If you wish.”
The young man was delighted to profit by the opportunity to see alive
the woman whom he had known only through the corpse at the morgue.
They sprang into a carriage, and soon reached No. 17 East Twenty-third
Street.
Satisfied by the speech James Gobson had made them, the crowd had
dispersed, and only a few groups remained around the house.
Mr. Robertson helped his companion to alight, and rang the bell. Mary
answered it, but at the sight of Saunders’ flushed face, and not
feeling very easy in her conscience, she uttered a cry and ran away
to warn her mistress. The latter was having a private talk with James
Gobson.
“Bah! receive him,” advised the former husband, complacently, “and try
to get rid of him if you can, and especially if you wish to do so.”
The young woman left her room, closed the door behind her and passed
into the parlor.
It was time. The stout Saunders, who had climbed the stairs with an
agility quite juvenile, was crossing the threshold of this room.
“Ada, my dear Ada!” he cried, rushing toward her.
The poor man had forgotten his anger, and remembered only his love.
With arms held out, he thought only of forgiving. But, to his
amazement, the ungrateful woman withdrew from his embrace, and merely
held out her hand, saying:
“My dear Saunders, you, too, thought me dead, and I will never forgive
you such an error. However, I am none the less delighted to see you.”
All this was said in so calm and chilling a tone that the unfortunate
cracker-merchant, already exhausted and breathless, felt his limbs give
way beneath him. Fortunately, Mr. Robertson supported him to a lounge,
on which he sank heavily, with his great, tearful eyes fixed on her for
whom he had wept so much, and who had received him thus, he was really
pitiable to behold.
Miss Ada seated herself near him and took his hand.
“Come, my good Saunders,” she said, “have a little courage. I still
love you very much, but I am going to leave New York.”
“To return with Colonel Forster. Oh! I will kill him,” murmured the
merchant.
“With Colonel Forster? I do not know what you mean.”
“Is it possible? But, Robertson, tell her that we know all.”
“I know nothing,” answered the agent, who wished merely to play the
part of a looker-on in this call.
It was too much for the unhappy man, whose head was not yet steady.
Ada repulsed him, and his friend Robertson denied him. Exasperated and
furious, he suddenly arose, and casting a scornful look at the young
woman, he left the parlor with something like an air of dignity.
Robertson, Jr., who had nothing more to do in the house, bowed to Miss
Ada and followed Saunders, to whom he said, when he had joined him on
the door-step:
“Pardon me for having given you the lie, dear sir; but it is useless
for us to both appear in the revision which is to be opened. Do you
wish any advice? Remain quietly at home and forget Miss Ada; she is not
worthy of your love.”
“She is a cheat,” he gasped, in the manner of a peroration, and as if
speaking to himself more than to his companion.
A few moments later he saw William Dow on the threshold of his door,
and he gave a cry of joy. “Oh, my only friend,” he said to the
detective, falling almost into his arms. “She is living; I have just
come from her house. What a wretch she is! You must do me the service
to find that cursed Colonel Forster; I wish to fight with him. If he
refuses, I will kill him.”
“Be calm, dear Mr. Saunders,” answered William, helping the poor man to
ascend his steps. “In the first place I will not go to Forster, because
he is not in New York. If it is he who carried off Miss Ada, she did
not return with him. We know that his yacht is now in the harbor, and
that she returned to the city by the Harlem Railroad. You understand
that Mr. Edward Forster, who must now be acquainted with all this
scandal, does not care to give explanations that are compromising to
him.”
“That is true, dear Mr. Dow,” murmured Saunders, sinking back in an
arm-chair, for while exchanging these words, the friends had reached
the merchant’s parlor. “Besides, of what use would it be for you, a
peaceful citizen, to fight with that officer?” continued the detective.
“A duel would not restore you Miss Ada; and that thief of a Robertson,
after taking I don’t know how many thousand dollars from me for absurd
information, seems to think this girl’s conduct very natural.”
“What, Robertson; one of the firm of the agency of Robertson & Co.?”
“Yes, Robertson, Jr. Upon my word, it is even worse. I would like to
tell you all that passed between him and me.”
And the good Saunders, whose heart overflowed, told William Dow all
that our readers know about the secret agent; then he concluded by
giving him the famous report that had caused the expedition to Staten
Island.
“All this is truly extraordinary,” said the police officer, shaking his
head, after having carefully read the document. “Trust this report to
me.”
“Willingly,” answered the cracker-merchant. “What are you going to do
with it?”
“Oh, nothing against the Robertson agency, but it contains details
which may be useful to me some day or another. I would like also a
photograph of Miss Ada. You must have one.”
“Only one, dear sir; here it is. And see, here is the letter that
unhappy woman wrote to her maid to tell her not to be anxious in her
absence. The wretch!”
The poor lover had drawn from his pocket-book the photograph of the
woman, which was inclosed in the note which Mary had given him a few
moments after having received it from her mistress. He handed the whole
to the detective, giving a sigh.
William Dow passed more than an hour with Saunders, and when he left
it was with a smile on his lips, and he said, to the amazement of
the simple Mr. Saunders: “Have patience; I think I am beginning to
understand.”
CHAPTER XV.
WILLIAM DOW’S PROMISE.
In order to quiet public opinion by giving it one of the two sources
of satisfaction it demanded, the district attorney urged the higher
criminal court to hasten the revision of the case of James Gobson.
When the first examination was made, Mr. Mortimer and Davis had heard
certain rumors concerning the role which Colonel Forster must have
played in the kidnapping of Ada Ricard, but they paid little attention
to them, because it had not been proved that the rumor had a serious
basis, afterwards because the officer was too important a man to be
compromised on simple suspicion.
Later, when the corpse was discovered, Dr. O’Neel had assigned for the
death of the victim a date after the departure of the yacht which, to
every one, had set off the day after the ball given at No. 17 East
Twenty-third Street. Then came the arrest of Gobson and the proving
of his guilt, and the magistrates had congratulated themselves on
the perspicacity which they had shown in not pronouncing the name of
Colonel Forster, whom some political enemies would have been delighted
to see figure in this scandalous and dramatic affair. But after that
had passed and the return of Miss Ada, which had preceded by only a few
days the entrance of the Gleam into New York harbor, the complicity of
the gallant officer in the kidnapping of the pretty New Yorker was no
longer to be doubted.
Now, although neither the lawyers nor the police could see anything
to object to in this act, since Miss Ada did not complain, Mr.
Mortimer and Davis thought they could not do otherwise than question
the colonel, in order to obtain from him a declaration of a nature
to enlighten the magistrates charged with the revision of the case
relating to the employment of the time of the woman whose absence had
caused this bad judicial error. What might be worse would be Colonel
Forster’s refusal to say anything. In that case it would be necessary
to do without him, and they could not count on Ada Ricard.
Having been questioned twice, she answered:
“I cannot tell you how I passed my time without compromising some
one to whom I have promised silence. If that person releases me from
my promise I will speak, although I do not see wherein it concerns
justice. I am not dead, for here I am, and that seems to me the
essential point.”
Mr. Mortimer and Davis knew so well that the young woman was in
the right that they used every art before asking Mr. Forster for
information; but to their great delight, from their first overtures on
this subject the officer said to them:
“You understand, gentlemen, that I am very anxious not to figure in any
way in these debates to which I am absolutely a stranger, excepting
by the single fact of the error committed; but as I am of the opinion
that none should refuse his aid to the laws of his country, I am ready
to tell you everything, provided you give me your word of honor not to
speak my name, to give publicity either to myself or the adventure.”
The sheriff and the coroner readily promised all that the colonel
wished, and the day after Mr. Forster went to the house of Mr. Douglas,
the judge of the Criminal Court.
They found Mr. Kelly, Mortimer and Davis there, and when these
magistrates thanked him for his readiness to place himself at their
disposal, when they pledged themselves again to the most entire
discretion, they introduced Miss Ada Ricard, who had been invited to
the rendezvous.
The elegant officer hastened to hold out his hand to the young woman,
and she answered his greeting with a charming smile.
Colonel Forster then gave a frank account of the manner in which the
proposal to carry off Miss Ada had been made to him by a man he did not
know, and the subsequent events of which the reader is already informed.
The officers thanked him warmly, and the reunion ended.
In less than a fortnight after this the Criminal Court met for the
revision of James Gobson’s case, who lived as he told Mr. Mortimer, at
the United States Hotel, but who saw the woman who bore his name almost
every day.
One would have said that the grave events in which the divorced couple
had found themselves, had lessened their former grievance; that they
had forgiven each other their mutual wrongs, and that the woman forgot
the brutalities of the husband as the husband forgot the unfaithfulness
of the wife.
It was known that the latter was to appear before the court to defend
James against the suspicions which had led to his arrest and his
sentence, and this prospect gave the new arguments a doubly piquant
attraction.
Therefore, on the day of the hearing, the court-room was filled at an
early hour. At the entrance of James Gobson a round of applause rang
through the room, and when Miss Ada Ricard appeared on the arm of the
lawyer, Macready, the crowd gave a true ovation.
The court opened, and the lawyer for the State presented the case,
explaining with great clearness and perfect loyalty, how the lawyers
had been led to commit an error, which, fortunately, was reparable. He
concluded by asking the jury to render a negative verdict, and to the
court to acquit and reinstate the man so unjustly condemned.
Matters would have ended thus, but that would not have answered for
the lawyer Macready. It was too fine an occasion for criticising the
police, the criminal examination, the law and justice. For the defender
of James Gobson this case might be the turning-point in his political
career. He must profit by it.
In the first place, as had been agreed, the young woman arose, and
spoke in a voice sufficiently moved by emotion:
“Gentlemen, I deeply regret that the law should have sought, in my
conjugal life with Mr. Gobson, troubles of a nature to arouse its
suspicions. If, for reasons I need not recall, I had to ask for
divorce, I must protest against the character which the requirements
of the examination gave to him whose wife I was. Mr. Gobson has never
ceased to be an honest man, and it would have been easy, by addressing
those who formerly knew him, to gain the conviction that he could not
have become a thief or assassin. For my part, while waiting for the
just reparation to which he is entitled, I ask pardon for having been
the involuntary cause of the misfortune that has befallen him.”
One can easily imagine the shouts of applause with which this little
speech was received by the audience. Mr. Macready let it subside
somewhat, then he took the stand.
We will not give his address. It was crushing to Mr. Mortimer and
Davis, and especially to the chief of police.
Mr. Kelly was a political enemy and the defender was pitiless. He
specified him to the electors as unworthy of being elected, and
he concluded by saying what besides was absolutely true, from the
standpoint of the law, that the magistrates, who had come near hanging
an innocent person, should esteem themselves very happy that James
Gobson did not demand great damages.
This terrible harangue had no less success than Miss Ada’s few words,
and in less than a quarter of an hour the jury, having given a
unanimous negative verdict, the court acquitted and reinstated James
Gobson.
As expected, this result excited an enthusiasm that amounted to
delirium when the young woman, with a smile on her lips, was seen to
approach her former husband and hold out her hand to him in a friendly
manner.
Among the spectators were William Dow and Captain Young, hidden behind
the curious privileged ones who had found a place within the railing.
“Well, Mr. Dow,” said the chief of the detectives to his friend, when
all was concluded, “it is done, and I am delighted. This affair weighed
on my conscience somewhat.”
“My dear Young,” answered William, pointing to James Gobson and Miss
Ada, who were leaving by the magistrate’s door in order to avoid
the crowd. “I think that those two have simply come here to mock at
justice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing that you can understand this moment.”
The zealous detective, without adding a word, parted from the captain,
who irreverently shrugged his shoulders.
It was evident that through the judicial error he had caused, one
mysterious character now seemed hardly worthy the admiration of the
terrible Young.
But the one most displeased with William Dow was the stout Kelly, and
he received him quite coldly when he presented himself at his office a
week later.
“It is vain for you to excuse yourself,” he said to him in a gruff
tone, “and to give me the most favorable explanations; it is none the
less true that, politically, I am a lost man. If we could discover the
identity of the drowned woman, I could recover myself; but we shall do
nothing of the sort, nothing! That imbecile of a Young is arresting
twenty drunkards and as many pickpockets by way of compensation. It is
enough to drive one out of his mind. I can only send in my resignation.”
“Be careful how you do that, dear Mr. Kelly,” said our hero, after
leaving the chief of the police to vent his bile. “You know that Gobson
and Ada Ricard left New York this morning.”
“May Satan carry them off and they may go hang elsewhere.”
“When will the elections take place?”
“In four months.”
“Can you give a leave of absence of a fortnight to Captain Young?”
“Indeed, yes, for all the good he does in New York. Where are you going
to send him?”
“I shall send him nowhere. I am going to take him with me.”
“Where?”
“Ah! that is my secret.”
“If you only had one to help me get back my electors.”
“By how many votes have you been nominated?”
“By forty-five thousand.”
“Well, my dear Mr. Kelly, in four months you will have ten thousand
votes more. It is I who promise you. I am so far certain of it that I
give you my word.”
“By George! tell me a little what you----”
“Not a word, if you will allow me. Give Young his leave of absence
and count on me. All that I ask of you are very strong letters of
recommendation to your police friends in Boston, Buffalo, Jefferson,
and San Francisco.”
“This evening the letters will be at your house.”
The chief of police escorted William Dow to the office door.
“This fellow is capable of doing what he says,” murmured Kelly,
reseating himself in his arm-chair, “only why does he take the captain
with him, as he is good for nothing? After all it does not matter. If
he keeps his promise, and in four months I beat that Robertson, I shall
ask no more of him, not even what has become of that brute of a Young,
if he does not bring him back with him.”
CHAPTER XVI.
WILLIAM DOW’S REVENGE--SEEKING THE UNKNOWN.
Almost a fortnight had elapsed, and New York had forgotten James
Gobson’s case, although the identity of the drowned woman had not
been discovered, and her assassin was unknown, when, one evening the
hotel stage brought to the Union Hotel, at Jefferson City, Mo., three
travelers, whom fate seemed to have united for pleasure by the love of
contrasts.
One was of medium height, of an intelligent countenance, and
distinguished bearing. The other was tall, with a bony frame and surly
expression. The third was stout, florid, with a good, placid face and
innocent look. Our readers have already recognized William Dow, Captain
Young, and poor Saunders.
These three travelers had left New York only three days before, under
the following circumstances: One morning William Dow paid an unexpected
visit to the cracker-merchant, for the latter had not seen him since
James Gobson was reinstated.
“Is it you, Mr. Dow?” cried Saunders; “then you haven’t quite forgotten
me?”
“I have scarcely thought of you, on the contrary,” answered the
detective, clasping the hand of the merchant.
“Where were you?”
“I have been to Buffalo.”
“To Buffalo?”
“Yes, the city where Miss Ada and her husband used to live before the
divorce. I will tell you later about this little trip. At present there
is something else to think of. Do you still wish to avenge yourself
upon the man who carried off Miss Ada?”
“Certainly. I wish also to be avenged on the cheat herself.”
All the anger, and perhaps all the love of the susceptible Yankee
awoke at the memory of the woman, and the indifferent way in which she
forsook him.
“Then,” resumed Dow, “regulate your business for an absence of about
ten days. I will take you with me.”
Saunders had not asked his friend where he wished to take him; he
simply went, valise in hand and a pocket-book stuffed with bank notes,
to meet him at the Washington depot. It was the same with Young.
Mr. Kelly having notified the chief of detectives that he might go
with William Dow when the latter desired, the terrible captain had
not ventured a remark. When he received the order to meet him at the
station he merely announced his departure at the central office, and he
manifested but little surprise when he met Mr. Saunders at the railway
station.
During the journey from New York to Washington, from Washington to St.
Louis, and from St. Louis to Jefferson, Saunders had ventured several
questions from time to time, but William Dow was non-committal. The
only information which he gave Ada’s former lover was that they should
stop at Jefferson City. The worthy merchant sighed twice as often after
their arrival in the first place, because he liked his ease and the
journey had fatigued him extremely, and next, because he hoped his
friend Dow would not delay much longer in telling him the object of his
journey. Therefore, he questioned him.
“Dear sir,” answered our hero, “I needed to have two aids and two
witnesses with me in what I am undertaking. You and Young, of all
others, were most suitable, because of your honorable character and
energy.”
Flattered by this praise, to his share of which he was entitled,
Saunders smilingly said:
“No doubt; but aids in what way--witnesses of what?”
“I do not know yet, as everything will depend on circumstances. We have
reached only the first stopping-place in our journey.”
“The first. Where are we going, then?”
“I cannot tell you now.”
“I suppose, however, that we shall not make the tour of the world?”
“Oh! not quite.”
“What, not quite; but I do not wish to make even a part of it.”
The stout man said this with so disturbed a face and with such a
comical accent of fear that William Dow, who was always grave, could
not help smiling as he answered:
“Calm yourself; after to-morrow you will beg me not to interrupt our
journey. Let us dine.”
Somewhat reassured, but not convinced, Saunders then decided to go to
dinner, and did such justice to it that two hours afterwards he went to
his bed and instantly forgot that he was three hundred miles from New
York, trying to solve a problem to which he had not the least clue.
The next morning after an excellent night, and as he was about to
join Dow and Young, they were announced by one of the hotel servants,
and ascended to his room. Before they had closed the door the Yankee
thought he saw half a dozen individuals who had stopped in the hall
following his companions. He went to inquire what they wanted, but he
had not time, for William Dow immediately said to him, clasping his
hand:
“Dear sir, will you allow us to receive some visitors in your room?”
“Certainly,” answered the cracker-merchant, who had wisely decided to
ask no explanation of his mysterious friend. The latter had seated
himself at a table and drawn a large packet from his pocket, in which
were papers and photographs.
“Are you acquainted with this man,” he asked Saunders, handing him one
of the pictures.
“No,” said the merchant, after a moment’s examination.
“And you, my good Young?”
“Why!” cried the chief of detectives, “it is James Gobson.”
“His very self, Miss Ada’s husband.”
He snatched the photograph from the hands of the detective, and with
furious looks devoured the man whom his jealousy pictured at the feet
of the woman.
“Captain,” cried William Dow, “do me the kindness to introduce each of
the men who are there in the hall. Begin with Thomas Bernett.”
“Thomas Bernett,” called Young, in his grandest, most commanding tone,
as he opened the door.
The man who bore this name hastened to appear. It was the porter of the
Union Hotel.
“Were you in this establishment January last?” asked Dow.
“I have been interpreter and porter here for a year.”
“Then you have to do with all the travelers?”
“With all.”
“Do you remember this one?”
He showed him James Gobson’s photograph.
“Perfectly,” he affirmed; “as well as I can recollect I saw this
gentleman in the first days of January. He remained here three or four
days.”
“Thanks. The next, Tom Byng.” Tom Byng was the hotel stage-driver.
He as well as his comrade, immediately recognized Gobson in the
photograph, as a traveler whom he had driven to the Northern depot
early in January. Then came the butler, the steward, the barber of the
hotel, and a gunsmith, who all recognized in James Gobson’s picture
the features of an individual with whom they had had various relations
at the time about which they were questioned.
“My dear Mr. Saunders,” said the detective, after making a note of this
information, “do me the kindness to give ten dollars to each of these
men.”
Without venturing a remark, the cracker-merchant paid the sum and
waited patiently until his fifty dollars had departed, to have a clue
to the puzzle.
“You do not understand?” asked William Dow.
“No,” he answered frankly.
“Nor you, Young?”
“Not any,” said the captain with a smile, which he tried to render
mocking.
“Well, my dear friends, I ask you only to exactly recall the words
you have just heard. James Gobson was here at Jefferson City in the
beginning of January, a few days before Miss Ada was carried off and
the discovery of this drowned woman, whose name is still unknown. From
that city the same person set out for Omaha; the stage-driver remembers
it perfectly.”
“From which you conclude,” ventured the sceptical Young.
“I do not conclude, I state; and this first point being assured, I have
decided to leave for Omaha.”
“For Omaha!” cried Saunders.
“Where, I hope, we shall find some trail more interesting still. The
train leaves at noon; we shall reach there early to-morrow.”
While saying this, William Dow had carefully put James Gobson’s picture
back in his pocket-book and had arisen. Mr. Saunders, having no
objections to make, looked at the captain, and the latter shrugged his
shoulders.
Not understanding his friend’s plans, the terrible but not very
intelligent chief of detectives thought it wisest to affect a kind of
ironical condescension toward him; but as he obeyed no less blindly
than Saunders, they all three took the cars after breakfast.
The next morning they reached Omaha, the last stopping-place at that
time for the cars, which soon went to the West, across the desert and
the Rocky Mountains to San Francisco.
When Saunders was left alone by William Dow, under the piazza of the
hotel at Omaha, he was asking himself what his friend had come to seek
in this forsaken country, when he espied him crossing the garden of the
establishment in company with Young and another strangely-accoutred
being. One would have thought it one of Fenimore Cooper’s or Captain
Mayne Reid’s heroes. He wore strong boots, into which were tucked brown
ribbed velvet breeches, fastened by a broad leather belt, which seemed
to be his arsenal and money-safe, for it was adorned by two revolvers
and a long knife, and its thickness revealed the presence of a
respectable quantity of change. His partly-opened hunting-jacket showed
a red woolen shirt and his hairy bosom. He had on a soft felt hat with
broad brim, and proudly carried in a shoulder strap a double-shot
carbine. As well as his thick tawny beard enabled one to judge, the
man must be about forty years old. His energy and vigor were plainly
evident in his looks, voice, and broad shoulders.
While the cracker-merchant was examining him, the stranger, still
talking to his companions, had reached the piazza.
“Mr. Saunders,” said the detective, when the two men joined him, “allow
me to present to you John Butler, the bravest trapper on the shores of
the Missouri.”
The good man rose politely from the lolling-chair on which he had been
stretched out, and gave Mr Dow so questioning a look that the latter
knew that he was imploring an explanation. Therefore, beckoning the
trapper and Young to sit down, and taking a chair himself, he said:
“This is a nice place for a chat. Mr. Butler, dear sir, knows better
than even an Indian all the tribes who occupy the reserves to the
north of Omaha, and the chiefs of the Dakota Sioux are his particular
friends. As it is with these worthy men that we have to do, I have
begged him to serve as a guide.”
Saunders, who had again stretched himself out in his arm-chair, sprang
out of it in alarm.
“To the Sioux!” he repeated. And, with a very expressive gesture, he
described around his head the circular motion in the operation of
scalping.
“Have no fear, sir,” said John Butler, smiling. “With me there is no
danger of that kind to run.”
The peaceful Yankee, who looked with eyes of terror at the murderous
outfit of the trapper, seemed so plainly to say that it was not the
Indians alone of whom he was afraid, that Captain Young himself burst
out laughing. John Butler, without being offended at his suspicions,
resumed with the same calmness:
“No, sir; you will have nothing to dread; we are at this moment at
peace with the Indians of the plains. The chiefs who went to Washington
in January have returned satisfied; one can cross Dakota and Iowa
without the shadow of danger.”
“You hear, do you not, dear Mr. Saunders,” observed Dow, “the chiefs
who went to Washington in the month of January? Retain these words in
your memory--in the month of January.”
“The devil, yes. I hear well enough,” answered Miss Ada’s former lover,
“but I do not understand what you are going to do among the Sioux.”
“That is my secret. Do you refuse to accompany me?”
“Heavens, no. You would say I was afraid. But if I understand a
confounded word what it all means, I am willing to be hung some day.”
“You are not the one who will be hung.”
“I hope not. But who will be?”
“James Gobson.”
“James Gobson! Then Miss Ada will be free again. Do you know, I am
certain that it was terror alone that united her to that wretch! James
Gobson hung! But why, in order to bring this about, must we go among
the Indians?”
“Because there the rope which I destine for him will be found.”
“Stop; I prefer not to question you any more, for you will answer me in
a manner to make me lose my head again. Well, so be it. Let’s be off
for the prairie. Ah! if ever any one had told me that I should become a
trapper! When shall we start?”
“To-morrow, at daybreak,” answered Butler, to whom this question was
particularly addressed. “The cars will leave us at Sioux City the same
evening. We shall find horses there, and in a few hours we shall be on
the reserves.”
“To-morrow, then,” said Saunders, with a heroic gesture.
“To-morrow, gentlemen,” repeated the trapper, “I will wake you.”
And throwing his carbine over his shoulder he bowed to his future
companions and left the piazza.
“Mr. Dow,” said Mr. Saunders, pointing to the adventurer who was
crossing the garden, “can you depend upon that fellow?”
“My dear friend,” answered the detective, “I have made every inquiry
about Butler. He has been traveling over this prairie ten years,
hunting and trading, often serving as an intermediary between the
commanders of forts and the Indians, and never has any one had to
complain of him. Besides, what interest would it be to him to betray
us? I shall give him one hundred dollars to-morrow when we arrive at
Sioux City, one hundred dollars more when we return, and even another
hundred dollars still if the information he furnishes me is correct
and if I bring back what I am going to seek. Besides, as everything
makes me suppose that Butler has some peccadillo on his conscience
which has led him to this adventurous life, I have promised to arrange
matters for him on my return to New York. He has my word and that of
Young.”
“Positively,” answered the captain. “But what need have we of all these
precautions? Are we three not equal to all the adventurers and Indians
on the plains?”
This proud declaration of the intrepid captain cut short any last words
which poor Saunders would have liked to venture. Putting a good face on
a bad matter, he stood up straight and said to the chief of detectives,
in a deliberate tone:
“Very well; I still do not understand why we are going in that
direction, but I am with you; when I see Miss Ada again, I wish her to
know what I have done for her.”
The next day the three travelers, accompanied by John Butler, took the
first train, and reached in a few hours Sioux City, one of the railway
stations which unites Omaha with Chicago. After passing the night
there, the following day at sunrise they left it to take the route
along the Sioux River as far as Fort Dakota. William Dow had a letter
of recommendation to the commander of this advanced post.
The four excursionists mounted excellent horses, and Saunders looked
superb in his war-like attire. Imitating the trapper, he had made a
veritable arsenal of his belt, and he often looked affectionately
at the carbine attached to his saddle. One would have thought he was
setting out for the conquest of an enemy’s territory. But toward the
middle of the morning, as the sun became higher and burning, his fine
ardor began to decrease, and Dow regulated it by saying:
“If we keep up this gait our horses will be foundered before we have
gone our twenty-five miles.”
“Besides,” observed Butler, “we cannot reach the fort to-day. The
wisest thing is not to hurry, but to favor our horses. We shall have
need enough of them on the prairie.”
These few words restored the good city man to calmness, and the
little party pursued their course at a more moderate gait. Toward
noon they had halted on the banks of the river in the shade of some
sickly-looking trees, and Saunders ate with a very good appetite his
share of the provisions with which the trapper had not failed to
provide himself; then, after a few hours’ rest, our travelers started
on their way again.
That evening they enjoyed, by means of their dollars, the hospitality
of a German farm, and the next day, after fording one of the arms of
the Sioux River, they finally reached Fort Dakota.
Captain Semmas, who commanded this military position, received
William Dow with marvelous cordiality, and as the fort was admirably
provisioned, Saunders, whom the length of the route had somewhat
sobered, immediately recovered his warlike mood. The next morning, he
had already been equipped for a long time, when Butler gave the signal
for departure. An hour later, after pushing on straight to the north,
our heroes were on the prairie. They now had for the horizon around
them an immense plain without an undulation in the ground, of a dull
green coloring, and gloomy enough to drive one to despair.
Only a few bushes broke the monotony here and there, rising above the
thick grass, in which the horses sank to their knees. Disdaining in
spite of the fog the paths made by the cattle, the trapper had led his
companions across the plain, having for his guide in this complete
desert only landmarks known to himself alone.
“Master John,” cried Saunders all at once, after having kept silence as
well as his impatience would permit, “have we much more of this foolish
ride?”
“Two hours, at least,” answered Butler, who was preceding him; “and
I advise you to keep in my tracks, for if you go to one side or the
other you might meet with some bog, in which you and your horse would
disappear.”
“My God!” cried the poor man, frightened at this new danger which he
had been running without knowing it ever since he entered the prairie.
“You ought to have warned me sooner.”
“Come, be calm, dear Mr. Saunders,” advised William Dow. “Listen to the
counsels of this excellent fellow, and take the captain and me for your
models.”
“This excellent fellow! That is very well for you to say, Mr. Dow,
for you know where you are going; you have your plan, but I don’t know
anything about it. As for Mr. Young, it is in his profession to risk
his skin, but it is not in mine.”
We do not know that the chief of detectives held this opinion, for the
journey did not make him any more talkative than usual. Trimly seated
in his saddle, with a cigar in his mouth, he concerned himself neither
about his companions nor the route, nor the end of the excursion.
Mr. Kelly had told him: “You will accompany Mr. William Dow,” and he
accompanied William Dow. He would have accompanied him in the same
way as far as the Pacific. The captain, therefore, did not answer the
irascible cracker-merchant.
However, at the end of an hour the appearance of the prairie gradually
changed. The grass was less thick, and the riders could distinguish
before them a group of tall trees, which were like an oasis in the
midst of this desert of grass. Soon they perceived cultivated fields,
cattle, and every sign, in short, of a village not far away, probably,
behind a little hill about a hundred yards off.
Saunders’ face became joyful again, and he was already dashing on when
Butler stopped him brusquely. A man who had sprung up from the tall
grass with a carbine on his shoulder seemed to wish to prevent the
travelers from going further.
At this threatening apparition, the prudent merchant suddenly
remembered that the trapper had advised him to follow in his traces,
and he fell into file again.
Butler sprang to the ground, and approached the Indian, who was only
one of those sentinels by whom the Sioux villages are surrounded within
a large circle, and he said a few words to him which caused him to
immediately change his attitude. Putting back his weapon, he held out
his hand to the adventurer.
The latter then mounted his horse, and the little band, escorted by the
Sioux, went at a walk through the fields of maize toward the village,
whose first tents they soon saw.
CHAPTER XVII.
A SOUVENIR OF LOVE.
Saunders had heard much about these Indian villages composed of tents
made of buffalo skins, and he was not quite ignorant that there still
existed nomadic tribes whom civilization drove into the desert; but all
this had interested him but little, and now he, a peaceful merchant,
a positive man of a practical mind, found himself transported into
the midst of this strange world. Therefore, he examined with as
much amazement as curiosity these primitive dwellings and strangely
accoutred beings who were grouped together, thirty in number at least,
before their tents, to receive the travelers. The latter alighted and
advanced toward the Sioux. Butler, who walked ahead, approached the
chief and made a little speech, which seemed to meet with general
approbation. The Sioux answered him in a few guttural words, and the
trapper, turning to his companions, said to them:
“Jimin, the Swift Deer, the chief of this village, gives a welcome to
his brothers from the East--the pale-faces--and offers them hospitality
beneath his tent.”
Then Butler added, ceasing to translate the words of the Sioux, but
using his own language:
“I told Jimin that you were rich fur-merchants intending to open a
shop at Omaha, and that your only object in coming to the prairie is
to establish direct communication with its tribes in order to buy
their skins on more favorable terms than those of the agents of the
companies.”
“That is very ingenious,” answered William Dow.
“Good! I am now a fur-trader,” murmured Saunders.
As for Young, his bravery was humiliated at this new social situation,
and without departing from his accustomed speechlessness, he protested
by twisting his long moustache with a gesture more warlike than ever.
However, the presentation being over, the excursionists proceeded
to the tent of the chief through the entire population of the
village--men, women, and children--who thronged curiously around them.
Jimin’s tent resembled all the others excepting that it was a little
larger. It was made of buffalo skins, rudely sewn together, and divided
into two parts; one was occupied by the family of the chief, the other
was intended for official receptions, when Jimin wanted his warriors in
council. It was in the second part of the tent that the warriors were
introduced.
Stout mats of braided maize carpeted the floor; the walls were adorned
with weapons and fishing tackle; the only seats were boxes and piles of
skins so badly dressed that they exhaled a detestable odor.
Saunders, like his companions, had to make the best of these primitive
lounges; he sat down, or rather threw himself down, on one of them;
milk and maize cakes were at once served, then the chief lighted his
long pipe, and after smoking in silence for a full quarter of an hour,
he entered into conversation with Butler, which the latter, in a
measure, translated.
Jimin inquired about the disposition of the government towards the
Indians, about the price of provisions, and he bitterly complained of
the agents of the great fur companies, who in exchange for the hunting
products of the Indians gave them only worthless gunpowder, wretched
weapons, adulterated brandy, and execrable tobacco.
The trapper assured him, in the names of his friends, that his just
grievances should be conveyed to the President of the United States,
who would not fail to inquire into it, and he advised him to go himself
to Washington to make out his complaints.
“Of what use would that be?” resumed Jimin, shaking his head, sadly.
“Our brothers, the pale-faces, promise, but forget their promises. Four
moons ago I went with ten of my warriors to Washington; they swore to
us that our claims should be made right, but nothing has been changed.
The Great Father forsakes his children.”
“Ask him,” said William Dow to Butler, having listened attentively to
every word of the chief, “if he did not return full of wonder at the
splendor of our cities?”
“The Indian,” answered Jimin, “sees nothing when he goes to your
cities; his eyes, like his heart, bound over space to find his wigwam
and prairies again. I should not have remained more than one day at
Washington if I had not been waiting for two of my warriors who had
wandered away.”
“Which ones?” asked Butler, at the detective’s entreaty.
“Washah and Winka,” said the chief, pointing to the two Sioux crouched
at his right. “One of your people, whose wife had been carried off,
asked them for the help of their arms. He knew that the Indian,
oppressed himself, is always at the service of him who suffers. The
pale-face was not ungrateful, and with the gold he gave to Washah and
Winka they bought weapons superior to those the agents sell us so dear.”
Each of the two warriors, in fact, had a solid double-barreled carbine
by his side.
As the trapper translated Jimin’s last words, William Dow’s face
expressed a more and more lively satisfaction.
“Dear sir,” he said, addressing Saunders when the interpreter had
finished, and pointing to the two Sioux, whose eyes shone with pride,
“do you not recognize two of your guests?”
“Hey, what?” answered the merchant, whom fatigue, the smoke, the
odor of the skins, and especially the indifference he felt in the
conversation had half lulled to sleep.
“Those two Indians there at the right of the chief.”
“Yes; well, what of them?”
“Don’t you recognize them?”
“Where the devil do you suppose I have ever seen those monkeys?”
“At Miss Ada Ricard’s.”
“At Ada’s! Come, now, dear Mr. Dow, ah, ha!”
Poor Saunders’ exclamation expressing that he was beginning to
understand, his friend took pity on his brain, already so shattered,
and continued:
“Yes, at Miss Ada Ricard’s, at the ball. Those Indians are two of the
three masks who carried her off.”
“But the third?”
“He was her husband.”
“James Gobson?”
“His very self; there is no doubt of it.”
“The man who carried her off took her to Colonel Forster; it cannot be
her husband, for he would have kept her for himself.”
“You go too fast; we shall come to that later. Meanwhile do you wish to
assure yourself in regard to the part those two men played that famous
night?”
“I believe I do; but tell me quietly, for I swear to you I do not see
through it at all.”
The good man, indeed, holding his head in his hands, looked imploringly
with his great eyes at Captain Young, who, feeling very much interested
in this unexpected scene, did not take his eyes off of William Dow.
“Your two valiant warriors,” said the latter to Jimin, through the
medium of Butler, “have this day rendered a great service to one of my
friends. Knowing that I was coming to the reserves, he charged me to
thank them again. Do they remember his features?”
“The Indian never forgets the man from whom he receives a benefit,”
answered the chief, sententiously.
The two Sioux, by way of affirmation, clicked their carbines.
The detective had taken from his pocket-book the photograph of James
Gobson, which he handed to Jimin, who passed it on to his warriors.
The latter immediately exclaimed: “Yes, it is really the pale-face
whose wife we helped carry away from an infamous man.”
At this epithet, which Saunders had to take to himself, he looked so
completely astounded that his two companions and Butler himself could
hardly keep serious.
Dow, who had put the picture of Miss Ada’s husband back in his
pocket, arose, and after saying to Jimin that they thanked him for
his hospitality, but that they could not enjoy it any longer, as they
wished to return to Fort Dakota that evening, he begged him to accept
as a souvenir one of his revolvers.
The chief took the weapon which his guest held out, and not being able
to conceal the pleasure which the gift caused him, he thanked him in a
rigmarole of metaphors, quite worthy of the Indian of the prairies.
“Look there behind you,” just then said Captain Young to William Dow,
“on the arm of that young girl.”
He pointed to quite a pretty Indian, crouching with both hands on her
knees. On her left wrist shone a large gold bracelet.
“Is it the wife or daughter of either of you?” the detective asked
Washah and Winka.
“It is my wife,” answered the latter.
“Will you allow me to look at the gold bracelet she wears on her arm?”
Visibly embarrassed, the warrior spoke a few words, and the Indian
woman, raising her great black eyes to the stranger, allowed him to
take her hand.
“Look, Mr. Saunders,” said William, showing him the bracelet; “see if
you do not recognize this.”
The stout man leaned over the young woman and exclaimed:
“Why, it is one of Miss Ada’s bracelets; I gave it to her. I offered
her two alike. They came from Jefferie Muller’s. Our initials, twined
together, are engraved on the inside.”
The tender Yankee was quite touched at the sight of this pledge of his
love to the woman.
“Do you suppose that she would like to sell it to me?” he ventured with
a sigh.
Butler conveyed this proposal to the Indian woman, who immediately drew
back her hand.
“It was the wife of the pale-face who gave me that gold bracelet,” said
the Sioux; “I gave it to Makeni; it belongs to her.”
“More likely that man stole it from Miss Ada,” answered Young, when the
trapper translated the warrior’s answer.
“The wife of the pale-face is dead,” said William Dow, “and he would
be very happy if we should bring back from the prairie this souvenir
of his companion. I offer you for it twenty pounds of powder, thirty
of tobacco, and twenty-five bottles of brandy. You will come with us
to the fort, and it will be given to you. Besides, in the name of the
Great Spirit, I promise to send to Makeni by Butler on his next visit
to the reserves a bracelet even heavier than that.”
It was a bargain in gold which the detective offered the Sioux warrior,
so he hastened to accept it. At his order, the young Indian girl, with
tears, slipped the jewel from her bronze arm. Saunders seized and
opened it and showed to Dow, engraved inside, two initials lovingly
entwined, and the date of the day he had made this present to Miss
Ada. While he stood with his eyes fixed on these initials and date,
which awoke memories so varied, his face expressed so much anger,
mingled with love, that Young, unable to hold in any longer, burst out
laughing, to the amazement of the Indians. But William Dow, to whom
everything was serious, preserved his gravity, and said to Saunders:
“Trust me with this bracelet, I will return it before long.”
Without a word, but not without a sigh of regret, the good man handed
the jewel to the detective, who immediately gave the signal for
departure.
It had been decided that Washah and Winka should accompany the
strangers as far as Fort Dakota, in order to receive the promised
articles.
Five minutes later all were in the saddle, and our travelers, after
shaking hands with Jimin and saluting the village with a discharge from
their carbines, set off again across the prairie.
Mounted on excellent little horses, the two Sioux warriors escorted
them on their flanks. In two hours the little band traveled the
distance which separates the reserve from the American post.
Night began to fall, and Saunders, overcome with fatigue, did not ask
the detective a single question that evening, but the next morning,
when the latter came to announce that they must start again, he thought
he would ask for an explanation of several things.
“My dear sir,” answered our mysterious hero, “we will talk about all
this at Sioux City, where we shall part. Meanwhile, believe me, we have
not made a useless trip across the prairie. I have brought back, as I
hoped, an end of the rope by which James Gobson will be hung.”
Without insisting further, Willie Saunders mounted his horse, and
the four travelers left Fort Dakota. Forty-eight hours later they
re-entered Sioux City.
“Here,” said William Dow to his companions, the next day after
breakfast, “we part; we have completed all that we had to do together;
you are now free.”
Then he added, addressing the trapper: “As for you, Butler, your help
has been valuable to me, and here is the hundred dollars I promised
to give you on our return from our expedition; and, in addition, here
is an extra hundred dollars, for I have really brought back from the
Indians all that I went to find. Mr. Saunders will not forget to give
you at the Union Hotel, in Jefferson, the bracelet intended for Winka’s
wife.”
Miss Ada’s former lover confirmed the detective’s promise, and the
trapper, who had slipped the two hundred dollars into his belt, shook
hands with the three friends and left them.
“Then,” Saunders asked William, “you are not to return with us to New
York?”
“No,” answered the latter; “I am going to the opposite coast--to San
Francisco.”
“To San Francisco?”
“Yes, it is there I expect to find the rest of the rope which I intend
for James Gobson. You will soon hear from me, in a month at the latest,
but promise me, at my first despatch, to come and join me.”
“If it is not too far.”
“You will have only a few hours on the railroad.”
“Now, before separating, let us talk more about this matter.”
“I confess that I ask nothing better. It is time that I understood a
little, and I am sure the captain is of my opinion.”
Young, who sat smoking his cigar, with his chair tipped back and his
feet on the table, nodded assent, and Dow continued:
“We gained at Jefferson City the certainty that James Gobson was there
several days before Miss Ada was carried off; and, among the Sioux,
that it was really he who performed the kidnapping.”
“Yes, it is indisputable,” said Saunders, “and it proves that if that
man is a wretch, his former wife is not much better than he, for after
letting her former husband give her up, she not only saved the scamp
from the gallows, but pardoned him besides.”
“Even more than that, dear sir, she has become again his lawful wife.”
“His lawful wife! Gobson has married Ada?”
“By a second marriage since they were divorced.”
“The wretches!”
Poor Willie Saunders could say no more. Loving still, he retained the
hope of meeting Miss Ada again, and here was a new barrier raised
between her and himself.
“But, my dear Dow,” observed Young, speaking in his turn; “how in the
devil can this testimony we have just received serve you?”
“Yes; how?” murmured Saunders.
“This Gobson,” resumed the captain, “carried off a woman, whether she
did or did not belong to him matters little; then this woman, forgiving
the abuse she had formerly received, accepted his name a second time.
It is odious, but the law has no power in such a matter. It was neither
a crime nor an offence, and, what is most curious, even if it were a
crime or offence, James Gobson would not be disturbed, since the court
revised his case and acquitted him.”
It was weeks, and perhaps months, since the captain had indulged in so
long a speech and had reasoned with so much logic. He was astonished
himself, and waited for the answer of his friend Dow with the air of a
conqueror.
“My dear Young,” said the latter, “you talk of guilt. James Gobson was
acquitted by the jury, it is true, but he has not been acquitted by
William Dow, and William Dow is keeping for him as well as for you, a
surprise. Ask me no more; return to New York and hold yourself ready to
join me when I send you word.”
The captain and Saunders knew their friend too well to address any
more questions, and the travelers separated after this conversation. A
few hours later Young and Saunders took the cars at Sioux City for New
York, going east, while the detective, returning over the route already
traveled, went in the direction of the West.
The next day, when Saunders, delighted at enjoying his ease again,
was having an excellent dinner with the captain in the luxurious
dining-room at the Sherman House, in Chicago, William Dow was on the
train to Omaha, which he was to leave at Benton, in Wyoming Territory.
Ten days after his departure from Benton, when, perhaps, Young and
Saunders were no longer thinking of him, he arrived at San Francisco.
CHAPTER XVIII.
TWO VILLAS AT JAMAICA PLAIN.
As William Dow had informed Mr. Kelly, it was really in Boston that
James Gobson had located himself, after leaving New York, to avoid the
rude and annoying curiosity of the latter city. But the rumor of the
legal error of which he had nearly been the victim, had so quickly
preceded him to the capital of Massachusetts, that a week after his
arrival, when he married Miss Ada Ricard, his divorced wife, the
Democrats offered him a banquet and received him with applause at
Barker’s, the fashionable club rendezvous.
Imitating the custom of retired and wealthy merchants, Gobson did not
reside in the city proper, but lived about five miles out, at Jamaica
Plain, in a pretty villa, which was converted into a sumptuous dwelling
by Miss Ada’s taste.
The re-married couple lived in comfort under the same roof, but almost
apart, which would have greatly calmed the jealousy of the unhappy
Saunders if he had known of it.
The young woman occupied a charming apartment on the first
floor, composed of a large parlor, a boudoir, sleeping-room, and
dressing-room. The door of the latter room was at the head of the bed,
hidden by a blue silk portiere. The room was entirely hung with the
same material. James Gobson never set foot in this part of the house,
for once installed and received among the high-livers of Boston, he
resumed his former life and vices. Forgetting what his habits of
drinking, play, and his brutal ways had cost him, from his divorce to
the suspicions which had led him to the foot of the gallows, he had
fallen into the same excesses. He passed his days at the races, and
his evenings at Barker’s, and nine times out of ten he was intoxicated
when he went home in the middle of the night. Mrs. Gobson then had
everything to fear from her husband’s anger, and her fear must have
been extreme, for she never dared answer when he swore at her, nor
refuse him the money squandered.
If Saunders could have witnessed one of these scenes, he certainly
would not have recognized the beautiful, capricious woman, so whimsical
and self-willed, who formerly ruled him. This life was doubly hard for
the former Miss Ada, for she no longer had Mary with her, for Gobson,
after generously rewarding the girl, had dismissed her, and then
replaced her by a servant in whom he inspired as much fear as in his
wife.
The other servants in this gloomy household were a cook and a gardener,
who were not interested in the conjugal quarrels of the couple, and who
besides rarely witnessed them, since they took place very late, when,
their work being over, they had retired to their own quarters.
Mrs. Gobson then lived in absolute solitude with the exception of her
seamstress, her dress-maker, and a few tradespeople she was acquainted
with, and received no one, and that this isolation was mournful to her
was plainly shown in her face.
She was still beautiful, but her complexion had grown pale and her
eyes hollow. Her whole countenance expressed sorrow, lassitude and
discouragement.
Sometimes, however, when her husband went in town after committing
some rude or violent act, her eyes would flash lightning and her lips
contract in a menacing smile. In such moments a leaven of rebellion and
vengeance seemed to rise within her. But it lasted only an instant;
some secret and terrible thought passed through her mind, and with a
shudder she burst into sobs. What still further increased the martyrdom
of the pretty, forsaken woman, and what rendered her life more horrible
and her isolation more cruel, was the sight that met her eyes when,
concealed behind the curtains of her sleeping-room, she looked into the
park of the next house.
There all was calm, happy, and pure. This house was inhabited by a
distinguished-looking man about forty years old, of a particularly
intelligent face, and by a young girl nearly sixteen, of a bewitching,
gentle beauty, who had a middle-aged governess or teacher with her.
The forsaken Mrs. Gobson supposed it was the home of a couple in their
honeymoon, and her heart, she could not tell why, was saddened; but, on
inquiring, she learned that her neighbor was named Charles Murray, and
that the young person called Jane was his daughter or ward, and she
felt an unhoped-for relief. From that moment she continued her curious
watching without the unconscious jealousy she at first had felt, and
she soon learned by the despotism with which her thoughts reverted to
Charles Murray, that she loved the stranger whom chance had brought so
near her.
She soon made her neighbor aware of the attention of which he was the
object, and he was evidently as much flattered as touched, for in less
than a fortnight after the first looks exchanged, Mrs. Gobson read
with deep emotion these two lines which she found in a bunch of roses,
thrown to her over the garden-wall:
“You are adorably beautiful, and I love you. How can I speak with you?”
Her husband had just left for his club, where he was going to dine,
and, according to his custom, pass the evening and a part of the night.
Mrs. Gobson went up to her room, where from her window she saw her
neighbor, who, pretending to be absorbed in reading a newspaper, was
watching her.
She immediately wrote a few words, slipped them in an envelope, in
which she placed a dollar to give it the necessary weight, and tossed
it so skilfully that the loving projectile fell at Charles Murray’s
feet.
He picked it up, and read:
“At eight o’clock this evening, at the end of the avenue.”
He gave her a look of thanks which made her blush with happiness, and
returned home.
Charles Murray had given Miss Jane the first floor of his villa, but
he had reserved for himself two rooms on the ground-floor which had a
private entrance. The first of these rooms was a sleeping-room, the
second a study, the door of which was always carefully locked, and no
one, not even the servants, ever entered it.
Murray, who was interested in science, had, they said, dangerous
materials and fragile apparatuses which he wished to protect from
curious eyes or from being handled. When he established himself at
Jamaica Plain, he alone received and opened the boxes which contained
them. His orders were strictly obeyed. When her friend or guardian was
at home and she wished to see him, Miss Jane herself did not cross the
threshold of this mysterious apartment--she called to him from outside.
It was to this study that Murray proceeded when he left Mrs. Gobson,
and if the latter had followed him she would have been strangely
surprised; for, instead of covering her note with loving kisses, as she
perhaps fancied, her neighbor, when once at home, took a voluminous
package of papers from his desk, drew out one crumpled letter, and,
comparing it with that from Mr. Gobson’s wife, said:
“It is, indeed, the same handwriting.”
During this time Ada was plunged in her dreams of love. When dinner
was ready she seated herself at table, but ate hardly anything. At
eight o’clock, taking the chance while her servants were busy in the
kitchen, she stole out of the house.
It was beginning to grow dark, and the air was warm and fragrant.
She drew her mantle around her and quickened her steps, and soon
discovered, under one of the tall trees in the avenue, the man she was
coming to meet.
Murray, who had recognized her, quickly advanced to meet her, and said
in a low voice, full of feeling:
“Madam, forgive me for having dared to break in upon your solitude.”
“I forgive you, sir,” she answered, “by coming here.”
“Thank you--thank you with all my heart.”
He offered her his arm, and she took it, saying:
“You wrote me that you loved me, did you know who I am?”
“I might answer you no, but that would be unworthy of you and me. Yes,
I know who you are. The name of your husband told me that you were the
heroine of that event which all New York was talking about for two
months.”
“And was this why you have made me a declaration of love?”
She said this in a tone of pique, and withdrew her arm from that of her
escort.
Understanding what was passing in her mind, Charles Murray hastened to
answer, gently replacing her arm within his.
“Oh! you do not believe it, madam; I love you because you are lovely,
and I judged you were unhappy because you are beautiful, and my heart,
void of affection, went out to you.”
“Is all this really the truth?”
Ada, wishing to be convinced, smiled.
“Really the truth,” repeated Murray, tenderly pressing the little hand
she had let him take.
“But the foolishness of this love; I am married.”
“Why did you marry a second time a man of whom you had so much to
complain?”
“Ah, I don’t know. The peculiar situation in which the law placed us.
Weakness.”
“Get a divorce a second time.”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible, why?”
“Because, on the mere suspicion of such an intention on my part, my
husband would kill me. You see, I came to meet you to warn you of the
danger to which you expose me. I have been able to escape to-day; but
to come out again in this way would seem strange to my servants, for we
receive no one, and Mr. Gobson is not acquainted with you.”
“I can become acquainted with him.”
“I think not; and I hope not, for your sake.”
“But if it is the only way to see you, and talk with you.”
“Yes, it is the only way. You love me, then?”
“I have never met a more charming woman than you. Give me a little hope
and I will become your husband’s friend in less than a week.”
“Do so, and we will see. Meanwhile let me go; my absence may be
remarked.”
They retraced their steps, then separated a hundred yards from their
villas, not without pressing hands and giving many promises.
When Mrs. Gobson reached the house, she went at once to her room, where
her first look was at her mirror which gave her back a smile. The few
moments which she had just passed in a loving tete-a-tete had restored
all her beauty.
Murray, after noiselessly closing the garden gate, which he had left
open when he went out, entered his study. Absorbed in his thoughts,
he had not seen, two steps from the fence, hidden behind a cluster
of trees, a young girl watching him, no doubt, for the emotion which
overcame her at sight of him was so great that she had to cover her
face to stifle a sob. It was this lovely child whose chaste beauty
awakening Mrs. Gobson’s jealousy, had, perhaps, more than any other
sentiment, awakened in her heart the imperious desire to be loved.
CHAPTER XIX.
WHAT HAPPENED ON LEAVING BARKER’S.
In less than a fortnight after his reception at Barker’s, James Gobson
became one of the most constant attendants at the club. A great drinker
and gambler, he found adversaries equal to him, who soon became
intimate with him and who led him without any difficulty into every
excess. They knew he was rich, and cared little how he made his money.
He was at every race, took part in all the betting, and was invited to
every entertainment, and, like certain other high-livers of the club,
he finally took a room at Barker’s, in order to have a bed ready for
the days when drunkenness did not permit him to go home, even if he
were carried there.
Master Gobson thus led the gayest, most irregular existence, while his
wife remained alone in her villa, at Jamaica Plain. It would have been
a real satisfaction to the inconsolable Saunders to see how forsaken
was the woman who, in order to marry a second time, had repelled his
love.
Being very jolly, even when he was thoroughly drunk, Ada Ricard’s
husband took every joke in good part, excepting those about his trial.
He did not like to be reminded of the critical days which he had spent
at the Tombs, and liked still less to speak of the woman who bore his
name. When people expressed astonishment at never seeing him with the
beautiful Mrs. Gobson, who had saved his life and given a true proof of
love in marrying him a second time, in spite of the past, he answered
evasively. If any one persisted he grew pale and his eyes wore a look
of hatred people could not explain. But these questions were not
repeated. At the end of a month his pleasure companions gave as little
thought to his wife as if she did not exist. James then became quite
happy.
Matters were like this at the time of the rendezvous of Mrs. Gobson
and Charles Murray. That evening Gobson spent the night at his club,
but the next day he had to return home, for he had emptied his pockets
in gambling. Naturally, he had expected reproaches, as usual on such
occurrences, but to his amazement Ada received him charmingly.
What to her henceforth were the follies and absence of the man she was
about to escape?
But James cared too little for Mrs. Gobson to question about this
sudden change. Coldly sceptical, and profoundly selfish, he accepted
the effect without seeking to trace it back to the cause.
The couple passed the day in perfect harmony, and toward five o’clock,
when her husband, with his pocket-book replenished, told her that he
was going to his club, Ada bade him a friendly good-by.
Gobson wished particularly to dine at Barker’s that evening, for they
were going to receive a new member into their club, and this ceremony
was always accompanied by a banquet at which the most important members
of the club did not fail to be present.
The newly elected member, Harris Burnett by name, came to Boston with
the warmest recommendations, and preceded by the reputation of a brave
drinker. They presented James Gobson to him, who sat on his right, and
these two gentlemen, with their wine-glasses in their hands, became so
well acquainted that when they arose from the table, at ten o’clock,
they were intimate boon companions. From the dining-room they passed
into a parlor, but there, instead of taking a seat at the gaming-table
as Gobson invited him, Harris asked to be excused a moment, under the
pretext of going to his hotel.
In fact, he ran to it, for a man was waiting for him on the door-step.
It was Charles Murray.
“Well,” asked the latter, “how are you getting on?”
“We have reached the most tender friendship,” answered Harris Burnett,
“only I do not think he will leave Barker’s to-night. He is going to
play, and he is so drunk that he will probably fall asleep at the club.”
“So much the better; I am not ready, and that assures us of his return
to-morrow to Jamaica Plain. But to-morrow he must not leave before
half-past twelve at night. Do not let him get too drunk; keep him
steady enough to get into a carriage which will stand two doors above
Barker’s. Above all, if he has a revolver take it away from him, or
what is better, unload it. The rest I will take care of.”
“How shall I notify you?”
“I shall be here to-morrow at this hour. If any unforeseen obstacle
presents itself it will be the next day.”
Having received these strange instructions Burnett returned to
Barker’s, and Charles Murray, stepping into the carriage waiting for
him, drove to Jamaica Plain.
Things went on as he had predicted, James Gobson played half the night
and slept at his club.
The next day his new friend came to see him; they went together to the
races. Then returned to Barker’s for dinner, then at ten o’clock they
began to play with opponents who had been mentioned to Harris as never
keeping very late hours. Therefore, toward midnight these gentlemen
expressed a desire to end the game, and James Gobson who, while
playing, had not ceased to drink, prepared to leave.
“Are you going home?” asked Burnett, who, at the hour agreed, had
absented himself a moment to tell Charles Murray what had happened.
“Upon my word I am,” answered James; “it is forty-eight hours since I
have set foot in it.”
“Then let us go down together?”
“Agreed.”
They entered the vestibule, where Harris, not being able to further
carry out the orders he had received, adroitly drew out the revolver
in Gobson’s pocket. Having done that, he took the arm of his new
friend, who reeled somewhat, and they went out. The street was deserted.
“My God,” murmured the drunken man, “no carriage! I shall go back to
the club; I have no desire to go to Jamaica Plain by means of my own
legs; in fact, they would not take me there.”
“Here is a carriage,” said Harris, laughing at his friend’s pleasantry.
He pointed out a cab, the driver of which was evidently waiting for a
passenger, for he drove his horse toward the men approaching.
Gobson tumbled into the carriage, shook the hand of his new dinner
companion energetically, stammered out his address, and threw himself
back in a corner and closed his eyes.
The cab had been rolling on for three-quarters of an hour, and was
within a hundred yards of the avenue where is the villa with which our
readers are already acquainted, when Gobson, who had fallen asleep,
suddenly awoke, hearing the oaths which his autonedon was pouring out.
The man had jumped down from his box and was carefully examining one of
the wheels of his carriage.
“What is the matter?” asked James, whom the brief sleep had partly
sobered.
“One of the nuts has come off, and I cannot go any farther,” answered
the man.
“Pooh! That is nothing,” said Gobson, jumping out into the road; “I
will go home on foot. Stop--here’s your pay.”
He gave a dollar to the driver, who thanked him, and, while his
passenger went whistling toward the avenue, he turned his cab around,
then leading his horse by the bridle, took the road toward the city.
But five minutes later he quietly drew a nut from his pocket, put it in
place, jumped on his box, and set off at a gallop.
James, without suspecting the trick of which he was a victim, had
reached the avenue, where, owing to the tall trees that bordered it,
it was rather dark. Suddenly, as he was going along the wall of a wide
park, two men sprang upon him, and so quickly that he hardly had time
to give a shout. One of his assailants had seized him by the throat,
and the other was trying to throw him on the ground, saying:
“If you call, you are dead. Quick, your money and your watch.”
But Gobson was brave and strong. Holding with one hand the arm of the
thief who was threatening him with his knife, and giving a vigorous
bump with his head on the face of the man who was strangling him, he
disengaged himself sufficiently to be able to give a second cry for
help.
“Keep up, I am coming,” a voice immediately answered, and he heard
steps running toward him.
At once understanding that their shot had missed, the two robbers
bound their victim and sprang to the other side of the road, but
James’ preserver no doubt did not wish them to get off so easily, for
two shots resounded the air, and one of the two wretches gave a cry
which Gobson, had he been less drunk, would have understood, for his
deliverer had simply fired in the air.
Gobson was hardly saved before he wished also to take his revenge, only
to his amazement he no longer found in his overcoat pocket the revolver
he was sure he had put there. Besides, the thieves had disappeared, and
the man who had so fortunately come to his aid had approached.
“You are not wounded, are you, sir?” asked the stranger.
“No,” answered Gobson; “but had it not been for your arrival I believe
that all would have been over with me. The rogues almost strangled me.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
While saying this James arranged his toilet, the harmony of which was
singularly disturbed by this attack, and he fumbled in vain in his
pockets, saying:
“It is singular; I am, however, certain I took it from home yesterday.”
“What is it?” asked his savior.
“My revolver. However, thanks to yours, one of those robbers has paid
for his audacity. But, one question, sir. How happen you to be in this
avenue at such an hour?”
“I was returning home.”
“Home?”
“Yes; I live two hundred steps from here, at No. 67.”
“Indeed. We are neighbors, then; I live at villa 66.”
“You are Mr. James Gobson.”
“I am. But you have the advantage of me. I am not acquainted with your
name.”
“My name is Charles Murray.”
“Well, Mr. Charles Murray, I owe you my life, and I shall not forget
it; and since we are neighbors we will not part thus. You will do me
the pleasure of coming into my house and taking a glass of champagne.”
“It is very late.”
“Hardly one o’clock.”
“Are you not married? We should awaken Mrs. Gobson.”
“Bah! Mrs. Gobson will be delighted to see the man who saved her
husband, unless it was she who tried to have me assassinated.”
James said this with a laugh, but his laugh was ironical, and expressed
that he believed his wife perfectly capable of such an act. Charles
Murray did not seem to understand; he merely observed to his neighbor
that the men who attacked him seemed to have no other intention than to
rob him.
“Yes; that is true,” said Gobson, laughing again; “and you think this
is only joking on my part?”
While talking thus the two were walking homeward. They soon reached the
first of the two villas.
“What, you really wish me to enter your house at such an hour?” asked
Murray, as Gobson opened the gate and stood aside to let him pass in.
“Certainly, my dear sir, I absolutely insist on it. You would disoblige
me very much by refusing.”
“Let it be then as you wish.”
And following the master of the villa, who preceded him to show him the
way, Charles Murray crossed the garden and entered the house.
“Hallo! Betsy, Betsy, come down,” shouted Gobson at the foot of the
staircase.
Betsy was Ada’s maid. She had retired to her bed but was not yet
asleep. She immediately answered, and James, taking the lamp which
lighted the hall, showed his neighbor into the dining-room. The servant
appeared almost immediately.
“Light the gas,” ordered the master; “give us some champagne, cigars
and crackers, and tell Mrs. Gobson to join us.”
“Madam is asleep,” said Betsy.
“Wake her up,” answered the brute, roughly.
“No, I beg you,” entreated Murray. “I shall have the honor of seeing
Mrs. Gobson to-morrow.”
“No such thing; she will have time enough to sleep--she has nothing
better to do. Be off with you, quick, you stupid creature.”
These last words were addressed to the maid, who was no doubt
accustomed to this rude tone, and ventured no remark. She lighted the
room, served the champagne, and disappeared to obey her orders.
Gobson poured out the wine like a man expert in such operations,
filled the glasses, and emptied his at one swallow, with a bow to his
preserver. Murray drank with his host, who said, filling the glasses
again:
“It is truly a good fortune for me to have you for a neighbor. Have
you lived in the avenue long?”
“Hardly a month. The air of the neighborhood was recommended for my
niece. I came here on her account.”
“Are you not married?”
“No.”
“You are very fortunate.”
“You are more so. They say Mrs. Gobson is very pretty.”
“Yes, that may be; but you see, dear Mr. Murray, the best wife--when
you are tied to her--is worse than the devil. She is an obstacle. I for
my part like liberty.”
The rustle of a dress interrupted this coarse outburst of James Gobson,
who was rapidly returning on the road to drunkenness, and a few seconds
later the mistress of the house appeared on the threshold of the
dining-room.
Ada was prettier than ever. In a long blue satin robe, with her
beautiful hair simply drawn up in a knot on her head, she was simply
charming.
On recognizing in her husband’s companion the man she loved, she
stopped in the doorway an instant, but understanding that there was
some mystery that would be explained later she silenced the beating of
her heart, became mistress of herself again, and, bowing to Mr. Murray
as she would have done to a stranger, she entered, saying to James, in
a dry, curt tone:
“Betsy awoke me, saying that you wanted me. What can you wish at such
an hour?”
“Why, my dear,” answered Gobson, in a mocking tone, “I simply wish to
present to you the man who has saved my life, Mr. Murray, our neighbor.
Without his aid, two scamps were about to do me an evil deed.”
“I do not understand you,” said the young woman, slightly shrugging her
shoulders with indifferent concern.
“Oh, I know very well,” returned the drunkard, who had caught this
movement, “that if those fellows had driven six inches of steel into me
you would not have felt greatly displeased. I have been attacked; they
tried to rob me, but my savior arrived. It was time, for I was half
strangled, and his timely appearance no doubt saved my life.”
“Madam,” said Charles Murray, who had risen at Ada’s entrance, “your
husband exaggerates a little the service which I have rendered him. I
believe that he would have saved himself without me. However that may
be, I beg pardon for having disturbed your rest. I did not wish to
enter your house, but Mr. Gobson insisted, and my refusal would have
offended him.”
“Ah, certainly, yes; I insisted,” replied James, quickly, “and I think
it won’t end here; you seem to me like a lively companion. Another
glass of champagne. Come, Ada, drink with us, or I shall think that you
are grieving because I returned safe and sound.”
“I am quite ready,” answered Mrs. Gobson, smiling, divining that this
attack on her husband was only a comedy. “Whatever you may think, I
am happy that nothing happened to you. I thank you very sincerely,
Mr.--Mr.--”
“Murray,” was the answer.
And taking the full glass which her husband handed her, she moistened
her rosy lips, looking steadily at her neighbor with an expression of
countenance that indicated pleasure.
“Now,” said the latter, “you will permit me, dear Mr. Gobson, to
intrude no longer; we will see each other again, since you kindly
invite me to your house.”
“Let me show you the way home.”
“Pray do not take the trouble; I can find the way.”
This offer, in fact, was almost impossible for James to carry out, for
the four or five glasses of champagne which he had just drank had again
intoxicated him.
“Then,” he stuttered, “let Betsy show you the way.”
“I will do it myself,” said Mrs. Gobson.
Gobson nodded approval, and held out his hand to his guest, making him
promise to return the next day.
Ada was already on the steps when Charles Murray joined her. They
crossed the garden together.
“Well,” he said, when they reached the gate, “you see I have kept my
promise; here I am, your husband’s friend. Will you not give me a word
of hope?”
“You are charming,” said Mrs. Gobson, her eyes sparkling. “I will see
you to-morrow.” Unclosing the gate after making this promise, she ran
up to her room without entering the dining-room, where James, with his
elbows on the table, was murmuring, with eyes full of hatred:
“If I thought those men were set on by her I would kill her as I would
a dog.”
CHAPTER XX.
A WIFE’S LOVE AND A MAID’S LOVE.
Under the conditions just described, the love-making of Charles Murray
and Mrs. Gobson promised rapid progress. Ada was charmed by the easy
address of the handsome stranger, for she knew that in order to visit
her he had planned this attack from which he had saved her husband,
but humiliated at her husband’s rudeness in the presence of his guest
thought only of revenge.
Being sure that Gobson would be eager for an acquaintance with his
preserver in proportion to the repugnance she might show for the
intimacy, the next day, when she was told that Mr. Murray would lunch
at the villa, she received the news with displeasure; she seated
herself at the table, pouting, and before the end of the meal excused
herself with some pretext, in spite of the rude remarks of her husband.
But the latter cared little; he was none the less convivial with his
guest, so much so that at the last course he was intoxicated and would
not allow his new friend to leave.
“Let it please or not please Mrs. Gobson,” he said. “We must see each
other often. Get admitted to our club at Barker’s; I will vouch for
you. We will return to Jamaica Plain when we please, and if by chance
we happen to come home early we will end our night gayly here.”
“I accept,” answered Murray, touching his glass for the tenth time to
that of the drunken man. “Ah! you know how to enjoy life.”
“Better still; I wish our two villas to be like one. They formerly
communicated by a gate now out of use; to-morrow it shall be opened
again. Will that suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Hurrah, then! A good table, play and friends give the only true
pleasure. To the devil with a wife--that is, your own--”
Charles Murray, who seemed proof against intoxication, touched glasses
as often as it pleased his host, and they did not separate until the
latter wishing to go to his club, thought it best to throw himself on
his bed and rest for several hours before starting.
At nightfall, after dinner, when her husband had gone, Mrs. Gobson
watched for her neighbor; but to her amazement and great chagrin he did
not give a sign of his existence. She did not see him again until the
next day, when Gobson, having opened the connecting-gate between the
two villas, did the honors of the house and park to him.
During this visit Murray found a chance to say to Mrs. Gobson,
“This evening,” and in the hope of this interview she forgot her
disappointment and useless waiting of the evening before. She was
punctual at the rendezvous. She waited for Murray at the garden-gate,
and led him to a green bower, where no curious eye could see them.
“I waited for you in vain yesterday,” she said, in a gentle tone of
reproach, as soon as they had seated themselves on a broad rattan bench.
“Ada, listen to me,” answered Mr. Murray, in a grave voice, but
lovingly pressing the two little hands Mrs. Gobson gave him. “I feel
drawn toward you by a genuine love. The thought that that coarse
creature is your husband drives me to despair, and I long to break the
fatal link that binds you to him. Is it not possible?”
“I think not,” answered Ada sadly, rapt by these words, for being
little accustomed to delicate sentiments, she found a peculiar charm in
feeling herself jealously loved.
“Why is it impossible?”
“Oh! I cannot tell you. Do not question me, if you love me.”
The young woman said this with an inexpressible accent of terror. Her
hands trembled in Murray’s, and she bowed before him as if begging him
to defend her, and tears shone in her beautiful eyes.
But this man seemed as if made of bronze; not a pulse was stirred, and
yet this woman was appealing to him by the ardor of her heart, and the
tone of her voice, but he gently tried to console her with kind words.
He then led her to the doorsteps, saying:
“Again to-morrow.”
Ada went to her room, where, in a fit of despair, she flung herself
upon her bed, giving vent to fierce words of hatred against her husband.
The following days passed the same. One evening when she was with him,
she said:
“I entreat you to tell me what to do.”
“I repeat to you, Ada,” answered Murray, “you must separate from that
man, since you have had the weakness to marry him a second time.”
“A second time!” said the young woman, with a smile whose irony
transformed it into a sob, and falling at Murray’s feet, she repeated:
“A second time! Oh! if you only knew.”
“Explain yourself. What secret links you to him? Have confidence in me.
Let us try every means to free you.”
“Oh! no, no; never,” cried Mrs. Gobson, with an indescribable tone of
terror. “If I were to die of your scorn, I shall not speak. Farewell.”
Speaking these words in a heart-rending tone, she had arisen and,
without looking around, hastened to her room, shutting the door quickly
behind her.
Murray who, no doubt, hardly expected this sudden disappearance, stood
a moment amazed and disappointed, but he made no attempt to recall the
fugitive. He took his hat, went slowly down stairs, left the house and
walked toward the gate leading to his own villa. He had almost reached
it when, suddenly, the rustling of a dress and hurrying footsteps
indicated that some one was running after him. He turned round and saw
Ada, who sprang toward him.
“No, I do not wish to part thus. To-morrow I will tell you all, and you
will free me from that man. But you will love me, you will love me,
won’t you?”
“How could I help loving you, when you give me such a proof of love,”
he answered. “I love you so much already.”
At the same moment a mournful groan was heard on the other side of the
gate.
“What is that?” asked Mrs. Gobson, frightened.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Charles Murray, whose paleness was hidden by
the darkness. “Go home now.”
“But then----”
“Go, go, I beg you; it is my wish,” and paying no further attention to
her, he sprang into his garden, fastening the gate after him; within
two steps he came near stumbling over some one lying near a cluster of
trees.
“Jane,” he cried, recognizing who it was.
He took her in his arms and, laden with his precious burden, ran into
the house.
“Oh, Miss Jane, what has happened?” cried her good governess, on
recognizing her pupil. “She was with me only five minutes ago.”
“It is not much, I hope,” answered Murray, mounting the stairs as
lightly as if he were carrying a child.
Having reached Jane’s sleeping-room he lay her on a lolling-chair,
and immediately assured himself that it was only a fainting turn. A
moment later, owing to prompt measures, she came to herself. Opening
her large eyes, and after trying a few minutes to steady her head, she
recognized her friend, and blushingly clasping her hands, said:
“Forgive me, Charles, forgive me, I am punished enough,” and she burst
into sobs.
“Forgive you, Jane? For what? Weep if you must; it will relieve you,
and you can explain all to me later. Meanwhile, dear little one, be
calm. I forgive you with all my heart, although I do not know what
fault you have committed, and I love you.”
At these words the young girl grew pale, and, as if she felt herself
growing ill again, her lids drooped.
“Let your maid attend to you,” continued Murray, after touching the
child’s forehead with his lips, “and your governess and I will then
come and stay with you until you fall asleep.”
He signed to the governess, and leaving the invalid in the care of the
maid, they passed into the boudoir. There they were far enough away not
to be heard.
“What does this mean?” Murray asked the old lady.
“It was sure to happen some day or another, sir,” answered the teacher;
“I reproach myself with having kept silence.”
“Silence? Explain yourself; you frighten me.”
“Miss Jane loves you, sir.”
“Miss Jane loves me.” And as he repeated these words Murray carried his
hands to his face, which became of a livid pallor.
“Yes, she loves you and is jealous.”
“Jealous of whom, great God?”
But with his customary clearness of mind immediately reviewing the
scene whose ending caused the young girl’s cry and fainting, he
understood that she had been watching him in the garden when Ada joined
him near the gate, and it was the loving words she heard which caused
her illness.
“Oh! it is frightful,” he murmured, with great agitation.
“That is not all, sir; I must conceal nothing from you,” replied the
teacher.
“What more?”
“Day before yesterday, early in the evening, Miss Jane, who had left
me only a quarter of an hour before, came up suffering from a nervous
attack. I wished to call you, but she objected, saying: ‘He is with her
in his library. I suspected it, but I wished to see for myself. Oh! I
am cruelly punished for my curiosity.’”
“She saw me with Mrs. Gobson?” questioned Murray in amazement, and in a
voice strangely moved.
“That is how it was,” continued the governess, “but I ask your pardon
for speaking to you of things that do not concern me.”
“Continue, continue. Did Miss Jane watch me and hear me enter?”
“I do not know; it is probable. At any rate, she came down slowly,
noiselessly slipped into your sleeping-room, of which you had only
dropped the portieres without closing the door, and she recognized that
woman, and she ran away for fear of being caught. And she came and
told me this with sobs.”
“Poor little one,” said Murray, with a strange smile, “I am in despair.
Go up to her; do not leave her alone a single instant; tell her that
she is mistaken, and that I will explain all some day. Above all,
advise her to be calm.”
Then he added, as if speaking to himself, while the teacher left to
join her pupil, “The love of this angel is my punishment; well, I
must finish my task; God will do the rest.” And immediately going
down-stairs to his study, he rapidly wrote the following lines:
MY DEAR FRIEND:--The hour has come; on receipt of this letter, run to
Mr. Kelly’s and tell him to ask Mr. Davis for a warrant against James
Gobson and his wife. Tell these gentlemen that I will answer for this
measure with my honor. Then take the first train for Boston with Mr.
Saunders and stop at the American House, where await yours truly,
WILLIAM.
Having addressed it to Captain Young at the office of the central
police, New York, Charles Murray, or rather William Dow, whom the
reader has already recognized, left his study calmer than he had
entered it a few moments before.
He ordered one of his servants to mail this letter and went to inquire
after Jane. The young girl had recovered and fallen asleep. As he
went down he gave a threatening look at the lighted windows of Mrs.
Gobson, who, no doubt, was thinking lovingly of him and he entered his
apartments, saying:
“Young will have my letter to-morrow; in forty-eight hours he will
arrive. I have more time than I need. Before then all will be ready.”
CHAPTER XXI.
THE MURDERER OF A DEAD WOMAN.
Since the day he was attacked, James Gobson had become ruder and more
brutal to his wife than before. Although he seemed to have been joking
when reproaching her for having set assassins on his track, the idea of
a trap laid by her had taken root in his mind, and, brave as he was, he
so feared that the attempt would be renewed that he no longer returned
to Jamaica Plain at night. When he had prolonged his stay at the club
he slept there, and did not return to the villa until daylight the next
day.
His first duty, on arriving home, was invariably to make a scene,
either with his servants or Mrs. Gobson; then, this duty of a drunkard
being accomplished, he would call on Charles Murray, of whom he had
made a confidant. The latter tried to calm him, but took such strange
means that Gobson always left him after such conversations filled with
greater hatred than ever toward Ada.
The day after the event which ends the preceding chapter, James
returned home towards three o’clock, and as usual called on his
neighbor, and talked about his wife in such a manner that Mr. Dow
answered:
“Such a life is a perfect purgatory; why do you not separate from Mrs.
Gobson? It would be better than any scandal, for certainly she will run
off some morning. Some fine evening, when you return home, you won’t
find her.”
“Separate from her? Is that possible?” growled the husband. “If I
thought she had any idea of flight, I swear she should not go out of my
house until she went with her feet foremost. There will be trouble yet.
Does she ever say anything in particular to you?”
“I have never been alone with her more than twice since we have been
acquainted, and you know she does not like me very well.”
“Of course not. You saved my life.”
“No, that is not the reason; but she knows that I have great friendship
for you. However, it is very evident that she has some plan in her
head. Have you not a relative or friend by the name of Davis?”
“Davis? No. Why?”
“I had reason to think so, for the other evening, when you had been
treating her rather badly, it must be confessed, I heard her murmur, as
she followed you about with her eyes: ‘And to think I had only to write
a word to Davis to put an end to it all.’”
“Davis? The wretch!”
This name, no doubt, had suddenly awakened terrible memories in
Gobson’s mind, for in uttering this exclamation he had become very pale
and had arisen.
“You will not betray me,” said Charles Murray. “Come, calm yourself. It
is of no use to be violent with women. You must use a little cunning,
and don’t let them surprise you. This Davis, or any other friend or
relative, matters little to you. No one could frighten you; you are
master in your own house. If I were in your place I should leave Mrs.
Gobson to live as she pleases; I would authorize her to amuse herself
as best suits her; I would even urge her to keep less secluded. It
would not need any more to satisfy her and restore peace to both of
you.”
“Yes, perhaps you are right,” answered James, with a visible effort to
master himself.
“And above all, I would not say anything to her. If you do, she will be
on her guard, and will play you some trick and do something rash. Do
you think we had better go and see her together?”
“No, indeed, not to-day, or to-morrow, probably. This evening I dine
at the club, and to-morrow we shall go to the races with a jolly
companion, who has lately joined us, Harris Burnett. Now, you know that
on the day of the races, there is a great banquet at Barker’s. After
to-morrow, in two or three days, we will see what is best to be done.
Meanwhile, since you will not come with us, preach to Ada, and if you
see anything promise to warn me.”
“I will not fail to do so.”
“And, then, you see, at heart I do not think her capable of playing me
a wicked trick. However, I know what I am about.”
James Gobson spoke these words in a peculiar tone, and the friends
having separated after this conversation, the drunken Gobson went to
Boston without even stopping to see his wife. The latter, however,
waited in vain for Charles Murray all the evening. The door between
the two villas remained closed, and she passed a terrible night,
not understanding why he had not come to see her. Mad with love and
despair, she did not fall asleep until late into the night, and the
next morning she hastily wrote a note, which she sent to her neighbor.
On reading this letter, Murray could not conceal a smile of triumph.
Ada, however, had written only these three lines, but no doubt did not
wish more:
Come, I beg you, I will tell you everything, I cannot live thus; I do
not wish Mr. Gobson to find me at Jamaica Plain to-morrow.
An hour later Charles Murray was warmly greeted by Mrs. Gobson.
“Ada,” he said, gently, “I do not wish to know your secrets; from
yourself, I wish only you; will you elope with me?”
“Will I?” answered the young woman with a joyful cry.
“Well, in the first place, your husband must be sent away for two or
three days, but he must certainly be sent away from Boston, for he
might come home from his club at any moment and suddenly surprise you
making preparations for departure. You know him well.”
“He would kill me; but how can I manage to send him away?”
“You must send him to some city away from Boston. Let me think. Has he
not some friends at Buffalo?”
“I don’t know of any.”
“Ah! I think I have found a plan. What were the names of those
magistrates who made such a foolish mistake in accusing your husband of
having murdered you?”
“Mortimer and Davis. The latter was the coroner in my district.”
Mrs. Gobson spoke these names with a blush and in a choking voice.
But her neighbor did not observe her emotion, and said:
“Coroner Davis, that is perfect. I have a plan; write down his name and
address for me that I may not forget it. Here, on this envelope.”
Murray took a tablet from the table and placed it on Miss Ada’s knees.
The latter tremblingly obeyed.
“Do you not understand me?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“It is very simple, however. I am going to get a friend of mine in
New York to write a letter to Mr. Gobson, in which Mr. Davis will be
supposed to have some information to ask of him.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” cried Ada, in terror.
“Why, what is there to fear? Absolutely nothing.”
But seeing Mrs. Gobson’s eyes look wild and her face terrified, he
continued gently:
“Well, let us think of something else--or rather we will think of
something this evening; calm yourself now.”
“Yes, this evening,” she repeated, questioning him with her eyes.
“But until then you must obey me.”
“Blindly.”
“You must take care to keep your servants out of the way; I don’t wish
to be betrayed by any of them.”
“The gardener has gone to the races and will not return. The cook is
ill, and I shall send my maid to the city.”
“Then stand near the garden-gate this evening at nine o’clock, and I
will come for you.”
“Give me one kiss,” entreated Mrs. Gobson.
Murray, who had arisen, lightly touched his lips to her forehead and
left her.
He remained only a few moments in his room, then went out and stepped
into a carriage standing at his door. An hour later he was in the
American House shaking hands with Saunders and Young, who had just
arrived.
The chief of detectives was still the same--friendly and gruff, and
talking, as usual, of arresting every one in the world.
William Dow asked after Mr. Kelly.
“I saw him yesterday,” answered the captain; “he was impatiently
waiting for you to keep your promise.”
“The elections will not take place for a fortnight; now, to-morrow
morning I hope all will be ended.”
In Saunders a great change had taken place, to his advantage. His love
had vanished, and in his heart remained only anger and humiliation
at having been duped. In physique he was wonderfully improved. His
complexion had recovered its freshness, and stout as he was he had even
gained flesh. It is useless to add that he was very affectionate to his
friend Dow, especially when he learned that the moment for vengeance
had come.
Toward six o’clock the travelers had dinner served in their room, and
the detective left them a moment to receive, in an adjoining parlor, a
visitor who had asked for him.
It was Harris Burnett.
“Well,” said William Dow, “where is our man?”
“He has lost much at the races, which has put him in a bad mood;
besides, he is half drunk,” answered Burnett.
“He must not get wholly drunk. Now listen to me attentively. At
half-past eleven, while it is still possible for Gobson to take the
train for Jamaica Plain, you must have one of the servants at the club
hand him this letter, telling him to answer; if he is asked who brought
it, say that it was a messenger. Keep near James when he reads it. He
will immediately leave Barker’s. If he begs you to accompany him you
will go with him; if he does not you must follow him home, and if he
closes his gate behind him you must enter mine, which you will find
open, and wait behind the little gate that connects his place and mine
until I call you. Have you understood me?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Then return to Gobson quickly, lest he perceive your absence.”
Harris Burnett hastened back to the club, and William Dow rejoined
Young and Saunders at the table. At eight o’clock he gave the signal
for departure.
The three friends entered the carriage, and a few moments before nine
Dow introduced the chief of detectives and Saunders into his private
room on the ground floor of his house. There, after begging them to
wait with as much patience as they could, he left them alone and went
up to Miss Jane’s room. The young girl, still pale from her emotion of
the evening before, was with her teacher.
“My dear child,” said William to her, “I have come to beg you not to go
down to the garden this evening, and whatever sound you may hear not to
stir from your room.”
Jane turned a look upon her friend so full of anxious affection that he
continued:
“Fear nothing for me, I run no danger; but there is great need for you
to do what I wish. If I can accomplish, as I hope, the work that is
approaching an end, you yourself will thank me. I can count on you, can
I not, and you, Mrs. Wandright?”
The governess and her pupil, without asking a question, promised
immediately that they would not leave their room until he gave them
their liberty, and he left them, with an affectionate smile at Miss
Jane, feeling assured that his instructions would be strictly obeyed.
It had just struck nine. He ran to the gate and opened it. Prompt at
the rendezvous, Ada was waiting for him.
“Come,” he said to her, and taking her hand he led her to the hall
connecting with his room. Then, from there, without passing the
sleeping-room where Young and Saunders were standing, he took her
into the library. But the door of this room was hardly closed before
a horrible cry was heard--the cry of a woman mad with terror and
despair--and followed by the sound of some one falling to the floor.
Then groans, laments, and sobs followed one another, and silence again
filled that part of the villa so suddenly and strangely disturbed.
Two hours later William Dow and Young, carrying an inert body,
crossed the garden and ascended the stairs which led to Mrs. Gobson’s
rooms. Reaching her sleeping-room, they placed their burden on the
bed and withdrew. A few moments later they took the same path again,
accompanied this time by Saunders, who seemed deeply moved, and by a
woman enveloped in a large cloak, and who seemed hardly able to support
herself.
At the same moment a servant handed James Gobson, at Barker’s, a letter
which a messenger had just brought. Excited by losses and wine, Gobson
opened it angrily. It contained a note of two lines and an inclosed
letter. The note, signed Murray, was as follows:
This is what I have found on your door-step, and as this letter,
which you have lost, may be urgent I send it by a messenger.
“What does this mean?” asked James.
But, as he asked this question, he cast his eyes on the envelope, and
immediately became very pale. He read on this envelope, written in a
woman’s hand:
“Mr. Davis, coroner of the Saint Vincent district of New York.”
The letter, which he hastened to open, increased his fear still more;
for, without uttering a word, he sprang out of the room, ran down into
the street, and, after giving an address to the coachman, sprang into a
carriage.
He did not perceive that he was followed by Harris Burnett, who stood
a few steps away when the letter was handed him, and had kept him in
sight every moment.
Twenty minutes later, Gobson was driving hastily along the avenue, in
Jamaica Plain, but, when he reached his door, he stopped a moment. His
forehead was bathed with an icy sweat; his hideous face expressed an
implacable resolution, and he muttered, with a sinister smile:
“Oh! no, wretch, you shall not escape thus.”
All was silent in the villa, and the garden was enveloped in darkness.
When he recovered from his rapid drive, he noiselessly opened his
gate, slipped along the wall as far as his house, entered, and, owing
to the carpet which smothered his footsteps, he softly reached the
threshold of the door of his wife’s apartment. He held a revolver in
his hand; but, as he was about to cross the parlor, he said to himself:
“No, not thus; some one might hear,” and putting the pistol back in his
pocket, he armed himself with a short, stout dagger, without which he
had not gone out of the house since the attack of which he had nearly
become a victim.
The door that led from the parlor to the sleeping-room was open. He
soon reached it, and raising the portieres, and although the room
was lighted only by the soft, shaded light of an elaborate lamp, he
recognized Ada, who, lying in her bed, seemed to be in a profound
sleep. Her luxuriant hair rolled down over the lace alabaster-trimmed
pillows beneath her charming head, and one of her bare arms, ornamented
by one of those large gold bracelets with which she was so fond of
decking herself, was gracefully extended on the coverlet. Overcome by
fatigue, she had no doubt forgotten to divest herself of a part of her
jewels, for, from the spot where like a wild beast Gobson was devouring
his prey with glaring eyes, he saw the flash as of a fiery star of one
of the magnificent diamonds in her pretty ears, a present from Saunders.
The charming tableau was not of a nature to calm his revengeful
feelings. It seemed as if it roused his hatred, for, after a moment’s
hesitation, he sprang forward, and his dagger, with a thrust that
would have pierced the heart of his victim, struck her in the throat,
and the murderer whispered hoarsely:
“Now, Kitty Bell, you will not speak.”
But the wretch gave a frightful shriek, and bounded backward.
His weapon, he did not understand how, had met with resistance, and at
the bedside suddenly rose before his horrified gaze the figure of a
woman in Indian costume, which cried:
“Assassin! assassin! a second time!”
“Miss Ada,” screamed Gobson, at this terrible apparition, and with
affrighted eyes, foaming mouth, and convulsed features, his whole being
shuddering with horror and fear, he seized his pistol and fired at the
accusing phantom.
But his ball, badly aimed, struck the wall above the young woman’s
head, and the murderer had not time to repeat his homicidal attempt,
for, being immediately seized and disarmed by Young and Dow, who sprang
from behind the curtains where they had hidden themselves, he was soon
thrown upon the floor, and made powerless.
At the same moment a sob was heard.
Poor Saunders had thrown himself upon this waxen statue, the
faithful image of her he had so much loved, and he said, through his
tears, pressing in his burning hand the icy hand of Albert Moor’s
_chef-d’œuvre_:
“Poor Ada! poor Ada! I knew that she had not deceived me.”
CHAPTER XXII.
KITTY BELL’S STORY.
If we retrace our steps and enter William Dow’s study when he admitted
Mrs. Gobson, we shall witness a scene which explains how the events
came about which we have just described.
Ada, absorbed in her love, had just crossed the threshold of this room,
when the man, from whom she expected only smiles, suddenly looked
stern, and drawing back, looked and pointed at the body of a woman
lying on a lounge.
“Miss Ada, Miss Ada!” cried Mrs. Gobson.
“You confess, then, Kitty Bell?” said William Dow.
It was then that the unhappy woman uttered the cry of terror and
despair of which we have spoken, and who, not being able to endure such
emotion, had fallen almost lifeless to the floor.
At the sound, Young and Saunders rushed from the sleeping-room into the
library.
Words could not picture the amazement of the cracker-merchant. He at
first sprang toward Mrs. Gobson, as if to help her; but the detective
stopped him, pointing to the lounge where lay the woman of wax, and the
poor man, his face looking wild and discomposed, stood motionless,
wondering which of these two women was his own Ada.
Fearing that such a shock might be too violent for the ill-balanced
brain of Saunders, William Dow hastened to say:
“Calm yourself, my friend; the woman you loved is really dead; this
body is only the cast I had made in the secret hope that it would serve
me some day. As for this woman, her strange resemblance to Miss Ada
made her the accomplice of James Gobson; but it is she who will become
our instrument of justice and vengeance.”
And that the too impressionable Yankee might not longer have under his
eyes the image which fascinated him, he carried it from his sight.
At this unexpected spectacle, Young manifested no sensibility, but
divining, in spite of his moderate intelligence, that his friend Dow
was going to take his revenge, he gave him a look of admiration. Then
he leaned down to Mrs. Gobson and bore her to a lounge, where, in a few
moments, she began to recover consciousness.
“Kitty Bell,” said William to her, when he saw that she was in a
condition to understand him, “rouse yourself; your fate is in your own
hands.”
“Kitty Bell! Why do you call me that name, Mr. Murray?” stammered the
young woman.
“Because it is your name. My name is William Dow. And look at those
gentlemen--you will recognize them, perhaps.”
Mrs. Gobson looked alternately at Young and Saunders, and her face,
which had began to resume its rosy coloring, became livid. She knew
that she was lost.
“Hear these few lines,” resumed the detective, who had drawn from
his pocket-book a sheet of paper covered with printed characters and
manuscript:
To-day, the twentieth of February, 184--, by us, Armand Rebours,
vicar of the parish of St. Joseph, have been baptized according to
the rites of the Holy Church, Catholic, Apostolic and Roman, Kitty
and Anna Bell, born the thirteenth of this month, twin sisters, and
daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Bell, in presence of these the witnesses:
Jack Howey, Bernard Lowe, godfathers, and Mary Fellen and Lucy
Molden, godmothers.
(Signed)
ARMAND REBOURS, Priest.
EDWARD BERNEY,
Rector of the parish of St. Joseph.
ROBERT HALL,
Coroner of the said parish.
New Orleans, June 14, 186--.
Mrs. Gobson was so overcome she could not speak, but her eyes spoke for
her, and so entreatingly that William Dow continued:
“You are Kitty Bell, and this wax statue is all that remains of your
sister Anna, whom Gobson murdered, and whose name and place you took
owing to your wonderful resemblance to her.”
“My sister!” she cried, at this horrible revelation, “my sister. Oh!
gentlemen, you did not think me an accomplice in this frightful crime.”
She had thrown herself on her knees, holding out her hands imploringly
to her judges, and she repeated between her sobs: “No, no; do not
believe it, I entreat you.”
There was the ring of truth in her prayer, and William himself was
moved by it. He leaned over toward her, raised her and forced her to
seat herself in the arm-chair she had just left, and knowing that tears
are the best sedative, he let her weep a few minutes, then said:
“I believe you, but you must confess the whole truth, conceal nothing
from us, and afterwards you must obey me.”
“Do with me as you will, gentlemen,” groaned the weeping woman. “My
poor Anna, I have not heard from her for more than ten years. I thought
she resided in New Orleans with our family, where she met this wretch
who has destroyed my life. Our mother was dead, and our father did not
trouble himself about us. I did not know of Gobson’s marriage. And
it was that infamous man Gobson who married her, and I--I was in his
power, and then I became his wife. Oh! it is horrible. Let me----”
Saying thus, Kitty Bell struggled in the arms of William Dow and Young,
who stopped her as she was going to jump out of the window. They
carried her into the sleeping-room and laid her on an easy-chair.
Saunders, who witnessed this scene with an air of amazement impossible
to describe, followed them. A few moments later Mrs. Gobson became a
little calmer, and William Dow having urged her to acquaint him with
the slightest details of her relations with James Gobson, she said,
weeping:
“I became acquainted with James Gobson hardly six months ago at San
Francisco. I was employed in an establishment where this man was an
habitue. He paid court to me; I was tolerably happy, in spite of the
scenes when he was intoxicated. One day I wished to break off with
him because in an angry fit he wounded me in pulling out one of my
ear-rings, but he apologized so humbly for his rudeness, and took such
good care of me, that I forgave him. Why was I so weak?”
“Go on, Kitty, don’t forget anything,” said the detective.
“About a fortnight after this occurrence, he gave me a cup of tea,
and I fell into a strange sleep. It lasted about three or four hours
at least. When I awoke he was near me, looking at me anxiously. ‘You
fainted,’ he said, ‘and in falling you came near killing yourself.
Happily, you are all right now.’ I felt a sharp pain in my mouth. I
put my hand to it and drew it away covered with blood. I sprang to a
looking-glass. A tooth was gone, on the right side. I uttered a cry of
despair and the wretch tried to console me. I had broken a tooth he
declared in slipping against a piece of furniture. This accident caused
me alarm, for I was not subject to fainting turns. But from that moment
Gobson became so gentle, and anxious, and generous, that I did not
express a wish that was not gratified, and I soon forgot the event.”
“You now understand what his object was.”
“Oh! yes, the wretch; my poor Anna. We were so alike when we lived
together that father, in order to distinguish us himself, made us wear
velvet bands of different colors around our throats.”
“Now, as Gobson had torn his wife’s ear and broken out a tooth, the one
who was to replace her must lose a tooth and have a cut on her ear. Go
on; tell about your departure from San Francisco.”
“We left San Francisco toward the month of November, of last year, and
went to Washington, where I lived in a little country house in complete
retirement. Gobson I did not see for weeks, but after being absent he
showed me much affection, and said, after returning from his journeys,
that he was working for my happiness, and as he wished soon to marry
me, I obeyed. However, I instinctively feared him. I would have liked
to end with him. Such was the state of things when one day in January,
James came to me in a state of exaltation which frightened me. What he
said to me then, oh! I do not believe I could reveal.”
“You must; your testimony is indispensable,” said William Dow, sternly;
“for your fate depends on your frankness in telling what else you can
make known. Besides, do you not wish to avenge your sister?”
“Yes, yes; I must,” answered Kitty, raising her head, that she had
concealed in her hands, and, speaking hurriedly, she continued:
“He told me about a woman whom I resembled in so extraordinary a manner
that every one took me for her. Her name was Ada Ricard. A Colonel
Forster was in love with her. With audacity and coolness I could pass
for her. He himself would take me to this colonel, who had promised him
quite a large sum.
“‘Mr. Forster,’ he added, ‘hardly knows Miss Ada; his error will be
complete; he will adore you, and as he is rich and generous, you will
have all you wish.’ It was horrible, but it was a chance to get away
from Gobson, who alarmed me, and I consented. He gave me even the
slightest details about Ada Ricard’s life, for he learned them from
some one who lived in her house; finally he taught me to play the part.
I held myself in readiness and one morning we set out for New York,
where we arrived during the night. He procured lodgings for me in a
house which I should not recognize again, for although we went on foot,
it was in a dense fog. I think it was in a horrible neighborhood and
that the streets were narrow and muddy. The river was about two hundred
steps beyond. After locking the door of my room and providing me with
the necessary provisions, he left me alone in this house all the next
day. It was Tuesday, I remember, and he came back at about two o’clock
in the morning and brought a bundle, which he opened before me. It
contained the costume of an Indian woman in the time of the Incas. He
bade me put it on. I then had a gloomy presentiment, for Gobson was
pale and much more moved than he wished to appear. But he said to me
in so threatening a tone, ‘Let us have done quickly; it was in this
disguise that Miss Ada was carried off, and you must go to Colonel
Forster dressed as she was.’ I was afraid, and did not dare ask what
had become of the woman whose place I was to take. I dressed as Gobson
ordered me and according to his directions. He had foreseen everything
at each of the colonel’s stopping-places. I was to send him word, with
the initials ‘A. Z.,’ to Baltimore immediately, and announce my return
in the same manner. If anything happened to him I must, on returning
to New York, boldly present myself at No. 17 East Twenty-third Street,
where I should find a woman, Mary, who would recognize me as Miss Ada.”
Kitty Bell spoke the name of her sister with so much emotion that sobs
choked her voice.
After leaving her a moment to recover, William Dow ordered her to
continue her story.
“This servant,” continued the young woman, weeping, “was the accomplice
of that wretch. All passed as Gobson had arranged. As soon as I was
ready he made me cross the river and meet Colonel Forster, who had not
the least suspicion of my identity. When I reached Baltimore I learned
the mysterious crime through the papers. I understood it thus, but
I was afraid to confess the truth, and I acknowledge that, maddened
at being duped and in the power of James Gobson, I wished to play my
part to the end to avenge myself on him. If it had not been for the
accident to the hangman, Meyer, I should have been late enough not to
have seen him. I knew what day had been fixed for the execution, and
that is why I did not return to New York until the hour when I thought
all over. But fate decided it should be otherwise, and that I must save
the wretch from the gallows. You know the rest; but I swear to you,
on my eternal salvation--oh! however low I may have fallen, I should
not dare to be false in swearing this--I swear to you that when I was
forced to escape from Gobson by means of Colonel Forster, I did not
know that Miss Ada had been murdered, and only here in this room have I
learned that Gobson’s victim was his wife and that she was my sister,
my unhappy Anna. Now, do with me as you will; deliver me up to justice;
kill me or let me die.”
“No, Kitty Bell, you shall not die, and the law will be indulgent
toward you; why, you must help us to punish the guilty.”
“I obey your commands.”
“The costume of an Indian woman in which you deceived a lover of Ada
Ricard, you must once more wear, in order that we may attack the guilty
man.”
Saying this, the detective drew from a chest a dress absolutely like
that worn by Ada Ricard the night she was carried away, and while Kitty
Bell was dressing, with the aid of Young he transported the wax statue
to Mrs. Gobson’s bed.
The reader is familiar with the subsequent movements, and let us now
return to the room where we left James Gobson in the hands of Young and
William Dow.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WHARF 32.
Harris Burnett, who was merely an agent sent by Kelly, by order of
William Dow, had exactly followed the latter’s instructions. In spite
of the courage and strength of the captain and detective, he reinforced
them none too soon, for Gobson, mad with anger, was becoming difficult
to hold. He foamed at the mouth, gave horrible shrieks, poured out the
most frightful curses upon his wife and rolled upon the floor, and,
for lack of other weapons, used his teeth like a wild beast. However,
his three adversaries succeeded in mastering him, and he was so firmly
bound and gagged that he could have been left alone without danger. As
for Kitty Bell, she sank sobbing on the bed.
“Madam,” said William Dow, “I am obliged to arrest you, but I renew the
promise I made you. I shall speak to the judges about you in a manner
to render them as indulgent as possible, on account of your frankness
and the services you have rendered.”
“Ah! do as you will with me, sir,” answered the young woman.
“Mr. Young will accompany you to my house, that you may resume your
own dress, and he will afterwards bring you here, where you will rest a
few hours. We will go to New York by the first train in the morning.”
Mrs. Gobson obediently took Young’s arm, for without this support she
could hardly have sustained herself, and left the room without daring
to look back.
As for Saunders, his love for Miss Ada had returned, and kneeling
beside her bed he was still weeping. William Dow forced him to rise,
and led him to the boudoir, in order to take him as much as possible
from his sad memories, by keeping him from the statue which so cruelly
reminded him of the past.
The captain and Mrs. Gobson returned about a quarter of an hour
later. The young woman sank exhausted on an arm-chair, hiding her
face in both hands. It was a singular tableau which this elegant and
mysterious sleeping-room presented, now transformed into a field of
combat; and he, whose intelligence had so quickly made it the theatre
of his justice, glanced around it with just pride. On one side sat Mrs.
Gobson, perhaps weeping more for her vanished dreams than for her dread
of reality; on the other, reduced to powerlessness, the wretch who had
been conquered by the same weapons he had made use of.
“Burnett,” said William Dow to the agent, after a few moments’ silence,
“watch this man. We will return in a moment.”
And then, leaving the prisoner and his wife in the care of the chief
of detectives, William and Burnett raised the woman of wax and carried
her into the adjoining villa, and placed her on the same lounge where
Kitty Bell first saw her.
“Now, Young,” said William Dow to his friend, “return to Gobson, and in
a few moments I will join you.”
The captain obeyed, and the detective went up to see Miss Jane. The
young girl was pale and trembling, as well as her governess, for she
wondered if anything had happened to her friend, having heard the
pistol-shot in the next house. On perceiving him she gave a cry of joy
and threw herself into his arms.
“Come, my dear child,” he said, “and you, too, Mrs. Wandright; I have
an explanation to make.”
And preceding the teacher and her pupil, who followed him without
understanding what it was all about, he led them into his study. At
sight of the wax figure on the lounge, Miss Jane stepped back.
“Do not be afraid,” said William Dow, taking her hand, “but come and
look at her. Here, Jane, is the Mrs. Gobson whom you saw here one day
when curiosity tempted you. It is only the statue of Miss Ada Ricard,
the victim of the mysterious murder whose author I discovered.”
Ashamed to find that William Dow had learned what jealousy had caused
her to do, the pretty child hung her head, blushing, but gave her
friend a happy, grateful look, murmuring, “Forgive me,” and her friend
returned it with a smile and affectionate caress.
Having informed Miss Jane and her governess that he should be absent
a few days, Mr. Dow begged them to go up to their rooms and he joined
Young and Burnett. They had dragged James Gobson up against the wall,
and for humanity’s sake had slipped a cushion under his head. The
wretch was foaming at the mouth and his eyes glared, but he did not try
to cry out or to combat with them.
The captain and agent watched him in turn that night, and at daybreak
William Dow hastened to the chief of police at Boston to inform him of
what had passed, and to ask his aid in order to convey the prisoner to
New York without further delay.
This officer, who had faith in our hero, immediately gave the necessary
orders, and toward noon, without the same being made known at Jamaica
Plain, for Young had given orders to the servants in the house, James
Gobson was conveyed on the railroad under charge of Burnett and two
agents from Boston who had joined him.
The assassin was calmer, but what they knew of his past led his guards
to mistrust him. They kept handcuffs on him, telling him that at the
first cry, or attempt at rebellion, they would tie his legs and gag him
again.
Young took a seat in a car reserved for him with Mrs. Gobson, who was
resigned to her fate, and William Dow, after telegraphing to Kelly,
seated himself with Saunders, whose mind was again off the balance.
The journey was marked by no incident, and at eight o’clock that same
day all the characters of our story reached New York.
The first face William Dow espied on the wharf was the expansive one
of Fat Kelly, who was accompanied by Mortimer and Davis, who had been
notified. It is useless to say how these gentlemen greeted the skilful
detective. James Gobson was captured--that was the most important fact;
but they were eager to know the details of his capture, and they plied
William Dow with questions.
“Pardon, gentlemen,” said the latter, “we must first attend to the
prisoner, or prisoners; we will talk afterwards.”
James Gobson did not attempt resistance, but it would be impossible to
describe the look he gave his wife. She could hardly stand, and had to
be carried into the waiting-room.
The assassin, after having his identity proved, entered a carriage
waiting for him, and Mr. Kelly ordered Young to take him at once to
Blackwell’s Island, where he was to be imprisoned until he was called
before the criminal court a second time.
The worthy Saunders did not know what to make of it when William Dow
said to him:
“My dear sir, return home, resume business, and think of this tragedy
only as a bad dream, until the law has need of you again. But before
then I shall come and see you.” And clasping the hand that with a sigh
was held out to him, he joined Kelly, Davis, and Mortimer, who were
impatiently waiting for him.
It was decided that owing to Mrs. Gobson’s exhausted condition and the
services that she had rendered the cause of justice, that she should
have comparative liberty, but under the surveillance of the two agents,
and she had already left for No. 17 East Twenty-third Street.
Everything being settled thus, Mr. Kelly quickly went with William Dow
to the central office. He was eager, as well as Mortimer and Davis, to
know the whole story and all the details.
William Dow told them from beginning to end, and then said to Kelly,
who was almost shaking his hands off:
“Well, have I done right--have I kept my promise?”
“You are a splendid man, my dear Dow,” he answered. “How the devil came
you to have your suspicions? You can tell me now.”
“Certainly; besides, nothing is simpler or less mysterious. I must
first confess that I had in my possession a certain report of your
rival, Robertson which contained precious information. Ah! his agents
are keen and smart.”
“It is no more trouble for them to be so than for that great blockhead,
Young,” observed Mr. Kelly, shrugging his shoulders.
“I agree with you. Well,” continued Dow, “and while in yours, trace of
Miss Ada was lost in her entrance to Yorkville, in that of Robertson,
on the contrary, they mention her as being in Colonel Forster’s yacht,
at Staten Island, three days before the body of the drowned woman was
found at Shakespeare’s tavern. Saunders told me that a boat, in which
were the Colonel and Miss Ada, had been run down and capsized, and that
the latter was drowned; but I questioned the best seamen in the harbor,
and I myself made experiments with floating objects, and while learning
about submarine currents I obtained the almost complete certainty that
a human body could not be carried in so short a time from Staten Island
to the top of the river. Besides, nothing was less certain than the
fatal consequences of the accident of which Saunders accused himself.
I concluded from that that either Miss Ada was not drowned at Staten
Island; or, that if she had perished on these shores, her body could
not have been brought by the current to Wharf 32. Therefore the woman
who was in Forster’s yawl was not Miss Ada, although Robertson’s agent,
who had her photograph--the only one Saunders possessed--might have
recognized her on board the Gleam, unless there were two women on the
yacht; but the colonel talked of only one, the Miss Ada whom he carried
off.”
“This is well reasoned,” said the officers.
“There was then, either with Colonel Forster or drowned at Staten
Island, a woman who was or was not Miss Ada, at the very moment when
at the bottom of East River was lying a woman who was soon also to be
recognized as Miss Ada Ricard. This coincidence was too strange and
complete, and improbable, not to lead me at once to think that I had
found an absolutely planned crime, a substitution of persons. Now, as
we could not substitute an Ada dead for an Ada living, for what would
have been the object, it was for an Ada dead that a living Ada had been
substituted.”
“Very true, Mr. Dow, very true,” said the magistrates, bowing before
this logic.
“This first reasoning,” continued the detective, “naturally led me to
suppose that it was really Gobson, the jealous husband, who had taken
a woman to Colonel Forster, but not Miss Ada, his wife. It must be
another woman, and since I admitted that he was the man who took her
off he must also be the assassin.
“As for the hour when the crime was committed, nothing was easier
to certify; it was in the carriage itself, for in the boat in which
James Gobson crossed the East River was but one woman, and that woman
was living. The officer on watch on the Liberia heard a cry when the
steamer came near running it down. What Kitty Bell told me later proved
to me that I had reasoned justly, and fixed the place and moment of the
crime. Gobson smothered his victim in the carriage, and if he spoke
the words reported by the driver Katters it is nothing astonishing;
for his cunning and skill we know very well. He wished that this man
might some day affirm, if necessary, that Miss Ada was living when
she left the carriage, but she was dead. Kitty Bell waiting for James
Gobson in a house at Yorkville, the murderer would never have committed
the blunder of carrying into the house a living woman who might have
screamed, called for help or betrayed her presence, and make the one
who was to take her place fear that she was becoming the accomplice
of a murderer. But the dead Ada he murdered at his ease, took off her
jewels, excepting the gold bracelet, which he found among the Sioux,
and which one of those Indians, no doubt, picked up on the young
woman’s door-step, as it probably fell off when she was carried away;
then, having done this, Gobson dressed Kitty Bell in his victim’s
dress, and took her to Forster as Miss Ada, and when he returned he had
accomplished the last act in his tragedy. That is to say, he took away
the corpse, embarked with it again and threw it in the water, after
fastening to it the barrel of tar which he found in his boat, or which
he stole, it matters little. When, later, after escaping the gallows in
spite of Kitty Bell, who would have been delighted to have him hanged,
James Gobson married that woman, it was both to have his share of Miss
Ada’s fortune and to make sure of the silence of his accomplice. Mrs.
Gobson could not denounce her husband without destroying herself. This
marriage of itself would have sufficed to awaken my suspicions; was it
like a woman to do what the one supposed to be Mrs. Gobson did? Miss
Ada would have let her husband be hanged, for she feared him, and if
she had saved him she would never have become his wife. Between Gobson
who would have remembered, and Saunders who asked only to be forgiven,
she would not have hesitated. This, gentlemen, was how it happened; you
know the rest.”
“You are an astonishing detective, my dear Dow,” cried Fat Kelly, in
the utmost enthusiasm.
“That is perhaps saying a great deal,” said William, smiling; “but what
is more certain, is that I am a man, and being such I can do no more. I
will ask you and these gentlemen, therefore, for permission to go home.
It is forty-eight hours since I have been in bed.”
“Certainly, my friend. Only one word more. Since you knew all this, why
did you not simply arrest Gobson instead of taking the trouble to bring
about that dramatic episode at Jamaica Plain?”
“Dear Mr. Kelly, I will explain to you, but I am sure that Mr. Mortimer
and Davis, who are lawyers, have already divined my reason.”
The two magistrates smilingly bowed, and the detective continued:
“Acquitted and reinstated by the criminal court, Gobson could no longer
be pursued for the same crime, evident as his culpability might become,
and had he even confessed all. Now, I, William Dow, had sworn that this
man should be punished for murdering Miss Ada, and I made him murder
her a second time. By striking that wax statue, which he took for his
wife, James Gobson made himself guilty of an attempt to murder, the
effect of which was destroyed only by a circumstance independent of
his will. He, then, is under the jurisdiction of the criminal court,
and, as I wished, the murder was really attempted upon Miss Ada. Do you
understand now?”
“My God, my dear friend,” said the chief of police, “I am only a
blockhead like that stupid Young while you, you----”
“I only kept my promise to you and the vow I made to myself.”
Mr. Mortimer and Davis joined their thanks and congratulations to those
of Kelly, and knowing that William Dow needed rest, they gave him his
liberty.
The next day, as will be understood, nothing else was talked of in New
York but the new arrest of James Gobson; for the papers, being covertly
informed by order of the chief of police, could completely satisfy the
curiosity of their readers by relating to them the smallest details of
the events that had happened at Boston.
The mystery with which the murder had been enveloped was at last
unveiled; this horrible crime was going to be punished. The public
conscience was satisfied, and Kelly, who since James Gobson’s discharge
had lost so much ground with his electors, was in the way to become a
great man. For, although all had been told about the tragedy at Jamaica
Plain, the name of William Dow had remained a secret; the latter
exacted it from motives best known to himself.
Only the political adversaries of the chief of police were in despair,
and the head of the agency of Robertson Brothers & Co., who was up for
Congress, found that he had no chance for success owing to the sudden
change in affairs.
Kelly’s partisans profited so well by the event, as the election day
approached, that the victory of Mr. Kelly became more certain.
During this time Mr. Davis and Mortimer were preparing the case
of James Gobson, who was still in prison at Blackwell’s Island,
and awaiting to be transferred to the Tombs, a few days before his
appearance before the jury. He had completely broken down, losing all
that bravado and assumed indifference which so cunningly characterized
him at his previous incarceration for the murder of Miss Ada Ricard.
Kitty Bell renewed her confessions before the examining magistrates,
and a hearing had been appointed for the day after election, when one
morning Captain Young plunged like an avalanche into Kelly’s office,
crying:
“Oh! Mr. Kelly, Mr. Kelly, such a misfortune has happened!”
“What is it?--what is it?” asked Kelly.
“James Gobson is drowned!”
“Drowned! What do you mean?”
“Yes, drowned. Just as he was crossing the planking at Blackwell’s
Island to enter the government boat to come to the Tombs, he pushed
against the guards and leaped into the water, dragging one of the
unhappy men after him.”
“And did that man also disappear?”
“No; fortunately he was saved, but they could not fish up Gobson.”
“That is a pity, for I should really have taken pleasure in seeing
him at the end of a rope; but what can be done? Has the river been
searched?”
“They are still working at it.”
“Well, let them continue to search, and if the rascal’s body is found,
let it be sent to Bellevue Hospital, to Dr. O’Neel. It will at least
be of some use after his death.”
Having said this, Kelly dismissed the captain, who did not understand
the philosophy with which his chief took James Gobson’s death. The
officer immediately reflected as follows: That the assassin would
have made revelations to his judges that would have brought to notice
William Dow, and would have lessened the role of Kelly. He was
therefore delighted that the accused had disappeared.
Kitty Bell, it is true, remained, but he knew that by promising
her the indulgence of the court she would say only what he wished.
Nevertheless, at the news of this suicide, the disappointment was
general, and the opponents of Mr. Kelly tried to profit by it, but the
movement was started in his favor, and election day for Mr. Kelly was
one of triumph.
William Dow was in the latter’s office when they came to tell him the
result of the voting. He was elected with twenty thousand votes more
than at the last time. The effect of this announcement upon Mr. Kelly
can well be imagined.
“To you I owe this victory, my dear friend,” he said to the detective,
embracing him with enthusiasm; “how can I prove my gratitude to you for
all this?”
“By giving me the first possible opportunity to make myself useful,”
answered William, with a sad smile, “for in attending to your affairs I
also attend to my own.”
“Oh, yes; that mystery in your life, a mystery in which the pretty and
charming Miss Jane must play a part. When will you have confidence and
friendship enough for me to judge me worthy of being your confidant?”
“Some time, my dear Kelly, some time. Jane has gone to New York with
her governess, but I wish to have her take a trip, for she is ill.
I will tell you some day what terrible tie attaches me to this dear
child, for whom I would give my life, and whom I make suffer, alas,
from a malady which to any one else would be an immense joy, for it
might cure her.”
Greatly puzzled at these words, spoken so sadly, Mr. Kelly was about,
perhaps, to beg for the key to the riddle, when, after knocking,
Captain Young appeared.
“Sir,” said the captain to his chief, after shaking hands with his
visitor, “they have just found James Gobson’s body.”
“Ah!” said the officer; “where?”
“Under Wharf 32, opposite Shakespeare’s tavern.”
“Under Wharf 32,” cried William Dow. “Well, my dear friends, was I
not right in stating that Ada Ricard’s body had been thrown into the
water at Blackwell’s Island, and on that side of the river. One would
say that Heaven itself wished to furnish the proof of my theories.
Having fallen into the water near the spot where he threw his wife,
James Gobson--and observe, after the same interval of time--James
Gobson reappeared just there where the corpse of the unhappy woman was
discovered, under Wharf 32.”
“This is, indeed, truly wonderful,” exclaimed Kelly.
As for Young, he could not find a word to express his thoughts; only
his looks plainly said that his former admiration for the intelligent
detective had become enthusiasm.
A few days after this conversation, Kitty Bell appeared alone before
the criminal court, for the maid Mary, supposed to be Gobson’s
accomplice, could not be found. Kitty Bell was simply convicted of
complicity in the kidnapping, and her judges, aware of the services she
had rendered in the cause of justice, condemned her to only a year’s
imprisonment. She received her sentence with utter composure, having
determined to submit to the decree of the court, whatever it might be,
without any show of feeling that he whom she had so dearly loved might
detect.
Ada, or rather Anna Bell’s fortune went to her father, who was still
living.
Six months later, Kitty Bell, at Mr. Kelly’s request, was released, and
entered a cafe in New York, where she made her fortune in less than a
year.
Then her success on the other side of the ocean led the still pretty
Mrs. Gobson to try her fortune in Paris, where we met her at the house
of the leader of the opera bouffe, who came near engaging her. She
would evidently have been a great attraction, but the impressario did
not dare risk the adventure, and the beautiful American disappeared.
Perhaps she will yet meet our stout friend, Mr. Saunders, who, after
keeping the Woman of Wax at his house several weeks, one day sacrificed
it for the benefit of Barnum’s Museum.
William Dow remained the true friend and aid of Mr. Kelly, until an
event occurred in his life which we may some day narrate--an event
which enabled him to finally take his place in society, which a
horrible adventure, followed by a promise, made him abandon.
THE END.
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At Thompson’s Ranch. ” 56. ”
Australian Klondike, An. ” 8. ”
Caught in the Toils. ” 14. ”
Chance Discovery, A. ” 19. ”
Check No 777. ” 46. ”
Clever Celestial, A. ” 75. ”
Crescent Brotherhood, The. ” 83. ”
Crime of a Countess, The. ” 5. ”
Dead Man’s Grip, A. ” 85. ”
Deposit Vault Puzzle, A. ” 21. ”
Detective’s Pretty Neighbor and Other Stories ” 89. ”
Diamond Mine Case, The. ” 71. ”
Double Shuffle Club, The. ” 68. ”
Evidence by Telephone. ” 23. ”
Fair Criminal, A. ” 62. ”
Fighting Against Millions. ” 11. ”
Found on the Beach. ” 65. ”
Gambler’s Syndicate, The. ” 18. ”
Gideon Drexel’s Millions. ” 99. ”
Great Enigma, The. ” 2. ”
Great Money Order Swindle, The. ” 91. ”
Harrison Keith, Detective ” 93. ”
Klondike Claim, A. ” 1. ”
Man from India, The. ” 50. ”
Millionaire Partner, A. ” 59. ”
Mysterious Mail Robbery, The. ” 13. ”
Nick Carter and the Green Goods Man. ” 87. ”
Old Detective’s Pupil, The. ” 10. ”
Piano Box Mystery, The. ” 17. ”
Playing a Bold Game. ” 12. ”
Puzzle of Five Pistols, The, and Other Stories. ” 97. ”
Sealed Orders. ” 95. ”
Sign of the Crossed Knives, The. ” 79. ”
Stolen Identity, A. ” 9. ”
Titled Counterfeiter, A. ” 3. ”
Tracked Across the Atlantic. ” 4. ”
Two Plus Two. ” 73. ”
Van Alstine Case, The. ” 77. ”
Wall Street Haul, A. ” 6. ”
Wanted by Two Clients. ” 81. ”
Woman’s Hand, A. ” 16. ”
CLAY, BERTHA M.
Another Man’s Wife. Eagle No. 48. 10c.
Another Woman’s Husband. Eagle No. 42. 10c.
Between Two Hearts. Eagle No. 84. 10c.
Fair but Faithless. Eagle No. 102. 10c.
For a Woman’s Honor. Eagle No. 4. 10c.
Gipsy’s Daughter, The. Eagle No. 11. 10c.
Gladys Greye. Eagle No. 59. 10c.
Heart’s Bitterness, A. Eagle No. 109. 10c.
Heart’s Idol, A. Eagle No. 21. 10c.
Ideal Love, An. Eagle No. 119. 10c.
In Love’s Crucible. Eagle No. 70. 10c.
Marjorie Deane. Eagle No. 79. 10c.
’Twixt Love and Hate. Eagle No. 95. 10c.
Violet Lisle. Eagle No. 14. 10c.
CLEMENS, WILL M.
Life of Admiral Dewey, The. Historical No. 7. 10c.
COBB, C. W.
The Mountaineer Detective. Magnet No. 40. 10c.
COBB, SYLVANUS, Jr.
Ben Hamed. Columbia No. 18. 10c.
Golden Eagle, The. ” 19. 10c.
King’s Talisman, The. ” 21. 10c.
Yankee Champion, The. Eagle No. 78. 10c.
COLLINS, WILKIE
My Lady’s Money. Arrow No. 58. 10c.
COMFORT, LUCY RANDALL
Cecile’s Marriage. Eagle No. 121. 10c.
Widowed Bride, The. Eagle No. 86. 10c.
CORELLI, MARIE
Ardath, Vol. I. Arrow No. 26. 10c.
Ardath. Vol. II. ” 27. ”
Romance of Two Worlds, A. ” 18. ”
Thelma. ” 55. ”
Vendetta. ” 36. ”
Wormwood. ” 47. ”
DARRELL, CHARLES
When London Sleeps. Eagle No. 105. 10c.
DAUDET, ALFONSE
Jack. Arrow No. 59. 10c.
Partners, The. Arrow No. 67. 10c.
Sappho. Arrow No. 10. 10c.
DE GONCOURT, E. AND J.
Germinie Lacerteux. Arrow No. 4. 10c.
DELPIT, ALBERT
Coralie’s Son. Arrow No. 35. 10c.
DENISON, MRS. MARY A.
Daughter of the Regiment, The. Eagle No. 116. 10c.
DE PONT JEST, RENE.
No. 13 Rue Marlot. Magnet No. 96. 10c.
DE TINSEAU, LEON
His Fatal Vow or Sealed Lips. Arrow No. 23. 10c.
DEY, MARMADUKE
Muertalma; or, the Poisoned Pin. Magnet No. 58. 10c.
DONNELLY, H. GRATTAN
Darkest Russia. Eagle No. 94. 10c.
DOUGLAS, A. M.
Midnight Marriage, The. Eagle No. 6. 10c.
DOYLE, A. CONAN
Beyond the City. Arrow No. 6. 10c.
Firm of Girdlestone, The. Arrow No. 69. 10c.
Sherlock Holmes’ Detective Stories, The. Magnet No. 72. 10c.
Sign of the Four, The. Arrow No. 17. 10c.
Study in Scarlet, A. Arrow No. 3. 10c.
DU BOISGOBEY, FORTUNE
Blue Veil, The. Magnet No. 44. 10c.
Chevalier Casse Cou, The. ” 63. ”
Convict Colonel, The. ” 33. ”
Crime of the Opera House. The. Vol. I. ” 35. ”
Crime of the Opera House, The. Vol. II. ” 36. ”
His Great Revenge. Vol. I. ” 54. ”
His Great Revenge. Vol. II. ” 55. ”
Matapan Affair, The. ” 38. ”
Red Camellia, The. ” 64. ”
Red Lottery Ticket, The. ” 31. ”
Steel Necklace, The. ” 27. ”
Transcriber’s Notes:
This novel is a translation of _La femme de cire : Mémoires d’un
détective_ by René de Pont-Jest, the middle part of a trilogy about
detective William Dow. It was first serialized in the _Boston Globe_
from May 3 to June 11, 1884 under the title _The woman of wax; or,
Memoirs of a detective_. When reprinted in book form, the original
author’s name was omitted and only the translator received credit.
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. bloodthirsty vs. blood-thirsty) has been
retained from the original.
In a few places, paragraph breaks in conversations seem to be in
the wrong places. These instances are present in both the original
newspaper serial and the later book reprint, so they have been left
unmodified.
The word “autonedon” is likely a typo for “automedon” but is reproduced
as printed in both the original newspaper series and the later book
reprint.
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