Beadle's New York Dime Library (no. 75) (1879 08 27)
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AH vinn A A 7 TED IN 18795, BY SEADLE & ADAMS. LO ie GM LT OP TOOL ML, Cl Mb deddbit ddd 3 iL aeaeneneneaeel , ‘ ge ENTERED AT THE Post OFFICce AT New York, N. y,, AS Re0OND Crass MATTER. So ee ee er ee ee ee : y i. = a aa > Fe NR LS oy "i : ae i ce Vol Vi Published Every che adle ei Ald Q77ns, 9, wblishers, Ten Cents a Copy. No 7 5 . . Two Weeks, 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y., August 27th, 1879. $2.50 a Year. : GENTLEMAN GEORGE: or, PARLOR, PRISON, STAGE AND STREET. BY ALBERT W. ALKEN. tio KA ie | ut), ui | y " | =, | 45 3 ‘l} mi “CAN I SPEAK A FEW WORDS WITH YOU, PLEASE?’ SAID TRE SOFT, WOMANLY VOICE.
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2 Gentleman George. GENTLEMAN GEORGE. CHAPTER lI. TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO, A sTATELY mansion situated in the center of a park-like estate, near Sixty-first street, New York, in the year 1852. At this time the Central Park had only been talked of, and houses were few and far between above Fiftieth street. The shades of evening had come, and lights were flashing gayly from the windows of the mansion. it was evident that some festive occasion was at hand, for carriuge after carriage rolled in at the broad entrance-way and deposited loads of human freight—ladies decked in silks and satins, and gentlemen in full dress of the time—at the door of the brilliantly illuminated house. The best people of New York entered the wide portal of the stately mansion that night. It was no common occurrence that had called forth the leaders of “ society.” Twenty-one years ago New York society was vastly differ- ent from what it is at the present time. The days of oil and shoddy had not then come, and millionaires did not spring up, like Aladdin’s palace, in a single night. Two scions of two old New York. families were to become one that night. Money was to marry money, and “ blood” was to ally itself to ‘* blood.” The bride claimed descent from the old one-legged Gover- nor of New Amsterdam, and the groom from the Patroons of Ulster County. The richly-furnished parlors were crowded with guests. At eight the ceremony was to take place, and, as it lacked but a few minutes of the hour, the arrival of the minister was mo- mentarily expected. And while they waited for the coming of the minister, and showered congratulations upon the blue-eyed bride, whose fair, round face, all red and white, gave ample proof of her German descent, and upon the tall and handsome bridegroom, whose upright carriage and haughty air fully revealed that birth and breeding had not been wasted upon him, a strange scene was taking place in the carriage-way that led to the house. A slender female form, clad in a plain dark dress, looking not unlike a lady’s maid, bad stolen up the carriage-way from the street, and, halting within the shadow of the trees that lined the pathway, gazed earnestly toward the door of the mansion, from whence streamed a circle of light. And then she looked toward the open windows of the parlor, which fronted on the path. Through tbe curtains of lace she could look into the room; could see the fair young bride in her silk- en wedding dress, with the orange blossoms wreathed in her yellow hair, and the tall and handsome bridegroom in his suit of black. Then pressing forward a step, still eagerly gazing, the light streaming from the windows fell upon her and revealed a little, simple, girlish face, brown-black eyes-—-that now are flashing wild with passion’s fires—brown hair, drawn back from the low white forehead and simply braided, a slender figure, slight and graceful as the swaying willow branch. But now the girlish face was distorted with passjon as she gazed upon the wedding-guests assembled within the man- sion, and, as her eyes fell upon the tall and manly figure of the bridegroom, bitter, revengeful words came from between her firm-set teeth; she clenched her little white hand and shook it with menace toward the gleesome throng within the house. Under her arm the girl bore a heavy pasteboard box, in size about a foot wide by two feet long. One of the servants coming to the door and looking down the carriage-way, evidently sent to see if he could hear the sound of the minister’s carriage-wheels, interrupted the mut tered words of the woman. Stepping forward a pace or two, she called to the servant and beckoned him to approach. Somewhat astonished at the call, the man obeyed the sum- mons. “Tve a present here for the bride,” the girl said, smiling pleasantly in the face of the attendant; ‘‘it is to be a surprise for her. It’s from Miss Van Curlaer, but she doesn’t wish it known that she sent it. Will you have the kindness to take it in to the bride, and here's five dollars for your trouble. Give it to her so that she can open it before the guests, and be sure not to say any thing about who it comes rom.” “ Oh, certainly, Miss,” replied the man, taking the paste- board box under his arm, and slipping the gold-piece into his pocket with a great deal of cheerfulness; “Tl take it in to her right away, and you can depend upon my keeping & sti] tongue in my head.” “Give it to her at once, and be careful; it’s very valua- ble,” the girl said, witn a charming smile. “Yes, Miss; much obliged to you,” and then the servant retraced his steps to the house, carrying the pasteboard box under bis arm. It was quite weighty, and the man guessed at once that it contained some rare and costly ornament. After giving the box into the hands of the servant the girl had turned and gone down the carriage-way toward the gate, but, as the man entered the door, she turned suddenly, and, plunging into the shrubbery, rushed madly toward the house. rom behind the shelter of acluster of bushes she could gaze into the brilliantly lighted parlors and yet remain concealed from observation. With glaring eyes and a rigid face she looked upon the happy wedding-party. he servant entered the parlor, bearing the box carefully under his arm, and, with a beaming smile upon hie stolid face, approached the bride. All the guests turned and looked in wonder. “I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said; “a young person has just brought this box for you, and says as how it’s a surprise and that it is to be opened right away.” This strange announcement created considerable astonish ment, but the bride, entering into the spirit of the jest, took the box into her own fair hands without a word and removed the cover. The wedding guests crowded close around, and even the tall and handsome bridegroom came near, with a look of care- less wonder upon his face. The cover removed and the contents of the box exposed to view, an exclamation of surprise came from all. The color faded from the cheeks of the bride, while the face of the bride- groom grew livid with rage. ithin the bow was an infant, fast asleep. The guests looked at each other in wonder, while the ser- vant who had brought the box gazed open-mouthed in supreme astonishment. ‘*Oh, dear!” cried the bride, in helpless amazement. “This is a sor jest!” exclaimed the groom, in hot rage. “Take away the creature!” said the mother of the bride. One person alone of all the company seemed not to won- der at the strange circumstance, and he was the father of the bridegroom. Coolly, and as if regarding the affair only as a common matter, he bade the servant remove the infant. ‘** Some heartless woman, unable to rear her child, has taken advantage of our happy gathering here to-night to thrust her burden upon our charities, but there are plenty of poor-houses in the country without our having to trouble ourselves about this beggar’sfoundliug. Takeit away, John; carry it down to the nearest station-house and leave it there.” The servant vies hes the command, but, though the “ sur- prise” had departed, yet the effect remained to cast a damper upon the spirits of that gay company. Through the open window the words of the cold and haughty merchant-prince had come to the ears of the woman concealed behind the cluster of bushes. A moment she glared into the room, and saw the servant with the babe, and then down on both knees she dropped and lifted her thin, white hand to heaven, while her eyes flashed with demoniac fire. “ Oh, God in heaven, hear me curse this race! Let me live until I see them die, one by one, in speechless agony; curse the father—curse the son and the proud and haughty girl whom he will wed to-night—curse the child that bears his blood within its little veins, and whom he now permits to be given to the cold mercies of the world!” The stars looked down and gleamed coldly as they listened to the passionate words. Does the Great Ruler ever hear or heed the curses invoked by mortals? CHAPTER II. THE TEETH OF THE RATS. Ovr in the stream, with her head to the tide, lay the good ship Golden Dragon, one of the Liverpoel liners. On the first day of May, 1878, the Golden Dragon would heave her anchor up from the mud of the North river and turn her prow homeward toward the chalky cliffs.of Old England. The cargo was all on board; in the morning the crew would come, and then, farewell to New York bay. Captain Drummond, commander of the Golden Dragon, had been to dinner with the agent of the line, and at nine o’clock in the evening, on the last day of April, he had been escorted down to the dock by a jovial party, and getting intc the boat, had been pulled out to his ship. The worthy Briton had “punished” considerable cham: pagne, before and after dinner, and though his head was of the ardest texture, like to England’s walls of oak, yet, as he as cended the side of his ship, and glanced upward at the sky, he saw more stars than were usually wont to shine there. The first mate and two sailors were in charge of the ship | the rest of the crew had not yet come aboard. The captair exchanged a few words with the mate, and then, bidding hit a good-night, descended to his cabin and prepared to re- ire. As the head of the worthy captain felt a little queer, he fixed himself a glass of brandy-and-soda—ever the favorite tipple of the male natives of the “ tight little island "—and dis- a a2 tumbled into his berth. oon the captain was safe in the arms of “M Nant “Trishize” the god of sleep. Si
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— os oo ai a es > - — -—__________—— = = Se Gentleman George. 3 TE How long he siept ne knew not, when he was suddenly awakened by a dazzling light flashed upon his eyes. In aston- ishment he looked szound ie ‘Four men, roughly clad, and wearing black masks over their faces, surrounded him. One held a bull’s-eye lantern, so that the glare fell full upon his eyes, while another presented a eocked revolver at his head. The other two midnight intruders were a few paces back of the first two; each carried a weapon in his hand. At the first glance the captain of the Golden Dragon realized his position. The “ Rats of the River” had taken possession of his ship. Although he had never encountered the terrible river thieves before, though he had followed the sea, man and boy, for forty years, yet he had heard too often of the operations of the Rats, as the half-pirates were generally termed, not to recognize them at once. Drummond understood ata glance that resistance was use- less ; what could one unarmed man do against four assailants, fully provided with weapons ? ‘** Well, what can I do for you, gentlemen?” Drummond asked, coolly, finding that the masked men did not speak. “ We want a little information,” said the man who held the revolver to the head of the captain, and who was evidently the leader of the gang. “Gentlemen, I must say that you really have such persua- sive ways with you that I shall only be too glad to give you any information in’ my power,” the Englishman said, coolly and calmly, yet inwardly chafing at his position. ‘* You are a sensible man, Captain Drummond,” the leader of the masked men replied, with alight laugh. ‘I wish that it was our good fortune to always meet with such agreeable men as yourself to do business with. Of course you understand that we call upon you solely upon business.” ‘*T presume so,” the sailor said, “ although I must remark that I do not understand what you can find on board of my ship that will be ef value to you. I do not suppose that barrels of flour and such stuff will be of much use to gentlemen of your kidney ” ‘““We won't trouble your flour, captain,” the tall masked man said, laughing; “in fact, we won’t trouble your cargo at all. We want the diamond jewelry that you are sanrying over as a present to Mrs. Inglis. yself and triends are al- together too good Americans to permit such valuable articles to go out of the country to adorn the wife of a foreign sub- Ject. Besides, the canny Scotchman has money enough of his own to pay jewels for his wife.” The burly Englishman felt a cold perspiration break out all over him. ‘Gentlemen, you are laboring under some great mistake,” he cried, hastily. “Captain Drummond, do not take the trouble to lie to us,” the leader of the Rats said, slowly and sternly. ‘‘ Let me convince you that you can not deceive us. You dined with Mr. Adam Duncan, at his house in.Thirtieth street, to-day. After his wife and daughter retired from the table, and left you and your host to your wine, he produced a small packet, wrapped up in white paper and securely sealed. his he intrusted to you, with instructions to give it into the hands of Mrs. om es with his compliments, and at the same time he informed you that the packet contained a set of diamond jewelry valued at two thousand dollars.” — captain stared in astonishment, but did not attempt to reply. . TFast after dinner a party of Mr. Duncan’s friends came in, and they all accompanied you to the dock. It was rather a lucky thing for you, captain, that you had an escort down,” the robber said, reflectively, “or else we should have tried to relieve you of the diamond set on your way to the dock, and toe we should have been compelled to have hurt you a ittle ; but now we can arrange things without any trouble. Just hand over the articles, or tell us where they are, and we will depart instanter.” The Englishman’s face flushed a deep red, and he set his thick lips resolutely together. ;, Gentlemen, I don’t want to be outdone in politeness, but I'll see you hanged before I speak a word to aid you in your purpose.” The Briton was game to the backbone. The masked man laughed, “We won't trouble you, captain, since it goes so hard. One of our boys kept his eyes on you when you stowed the acket away,” he said. “ You had a litde too much wine on rd, captain.” The leader motioned to one of the men, who took a bunch of keys from the pocket of the sailor's pantaloons, pulled out a little chest from under the berth, unlocked it and drew forth the white packet. The seaman groaned in rage. cabin veep quacnty HS UNeCY NAU COME, the masked men elt (ae The captain jumped into his pantaloons and rushed up to the deck, revolver in hand, mad with rage, There he found the mate and one of the sailors, securely bound; the other sailor had disappeared ; evidently he had been in league with the robbers. Afur off in the mist that rested on the surface of the water, the sailor could discern. the dim outline of the boat of the thieves, rapidly vanishing in the gloom. rummond blezed away with his revolver after the boat, Pe tothe pouad ot the shots to attract one of the Harbor f , 4nd as it happened, one was j hand just at that minute = pon Seem Pulling alongside, the police inquired the meaning of the dis- turbance. In a few words the captain explained what had occurred, and directed them as to the course taken by the robbers. Bending to their oars, the police sent their boat spurting through the surface of the tide. The masked men, dreaming not of pursuit, were pulling leisurely along, keeping a bright look-out ahead, paying but little attention to the water in their wake. They had taken the masks from their faces, and pulling along in their working, Whitehall boat, seemed like a party of honest mechanics out for a row. Before they had the slightest suspicion of danger, the police- boat was in sight. The measured dip of the oar-blades fell upon the ears of the thieves. “Tt’s the police, and they’re after us!” cried their leader ‘Gentleman George”; ‘‘ pull, boys, or it’s Sing Sing and hard labor!” Then came the chase under the stars. The police-boat gained slowly upon the Rats. Coolly and carefully the leader of the thieves took aim with his revolver and fired. The bow oar of the police-boat sunk down with a stifled groan, and as the rest ceased their labor to spring to his assistance, the bow of the boat swung round with the tide, and the headway was lost. With cries of rage the police discharged a few scattering shots at the Rats, Twenty strokes and the thieves were hid in the mist, safe from pursuit; and then with a low groan, Gentleman George let co the tiller, and sunk fainting to the bottom of the boat. #.1ad been hit by a sordivee-ball: CHAPTER Il. “THE WOMAN.” Ouerry street, near Market, by night; not a very pleasant locality, nor a safe one for a well-dressed stranger. The hour of ten had just struck. Underneath the light at the corner, leaning against the lamp-post, stood a burly, thick-set man, dressed plainly in dark clothes. He held a little cane in his hand, and was switching the leg of his pantaloons with it in a manner that betrayed decided traces of impatience, and from the way in which he looked up and down the street, every now and then, it was very evident that he was waiting for some one. The burly man with the bushy brown beard, and the keen, ray eyes, was the senior partner of the firm of Beck and ockton, private detectives. Thomas Beck was pretty well known in New York city, and bore the reputation of being one of the shrewdest men h the business. “Why on earth don’t he come?” the detective muttered, impatiently. “I’m getting about tired of this; I’m not going to hold this lamp-post up much longer.” Then from the gloom of the night, up the street, from the direction of Pike street, came a dark figure. The detective cust a piercing glance at the new-comer, and an exclamation of satisfaction came from his lips. “ That’s my man!” he cried. The stranger was a man of thirty-five or forty, dressed uite roughly, and yet there was a certain something in his ace and figure which betrayed the gentleman despite the coarse garb he wore. He was about the medium hight, slen- derly built, and yet, to a close observer, the sinewy supple figure, with its easy carriage, would have given the impression of uncommon strength. The face of the man was a bright olive in hue, smoothly shaven ; a square-set face, with its broad, high forehead, promi- nent nose, massive jaw, and round, glittering black eyes; a face not unlike that of the first Napoleon, It was now ten days or more since the “slums” of the East side had first seen the dark face of the stranger. Dance- saloon and lodging-house alike had been visited by him. Not a haunt of misery and crime, from Peck Slip to Grand street, that he had not penetrated. At first his presence had caused much alarm among the “dangerous classes” along-shore; a stranger to them all, in the beginning he was looked upon as an officer in disguise, The birds of prey feared that some one of their number was ‘‘ wanted,” and they kept a wary watch upon the quiet, silent Visitor. Some, bolder than the rest, entered into conversation with, and questioned the suspected man. And he, while apparent- ly answering freely, revealed nothing. He merely said that he was a doctor, and to use the English phrase, was “ down on his luck.” It was shrewdly conjectured that the man had got into trouble, in some way, and was keeping “ shady ” until the af- fair should blow over. And so, in the very short space of ten days, the Doctor, as the stranger was popularly termed, was pretty well known to the denizens of Cherry and Water streets. “What luck?” asked the Doctor, abruptly, as he came up to the detective. “‘ Nary luck,” replied the worthy Mr. Beck, laconically.
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4 Gentleman George. “ Thescent was a false one then ?” ‘* Yes; the woman was an old hag of fifty. Didn’t answer the description at all.” “Can you suggest any thing more ?” the Doctor questioned, thoughtfully. **Not at present,” the detective answered. ‘‘The informa- tion that you received was evidently incorrect. There’s no such woman and child as you described in any of the saloons round about here.” ** Tt would seem so,” “Shall I still keep a look-out?” the detective asked. “I mig’it stumble upon her accidentally, you know.” “Yes; | will call in and see you some time this week, Good-night.”” Then the Doctor turned abruptly and retraced his steps down the street, “Well, he is a peculiar fellow,” the detective remarked, communing with himself, as he stood fora moment in the lare of the light, watching the retreating figure of the daik- aced stranger. And after making this observation the officer walked off up the street. When he came to the Bowery, he hesitated for a moment as if uncertain as to his course. “ Let me see,” he queried; ‘‘it’s almost too late to attend to any thing to-night; but I don’t feel like going to bed. I might as well go up as far as the Fifth Avenue Hotel; there’s just a chance that I might run across some night-bird there.” So the detective got on board a car, proceeded up town, and about eleven o’clock arrived in front of the hotel. He had come through Twenty-third street; and just as he stepped upon the curbstone, he came face to face with a portly, well- dressed gentleman. ** Good-evening, Mr. Bruyn,” Beck said. “ Ah, Mr. Beck, you’re the very man I wanted to see!” ex- claimed the man accosted. Nicholas Bruyn, the lawyer millionaire, was a man of fifty— tall, portly and well preserved. Nota gray hair in his carefully- curled yellow locks, nor in his well-waxed, tawny mustache and imperial. A lawyer by profession, and the sole’ descendant of one of the old patroon families, all the good things of this world had been strewn before him in rich profusion, An able; active man, gifted with uncommon ‘talents, and backed by a million of money, at an early age he had gone into politics, and few men in New York State had been more successful. The Judge’s ermine had been worn with skill and grace, and the name of Nicholas Bruyn had been more than once mentioned as that of a possible candidate for Governor of the Empire State. ; Beck was immediately all attention at the words of the ex- udge. ‘ A Any thing I can do for you, Mr. Bruyn ?” he asked, respect- ully. “Ves, I think that there is,” Bruyn replied. ‘‘ You are still in the detective line, I suppose ?” “Yes, sir.” “If you will have the kindness to walk down the street with me a little way, where we will not attract any attention, I will explain.” The two proceeded down Twenty-third street until they sa a quiet spot beyond the hotel. There the lawyer halted. “ You undertake the prosecution of inquiries about certain parties for a consideration, I believe,” Bruyn said. ‘Yes, sir,” ‘*And the matter remains a profound secret between your- self and the party who desires the information ?” “ Oh, of course, sir,” the secret-service agent replied; “ our business would go to the dogs if we didn’t keep our mouths shut.” “I supposed that. I wish information about a certain party. You will find all the particulars noted down in this envelope. Spare no expense, and call upon me in my office in Wall street if you find any clue.” The lawyer put the envelope into the hands of the detective, bid him “ good-night,”’ and departed. Beek opened the yellow covering, sauntered up to the near est light and examined the paper inclosed in the cover. Name—Celine Seaton, Age—about forty-two Hair—brown. * Eyes—dark-brown. Face—oval. Complexion--light. Figure—slender ; about four feet ten in hight. Small hands and feet: Marks—a s:nall mole on left cheek; two small moles on right arm just above the wrist, an inch or more apart. Occupation—confidence-woman—probably. Residence—not known. When the detective finished reading this description, a low whistle of astonishment came from his lips. The description was not new to biin. Ten days before, the man who had simply said that he was to be called ‘‘ Doctor,” had requested the detective to search amid the vile dens of the East-side for a woman named Lina Aton, and had given a description that tallied exactly with that of Celine Seaton. It might only be a coincidence, but that two women should be marked by these moles in exactly the same place, was exceedingly strange. “Tl go for her ag’in,” said Mr. Beck, tersely. CHAPTER IVY. MOLLY BAWN. Tue dark-faced stranger proceeded on for awhile, and then slackened his pace and finally came to a dead halt as if uncer- tain which. way to go. “T snppose that I may as well give up the chase,” he said, musingly; ‘‘ yet Lam sure that she is lurking somewhere in this neighborhood. Strange that after so many years she should suddenly appear. Lcould hardly believe my eyes when I met heron the Bowery, ten days ago, but I recognized her at once, for time has dealt lightly with her and she does not look five years older than in the days gone by. I traced her to the corner of Market and Cherry; and there lost her. I think she discovtred that she was being followed, and took measures to avoid pursuit. I wonder if she recognized me, in turn. The world has evidently dealt hardly with her, for she was dressed very poorly. It makes me doubt whether there is such a thing as justice in this world when I see that this woman still lives.” Bitter indeed was the tone in which the man spoke. ‘* And yet, who can tell whether the burden of life is not the heaviest curse that could be inflicted upon her?” he murmured after a moment's pause. ‘* Wise judges are we poor humans ‘of each other. I do not care for the woman—do not care whether she is living or dead—but the child. I can not forget the child, and I must know its fate. Since the detective has failed, I'll keep up the chase alone. Sooner or later I will find her, and then discover what I wish to know. The face of the child is ever before me.” The Doctor was standing in front of a squalid tenement house, and his meditations were suddenly and rudely arrested by the sound of angry words coming from the house. ‘*Go to the divil an’ shake yerself, ye fox-headed Greek, e!” i a man’s voice, hoarse with rage and liquor com- ined. “ Whoop! l’ave me alone till I break her back, the baste!” cried a woman, evidently as much under the influence of liquor as the man who had spoken. The Doctor, perceiving that a “ ruction” was at hand, drew back a few steps and sought shelter in the shadow of a neigh- boring doorway. Hardly had he taken up his position when the door of the tenement house opened suddeniy and a half-grown girl, bare- headed and bare-footed, fled into the street and ran for dear life. From the entry-way came the cries of her assailants, but they did not attempt pursuit. After a look into the street, the man and woman who had driven the girl out, gave vent toa torrent of curses and threats, and then, closing the door, retired to their apartments again. The Doctor, who had recognized the fugitive as she passed him, came from the shelter of the doorway and proceeded up the street after her. At the corner, ready to flee at the slightest sign of pursuit, the Doctor found the girl. She did not attempt to run at his approach, for her sharp eyes, accustomed to the darkness, cat-like, had discovered that he was no enemy. “Are they comin’ arter me?” she asked, eagerly, sa the Doctor came up. : * No,” he replied ; “they have closed the door and gone back to their room.’ Then, by aid of the light of the street-lamp, shining down full upon the face and figure of the girl, he took a good look at her. She was a wee little thing, clad in tattered garments, with a round, rosy face, though it was now re iscolored with dirt. Her eyes were large, and a beautiful dark-blue in color, Her hair, bright-red in hue, curled in little tangled masses all over her oid She looked as plump and healthy as a well-fed kitten, and seemed too to be as active and as lively. “They know that it ain’t no use for them to try to ketch me!” the little sprite observed, confidently. ‘There ain’t a boy in the street kin beat me runnin’; ’sides, they’re both of ’em too drunk to ketch a sick monkey to-night.” “ What is the trouble?” the Doctor aske “They wanted to beat me, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to stand that roe? longer. I’m too big to be beat now!” the maid replied, indignantly. “ Why did they wish to beat you?” “ Because I told ’em 1 wasn’t goin’ out to beg for’em any more. I’ve got sick of that kind of business, an’ I’m goin’ to uit,” she said, decidedly. “They ain’t my folks, anyway. hey’ve always called me a beggar’s brat, an’ told how much it cost to keep me, an’ now I’m jest a-goin’ to paddle vp! own canoe. I don’t go back to that cca any more, an’ if that old beast of a Greek dares to give me any of his chin-music, I'll jest throw a brick at him.” - The girl’s eyes flashed and she stamped her foot impatiently as slie uttered the threat. ‘‘What are you going to do fora living?” inquired the Doctor, kindly. “JT don’t ’xactly know,” the young “Arab” replied, a thoughtful expression upon her features. “‘I think that I had better go to selling papers or something like that. I want a ‘stake’ to start with, though, ’cos I haven’t got nary stamp now. That old Mulcartty hen allers goes through my clothes an’ gobbles my stamps. I’ve jest got a good mind to lay for her some night, an’ hit her with a brick, too. I'll do it sure when I get good an’ ready.” r
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**Oh, no; you mustn’t do that,” the Doctor said, very seri- ously; “ that wouldn’t be lady-like.” The girl looked at the speaker for a moment, opening her eyes wide in astonishment. ‘* Well, L ain’t a lady,” she at length retorted. “I’m only a little gutter-snipe.” “Bat you can make a lady of yourself if you will only try,” asser'ed the Doctor. ‘ Mebbe I kin,” slowly and thoughtfully. ‘ There’s Mickey Shea, he said that he’d make a lady out of me, some day, but he’s a thief, he is; an’ that’s the way he wants to make a lady out of me. I know; I ain’t a-goin’ to steal for nobody an’ be sent up on the Island.” “'That’s right; you just stick to that,” and the Doctor pat- ted the girl’s herd. ‘‘ By the way, what is your name?” “‘ Molly,” was the prompt reply. “Molly what?” “Moliy nothin’, I guess,” dubiously. “I never was called nothin’ but Molly, ’cept gH Shea, an’ he calls me Molly Bawn; that’s Irish for fair Molly, so he says.” ‘*Molly Bawn,” the Doctor repeated, ‘* Well, now, that is a very pretty name and very appropriate, But, Molly, 1 should think you could find something better to do than to sell papers. You look like a smart girl.” “T ain’t a fool, you bet!” was the characteristic answer. ‘**Couldn’t you get a place with some family ?” “T guess not,” doubtfully. ‘I hav’n’t got any one to speak for me, an’ I don’t look jest the cheese to go an’ apply for a situation.” “ How old are you, Molly ?” “Sixteen.” “ As old as that?” the Doctor exclaimed, in astonishment. “Yes; I know I don’t look that old, but I am.” ** Are your parents dead ?” “TY guess so; I never heerd any thing about them.” “Sixteen,” the Doctor muttered, to himself; “that is the exact age of the child! Why not take this waif that heaven has thrown in my way and give up the search for the other? gee si tie of blood half the time lies in imagination, not D reality.’ The girl had watched the face of the Doctor attentively; her quick wits had divined that, in some way, she was Ccon- nected with the meditation of her new-made friend. m i folly, suppose I should find a place for you?” he ques oned, “That would be jolly!” she cried, emphatically. “You would go with me ?” ' “Just you try me!” The impulsive answer fully satisfied the Doctor. “One good turn deserves another, you know,” he said, lightly; “you saved me from the fellows who were in wait for me, the other night, and now I can square the account.” And then, just as the words passed his lips, the Doctor felt on hand on his shoulder, and a woman’s voice sounded in 8 ears, CHAPTER V. “LAID OUT.” Ox Pike street, not far from the corner of Cherry, was a five-story tenement-house; a huge, barrack-like building, &warming over with human life. In a small room fronting on the street, in the upper story of the tenement-house, on a small double-bed, la Dominick, better known to the world, perhaps, as ‘‘ Gentle- man George.” He was a handsome fellow, who had not yet seen his twenty-fifth year. In figure he was tall and slender, his face round and florid; a broad forehead and a massive chin; his eyes blue, clear and full; the short-cut hair and the closely- trimmed mustache were of a tawny, yellow hue. Gentleman George was quite a curiosity. By profession a bond and bank-robber, a forger and confidence-man, yet he had never “put in an appéarance” before the bar of Justice, and his handsome face did not appear in the collection of photographs at the Police Head-quarters in Mulberry street, popularly known as the Rogue’s Galle . And few detectives, too, in New York either public or private, who could pick out Gentleman George from amid the Broadway throng, when he chose to promenade on a plea- sant afternoon. Bold and skillful operator as he was, he had neven been taken; but now, struck down by a random shot, he lay help- less—for the time, “laid out,” to use the slang of the thieves’ argot. y the side of the bed sat a woman, watching the sick man with a countenance full of anxiety; a slender-faced, black- eyed woman of four and twenty ; not pretty, and yet with a quiet, ladylike look—one who, evidently, had seen a great deal of trouble. And this woman, plainly clad, with the anxious. careworn fnce, was the wife of the human wolf who preyed upon his fellow-men. With a restless, uneasy motion, the sick man turned upon the bed, opened his eyes and uttered a groan of pain. “ How do you feel now?” the watcher asked, anxiously. “Badly!” he exclaimed,in a petulant way. “TI feel as if Gentleman George. 5 the cursed ball was red-hot. I had no idea that I was so seriously hurt.” : “You should have listened to my advice, and had a doctor to attend to the wound at once,” the wife said, in her quiet, subdued way. “ And run the chance of the doctor betraying me to the officers,” George exclaimeé, sharply. “ You know well enough what a precious row the newspapers are kicking up about the affair.” “ Were you not hasty in using your revolver?’ the woman asked. “The afternoon paper says that there is very little prospect of the officer’s recovery.” “Tf I hadn’t put a ball into him, we should all have been taken by the police. It was the narrowest squeeze that I ever had,” the man replied, impatiently. “ And I warned you not to go.” The quiet tone of the woman, as well as the nature of the speech, excited the anger of the man. ‘*T believe you are really glad in your heart that I got this slug into me, just because I didn’t take your advice and keep out of the affair!” he cried, hotly. A moment the woman looked at him with her cold, calm eyes; he moved impatiently, restless under the glance. “George, you do not believe what you are saying,” she re- plied, not a trace of passion in her voice. ‘‘ You know well enough that, had it been possible, I would have gladly re- ceived the ball that struck you. You know that, to save you from pain, I would pour out all the blood that is in my veins, drop by drop.” The man turned away his head for a few moments; he could not bear the steady glance of the reproachful black eyes. fe I wonder that you do not hate me!” he exclaimed, abrupt- ly, after a long pause. “Why should I hate you?” the wife asked, quietly and calmly, and yet there was just a little tinge of bitterness per- ceptible in her voice. “ Because I deceived you,” he said, still avoiding the steady gaze of the lustrous dark eyes. “ Deceived me?” the woman said, in a tone of question. ““Yes, you know well enough,” Gentleman George replied, in a sort of an aggrieved way. “ When you married me, you thought that you were getting a gentleman with plenty of money for a husband; you had no idea that you were marry- ing an adventurer, who depended upon his wits and the world’s weaknesses for his living.” “Tt was a very bitter waking from a very bright dream,” was her answer, in the same calni, inflexible tone. “That was three years ago.” : “Yes; you were doing pretty well when I met yon, too; getting good wages, though you did give about all of it to that drunken brute of a father of yours.” ““Not a brute, George,” she protested; “a vain, idle, fool- ish man, whose only happiness is in liquor, but not a brute; too weak for that.” “Don’t you sometimes wish that you had never seen me ?” he demanded, abesp hy, “Don’t you sometimes wish that you were still Hero Walebone, instead of being Mrs. Domi- nick, eh ?” ‘* Why do you ask such a question ?” “Oh, a fancy; that’s all,” with assumed carelessness. ‘*T have never regretted marrying A A George,” was the calm reply; ‘‘and I hope that you will never give me cause to regret it.” Bomething in this speech sounded like an accusation. George moved restlessly on the bed for a moment, and then turned suddenly. and faced the woman, whose steady eyes never quailed. “I don’t exactly like the way in which you say that, Hero!” he exclaimed, an ugly logk on his face. “There's something the matter with you. Do you mean to make a one against me?” ere was a latent menace in his ne. ‘* Does your own heart tell you that I ought to?” ‘“‘That ain’t answering my question,” he retorted, quite roughly, but again evading the unwavering glance of these dark, searching eyes. ‘* George Dominick, have I not faithfully followed your fortunes, ever since the day when the minister made us man and wife?” she asked, “T don’t see any need of putting any such question as that,” protested the sick man, in a tone of irritation. “You know that I have,” she continued, firmly; “ you know that I have been to you a true and faithful wife; that I have never uttered a word of complaint; that I have borne bad fortune as calmly as good; that I have aided you in all your schemes, and more than once have saved you from im- pending danger; and now I say to you, George Dominick, don’t cast me aside for any other woman; for, so sure as you do it, it will prove to you to be, without exception, the most foolish act in al: your life.” ** See here; I don’t want you to threaten me because I’m flat on my back, sick,” George eried, angrily ; “ and what put any such notion into your head ?” I saw you the other night when you met that little brown- haired woman in Cherry street, near Market.” George started at the words. “T was waiting for father to come out of the saloon near there, to send a message to Pen’. I saw the woman come down arket street, turn the corner and dart into a doorway, The action attracted my attention, and I watched to see why she
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6 Gentleman George. did it; then | saw a man in dark clothes, who evidently had been following her, come down the street. The woman still remained in her hiding-place, and I watched her until you came; then I instantly understood that she had come there to meet you.” ‘*Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed George, with a forced laugh ; ‘*that was only Jenny Shea, Mickey’s sister, bringing me & message from Mickey.” The woman looked at George for a moment, a peculiar light shining in her dark eyes. “Take care that that woman don’t bring you into trouble,” she said, meaningly. “ Oh, Pll risk that.” *« And now, I’m going for a doctor,” and she rose as she spoke. “I'll get one who can keep histongue quiet. T’ll not be gone long.” And Gentleman George was left to his own not over-plea- sant reflections, CHAPTER VI. THE UNKNOWN. “Can I speak a few words with you, please ?” said the soft, womanly voice. The Doctor turned and beheld a white-faced, dark-eyed female, clad in dark clothes, “ Certainly,” he replied, somewhat astonished at the ques- tion, forthe glance had told him that the woman was a stranger. “I wish to speak to you in private, please,” the sad-faced caller said, with a look at Molly Bawn, which thet young lady returned with interest. Molly did not like the idea of the stranger accosting her new-found protector. “ Stay here till I come back, Molly,” he said. “You bet,” replied the girl, laconically; the slang of the streets was her mother tongue. “Now Iam at your service,” said the Doctor, addressing the woman. She nodded, walked up the street a few paces, out of ear- shot of the girl, and then turned and faced the ‘Doctor who had followed her. “ You are a doctor, I believe ?” “ Yes,” he replied, not at all astonished at the question, for, on the first night of his sojourn within the classic precincts of the east side, he had yolnnteeted to dress a wound that a drunken sailor had received in a dance-house brawl, and had been termed “ Doctor” from that hour. The woman took a long and steady look at his face. Al- though surprised by her behavior, the Doctor waited patiently for her to explain the meaning of the strange conduct. “Do you know it seems strange to me that a man in appearance like yourself should be obliged to live in such a locality as this?” The Doctor understood at once that this remark was to be taken in the light of a “leading question,” asa legal gentle man would observe. “There are reasons for all things in this world, they say,’ he remarked, carelessly. The woman ae favored him with a piercing glance from her dark eyes. The Doctor bore the scrutiny with perfect composure. “You look like aman who would not betray a confidence reposed in him,” she said, slowly. “You can trust me as far as you can see me,” he answered, carelessly. “ Suppose that a man who has had the misfortune to get into a liftle trouble should send for you in a professional way, would you go?” ‘Most assaredly.” The tace of his inquisitor brightened up a little at the prompt and uaqualified answer. “You wouldn’t say any thing to get the man into trouble who trusted to your honor?” A shade of anxiety was appar- ent in the face of the woman as she put the question. “ Doctors are like lawyers and do not generally tell tales out of school,” the man said, quite seriously. “ You are willing to go with me, then?” “Yes, if my proféssional services are needed.” “They are—urgently, perhaps!” the woman exclaimed, quickly. “Shall I have to go far?” “No, only a block or so.” “What is the matter with the man?” “A bullet in the spouider.” “T's lucky, then, that I happen to have a little case of in- struments in iny pocket. Do you wish me to go at once?” vere. “ Wait until speak a few words with the girl, and then I am at your service.” “ Be as quick us possible,” the woman said, earnestly. “ The person who needs your aid has been without medica] advice too long already.” “JT will only detain you a few moments,” and then he re- turned to the girl, who, with distrustful eyes, had watched the interview between the two. “J know her?” exclaimed the girl, as the Doctor came up to her. “ You do?” he said, rather surprised at the information. “ Yes; her name used for to be Hero Walebone.” “Used to be ?” “ Yes, afore she was married. She used to live on Market street. I know allon’em. There’s the old man—he’s a reg- ular old bummer, he is—hangs up by the nose round the whisky shops; says he’s a workin’man; never does no work that ever I see’d, except drink bad ram—an’ then there’s two sisters ; they work in a hoop-skirt place in Division street. I knows both on ’em.” “And who did this girl marry?” the Doctor asked, care- essly. “Tf guess I don’t know,” answered the girl, sagely. “I’ve heered the old bummer—that’s her father, Chris Walebone, areg’lar old rounder—say as how he was a gentleman an’ lived on the interest of his money. I see’d him once, a long time ago; he was a regular swell, but he was a-goin’ with Mickey Shea, an’ he’s a thief, he is.” The Doctor instantly conjectured that the person who had got into trouble was probably the “swell” husband of the pale-faced woman. ‘“‘’m going with this woman to see a sick person,” the Doc- tor explained. ‘‘ Will you wait at the corner of the street un- til I return? Ishan’t be very long.” “Take care that it ain’t a ‘plant !’” exclaimed the girl, sud- denly and suspiciously. é : “A “plant!” said the Doctor, in astonishment. “ Yes; don’t you know ?” asked the ‘‘ Arab,” evidently sur- prised that she was not understood. “ Well, no; I don’t think I do exactly understand what you mean.” ‘* Say, ain’t you bin in a little trouble ?” demanded the girl, shrewdly. “ A little trouble ?” “Yes, with the cops—the erlice,” “ What if I have?” The Doctor was at a loss to guess what she was driving at. “ Why, then, they puts up a job on you,” was the myterious explanation; ‘‘ they git this woman to come arter bs for to © an’ see somebody that’s sick, an’ when you git there you'll nd that it’s the peelers.” “y guess the police will not take all that trouble on my ac- count,” he said, smiling. The girl shook her head dubiously. “1 know ’em!” she cried, emphatically; “ they’re up to all sorts of tricks. But, then, if it ain’t the perlice, mebbe it’s a ‘plant’ of another kind. 'P’haps somebody thinks that you’re worth goin’ through, so cag gits this woman for to decoy you into some house, and then they'll lay you out.” The Doctor laughed. “J don’t think that there is much danger of anybody trying a game of that kind on me; why, if they stripped me they couldn’t get five dollars for all that I have on.” “They'd do it for that, quick enough, some on ’em !" ex- claimed the girl. ‘‘ ay I’ve see’d ’em half-kill a drunken sailor for a couple of dollars. Hadn’t you better let me go with you?” Molly put the question very earnestly. “TI bet I know all the rounders that roost round here. I knowI ain’t big enough to fight much, but I kin throw a brick as good as any of ’em, an’ kin yell loud enough for a dozen. You'd bet- ter let me go.” The man could not/help smiling at the earnestness of the girl. “T don’t think there is any danger; besides, this woman wouldn’t like:to have you go.’ ) ‘«Pell her you won’t go without me,” suggested the would- be protector; “that wonld fix her.” “No, L have promised to go; so be content and wait at the corner until I come back; will you?” “ Yes, if you say so,” she answered, quite reluctantly, ‘** but if they do put up a job on you, I'll jest get square with them or my name ain’t Molly Bawn.” The Doctor laughed, told the girl not to get tired waiting, and returned to where his caller stood, Molly remained pee for a few moments and watched the ir as they walked rapidly away; then a sudden idea came nto her head. “*T’ll jest keep my eyes on ’em, anyway!” she exclaimed, Acting on the impulse, she followed, cautiously. CHAPTER VII. A BRIGHT, PARTICULAR STAR, A New star had flashed suddenly across the theatrical fir- mament of the metropolis of thé New World. A Miss Ellen Desmond, a young and beautiful girl, perfect in figure as in face and really possessing, too, considerable tal- ent for the stage. The lady came, saw and conquered. Not an easy matter this, even for youth, beauty and talent. But the lady was fortunate. e had been splendidly “handled;” we are using the technical term, as we would speak of a horse being well driven by his jockey. The busi- ness manager of the new star was a gentleman who had fol- lowed the stage ever since thestender years of boyhood; a speculator whom no loss could daunt, no failure could dis- courage; who understood exactly how much the public at
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large know of that art which the world calls ‘‘ acting ;” and who fully comprehended what the people who paid their money to enter theaters wished to see, and how to excite their curiosity in regard to the attraction which he had to offer. ‘This energetic gentleman had brought Miss Ellen Desmond to New York; had procured an opening for her at one of the principal theaters; had blazoned the name of Ellen Desmond ym every dead-wall in the city, and by shrewd and novel news- pauper advertisements had so excited the curiosity of the theater-going public that they crowded the theater on the night of her debut. The lady appeared in a new play, written expressly to exhibit what talents she did possess, and to hide what defects severe and diligent drilling would not efface ; she was ably supported; and as the play was strong in itself, and the lady was pretty, pleasing and fairly talented, she really made what is ase in theatrical parlance as a “‘ hit.” The theater was crowded nightly—not all paying patrons, to confess the truth, for the sagacious business manager be- lieved in “full houses,” and distributed free tickets where they would ‘‘ do most good,” in an extremely liberal] manner, and it really happened on two or three evenings during the | first week of the lady’s engagement, that patrons with money in their hands, eager for tickets, were turned away from the | doors of the theater, with the announcement of ‘‘ Standin . room only,” while there were four or five hundred “‘ dead- heads” occupying good seats in the auditorium. This was very shrewd policy. The attraction that was crowdin turning money away besides, must . oned the public; while the self-confident business manager of | Miss Ellen Desmond compared the great public to a flock of geese :—where one goose goes, the rest all want to go, like- wise, The actress did not go to a hotel upon her arrival in the great metropolis, but had been hidden away by her sagacious manager in apartments on Broadway near Tweaty-ninth street, | He reasoned that, when we make an article common, it de- preciates in value. The actress who could be seen during the day at her hotel, the people would not care to come to see at | night, and pay, besides, for the privilege of so doing. he attress was guarded from intrusion by a huge negress, who bluntly repulsed all intruders. Her meals, sent in from a neighboring restaurant, were re- ceived by the negress, and so Miss Ellen Desmond was kept entirely secluded from the view of the curious public. She | even had a carriage to convey her to and from the theater, / and thus escape scrutiny. The apartihents of the lady consisted of three rooms, plainly Sad ‘ but neatly furnished. In the front room, the windows of which looked out on Broadway, the actress was seated. The hour of ten had just chimed from the little clock on the mantle-piece. The break- fast-service was on the table, and Miss Ellen Desmond, the “bright, particular star,” ina handsome morning wrapper, seated by the table, was looking over the morning papers, the theater nightly, and e worth seeing. So rens- f And as one looked upon the delicate beauty, utterly un- adorned by the witching hand of art, in her breakfast “ un- dress,” with her hair drawn back carelessly from her temples and wound into a knot behind, it was not strange that, on the stage at night, behind the mystic “ foot-lights,” with the glare of the gas upon her and the intoxication of acting swelling in every vein, and beating in every pulse, she seemed of more pe gee tpl Cb possess more than earthly gifts, and 1armed, as with a magic spell wr i raaie tow Ne gic spell wrung from fairy lore, halt . Little wonder that the women pronounced her “ sweet,” and the men came, night after night, to revel in the beauty of her “Soa face. as she sits in the easy-chair, toying with the s ae tet = ke describe her. " - guid ttle row ace, not larger hardly than the face of child; the skin white as alabaster, and with just the faintest tinge of color in the cheeks; the nose, st tas the line of the Grecian Hebe; the mouth, red-lipped as the coral from the depths of the green ocean, and in shape like the curved bow of the ancient Eastern warrior; her chin, dimpled as by the cunning art of a craftsman’s master hand; her hair, wavy | in curling tresses, yellow as strands of - beaten gold, and— } strange Contrast—her eyes were dark-brown, and her eye- brows and eyelashes were black. Perhaps this it was that ; guve the charming expression to the face. Idly the newspaper dropped from her hand to the floor, and a dreamy look of meditation came over the fair face. She was aroused from her abstraction by the negress knock- ing and then entering the Treg She announced that the business manager, Mr. Almer Medham, Esq., as lhe was generally announced on the “ small bills,” was coming up stairs and hardly had the servant withdrawn into the inner apart- ment when Mr. Medham entered the room. The business manager was a fat, jolly fellow, of thirty-five or thereabouts, always overflowing with good-humor. . In his hand he carried a bouquet, designed in exquisite taste, and composed of the rarest and most costly flowers. “ Well, how is the little woman this morning?” he asked as he seated himself unceremoniously by the table and tossed the bouquet into her lap. ‘Oh, very well,” she replied, languidly. “What a beauti- ful bouquet this is.” “ Yes, that’s a feather in your cap, my dear,” he said, with we an eo hy : triumph upon his face, : ** Indee ow so?” she asked with an ar of indifference. She partly anticipated the answer. on Gentleman George. ‘That 1s a present from one of the leading gentlemen of New York.” The lip of the actress curled just a little. to be at all affected by the statement. “He took the trouble to call upon meat my hotel this morning. I was introduced to him last night after the ‘ show was out.” The business manager would use the slang of the “ showman.” ‘* Yes?” Miss Desmond did not seem at all interested. “ He came in this morning and wished to know if you would accept a few flowers. Of course I replied that if there was any thing in this world you really did admire it was flowers. So he requested me to walk down to the flower-store, and there he had that bouquet made up, and then he requested me to hand it to you.” “Of course he wants an introduction,” the actress said, quite contemptuously. “ Well, he didn’t say any thing about that, but I suppose he does of course,”’ Medham replied. ‘* Strange that he didn’t imagine that he could come right up ip arty at once; that is generally the idea they have. Juno had to put one young fool out by main torce yesterday. He insisted upon coming up. He pretended that he was con- nected with one of the newspapers, and had come for the purpose of interviewing me.” edham laughed. . ‘Oh, this is a gentleman, one of the old New York stock, a lawyer and a millionaire—Mr. Nicholas Bruyn.” The actress sprung to her feet with a bound. ‘Nicholas Bruyn wish to see me!” she cried, her face as white as the napkin in her hand. She did not seem CHAPTER VIII. THE FISHMAN, In Market street, just a block above the house wherein the wounded man lay, was another tenement-house, almost a counterpart of the first, except that the lower floor was occu- pied by a grocery store. And just about the same time of the interview between the Doctor and the pale, sad-faced woman, in Cherry street, a young man and woman, seated by the door of the tenement ouse on the coal-box belonging to the grocery store, were holding a busy conversation. From the manner in which the couple sat on the box, so near together and so comfortable, it was evident that they were lovers, The girl was a younger sister of the sad-faced wife of Gen- tleman George, by name, Artemisia—which appellation was generally shortened into Arty. She was the second daughter of the individual known as Christopher Walebone, so graph cally described by the girl, Molly Bawn, as “as old bum- mer, Arty was strikingly like her sister, Hero, in the face, but lacked her sad air; she was small in stature and as lively as a cricket in disposition. The young man was a stoutly-built young fellow, with an honest, good-natured looking face; his head was round as a bullet, and his dark-brown hair was cropped tight to his head. Billy West—so this sturdy young fellow was called—was a regular New York boy, born and bred. Left an orphan at an early age, he had had a pretty hard time of it. Thrown by chance in with the fishmen of Fulton Market, when only a youngster, he had learned their business. And as he grew up a stoutly-built, muscular lad, quiek on his legs and handy with his fists, his associates, fond of manly sports, were often in the habit of pitting him against some other promising young- ster in a game of fisticuffs, and by the time Billy West got to be eighteen , he had the reputation of being an ugly customer to tackle; not that the lad was inclined to be at all qnarrel- some, but he didn’t let anybody walk over him without 6 “turn-up,” to use the language of the ‘‘ boys.” That Billy West wonla have inevitably become a profes- sional prize-fighter, was almost aforegone conclusion, had he not met with Arty Walebone. That free-spoken young lady, when the gentle fishman had bashfnily suggested that he would like to keep company with her, instantly replied that she didn’t want any “‘ nasty fighting-man hanging round her. She didn’t believe in men making beasts of themselves, and would have nothing’ to do with any fellow who turned him- self into a bull-dog. Billy West went home to his six-by-nine garret, “ put him- self in his little bed,” and pondered over the pointed remarks Me the lively and independent daughter of the house of Wale- one. And when in the first opened his eyes and stare up. He gave his professional friends in the fisticuff line the cold shoulder; no more did he don the “‘ gloves” for the bene- fit of “ Cast-Iron Jack,” or ‘‘ Jimmy, the Mouse,” and in the best of humors proceed to “put a head” on some other am- bitious craftsman of the “ slogging art.” No more did the Fulton Market Pet—as Billy was fondly termed—*‘‘ stop, job, and get away,” in first-class style with some other exponent of the ‘‘ manly art of self-defeas<,” to the admiration of the “coves wot love a mill.” ray light of the early morning he around him, his mind was madé
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4 8 Gentleman George. And from the day when he cast aside the “ gloves ” forever, and made up his mind to become a decent member of society, and no longer abuse the manly gifts that Heaven had given him, Billy West prospered. A woman’s will worked a wondrous change in the fortnnes of the Fulton Marke: boy. The money which he had form<rly been in the habit of squandering in the corner liquor store with the ‘‘ boys,” he diligently saved up, and within a year from the time the young working girl bad quietly told him that he would have to choose between her and his pugilistic friends, Billy West astonished his “boss” by announcing to him, one Saturday night, when he received his wages, tliat he, Billy, should be obliged to leave him, as he was going to buy a horse and wagon, and go into business on his own account. And so Billy joined the great. army bearing the generic term of licensed venders, and he still prospered, much to the won- der of his old associntes, who turned up their noses when they spoke of Billy’s desertion of the “ manly ar.” But sittle cared Billy for their sneers as long as the girl of his hiert smiled kindly on him. Only one thing troubled him; Walebone, the “ hard-handed ntechaniv,” as he delighted to call himself, did not appear to regard Billy witha friendly eyes. West had been keeping company with the girl for nearly three years, and altnuough old Walebone never had openly objected to the arrangement, yet whenever he had a little too much liquor on board—which was generally every night in the week regularly—by the hour af ten—he would make sarcastic remarks about the fish-trade, and the dealers in ‘hat brain-producing food, and ery aloud that the mechanic was Nature’s noblest work; and then in a flood of, tears, he would lift up his voice and lament that no child’of his had ever married one of the noblemen of Nature or was likely to marry one, . Whenever Billy had happened to be present on these occa- sions, when the aged Walebone told his sorrows, the blood of the fishman would rise in his veins ; he would seize an early opportunity to retire, and in the solitude of the entry would coufide to his beloved Arty that, if the “old cuss” wasn’t her fuiher, he’d take an intense pleasure ingiving him “a belt in the snoot.” . : Then Arty would put her arms round his neck and beg bim to remember that the speaker was her only parent, and that he always felt bad when he reflected upon the condition of the down-trodden working-man. To which Billy would reply that rum had a good deal more 0 do with the aged Walebone’s remarks than any thing. else, and that he'd like to see the “Sold rman” tackle a job of work inste:td of ‘‘jawin’” so much about it “ with his mouth.” As a final result Billy would go away quite contented, but, when he got home to the solitude of the six-by-nine attic, the way he would ‘‘ cuss” the single parent of his beloved was a caution! The two, sitting together so cosily on the Dutchman’s coal- box, were discussing the chances of gaining the “old man’s” consent to their union, Tie girl seemed very doubtful; her father did not look upon the fishman with favorable eyes. “ He keeps saying that I ought to marry a hard-working mechanic,” she said. “Well, 1 ain’t a wood-botcher por an iron-sp’iler, but, if there is any two-legged man in New York that works any harder fura livin’ than { do, I'd like to see him trotted oat, that’s ali!’ Billy exclaimed, indignantly. ‘‘ And as for your dad a- talkin’ all the time about a hard-handed son of toil, Pll bet two dollars an’ a half that my hands are as hard as any of ’em. I don’t go an’ how! round, cither, bout being abused and trod on, but, if any snoozer tried. to walk over me, I jes’ tell him quietly that 1 ain’t afeard of any man of my weight, and if he’s on his muscle to peel and wade in. Arty, I don’t want to say a word aw’in’ the old man, but if he’d do less work with his month, and more with his hands, it would be a good thing for his fanvily.” “ Now, Billy!” exclaimed the girl, in remonstrance, “ you masn’t say any thing about father, becanse if he don’t work himself it is because he’s trying to better the condition of the working men.” “ Yes, there’s four or five on ’em meet at a rummy on East Broadway, an’ a heap of gas they talk ’bout what they’re goin’ to do for the workin’-men, but nobody ever see’d. any of ’em work,” [ill replied, “Tain’t got no use for sich snoozers.” The fisimian was thoroughly in earnest in his remarks. * Oh, Billy, you mustn’t.” Father says that when the work- ing-men all stand totrether they will rule the whole country; aici iat all the money the rich people have really belongs to them, and that they ought to have it,” the girl said, repeating what she bad so often heard. “Oh, of course,” Billy retorted, sarcastically; “ the avenue felks didn’t work for it, or nothin’; oh, no! Is’pose I ought fur to share my hoss and wagon with ’em. I think 1 will, too — 1p ® born?’ And then a sudden thought struck Billy. *“ Arty, where’s your sister—the one that married that Domin- bk* Ts she ronnd?—cos I’m feared that he’s in trouble. Captain Murphy—he’s the police captain of this district—was wyin’ to pump me about your sister to-day.” CHAPTER IX. BILLY’S STORY. THe girl looked at Billy in astonishment Why, what do you suppose the police want to know about either Hero or her husband?” she asked. “How should I know ?” replied Billy, evasively. “But what did the policeman say ?” “Oh, not much. IT met him about five o’clock this after- noon. | sold out pretty soon to-day, and I was jes’ puttin’ the horse up when the captain came by, and he jes’ asked how things were working, and leaned up ag’in’ an awning-post, jes’ careless-like. Well, I told him that times were pretty middliu’; then he up an’ axed me if I was keepin’ company wilh you.” ‘*And what did you say?” “| jes’ told him that I hung out round here sometimes, an’ then he said—jes’ careless-like, you know, as if it wasn’t any account to him—didn’t a sister of yours get married some time ago. Now, you see, Arty, this jes’ opened my eyes, ’cos I’ve seen the captain afore, an’ | knew when he commenced to talk *bout your sister that it meant business. I didn’t let him see, ou know, that 1 bad ‘dropped on him,’ so I jes’ answered, as Innocent asa young porgy a-playin’ on the Jersey flats, that you did have a sister, an’ that she did get married, some time ago, *“ And what did be say then?” asked the girl, deeply inter ested. “Well, he looked up at the sky an’ axed me if I thought that it was going to rain, an’if weak-fish had commenced to run yet. L never let on, you know, an’ answered jes’ as pice as if | didn’t know what he was arver. Then he said that I had a good horse, an’ then axed what was the name of your Bister’s husband. I told him Dominick, an’ he ’peared to think for a moment an’ ‘lowed that he thought he knew a man by that name, an’ wondered if it was the same one. In course I went on unharnessin’ the hoss, an’ kept as still as a mouse, Then the captain sed that be really believed ’twas the same manu, an’ axed. me if 1 bad ever see’d him. I told him I never did. Then he talked a little while bout what the chances were for the next ‘lection ; how the ward would go, ete., and then come plump to the p’iut, an’ axed me if your sister an’ her husband were living round ’bout here, or if I had seen ’em lately. I told him thtat I hadn’t.” “Did he ask any more questions?” “ Nothin’ to speak of ; he talked five or ten minutes more, maybe, but sed nothin’ particular,” Billy replied, “Then he walked off up the street; an’ I see’d a little man in dark clothes jine him.” “ Did you know the little man, Billy?” : “| bet yer!” he replied, emphatically; “it was one of the detectives froin the Central Office. I tell you, Arty, if Hero and her husband are round there’s trouble ahead fur ’em.” The girl remained silent for a few moments, evidently in deep thought; then suddenly spoke: “T’m afraid there is something the matter, for my sister was at the house to-night, just after dark, and she looked real sad and careworn,” “ Did she say any thin’ ’bout her husband ?” “Nothing particular. I asked her where she lived now, but she said that 1 mustn’t ask questions, and I knew, of course, that she had some reason for not telling.” “What does Dominick do for a living, anyway?” asked Billy, suddenly. _., “I don’t know exactly,” the girl replied. “I believe that he tfavels and sells goods by samples, or something of that ind. “You know Mickey Shea, don’t you, Arty?” Billy asked, after pondering over the matter for a few moments. “Yes,” replied the girl, wondering at the question, **Do you know how Ae gets his livin’ ?” “Well, I have heard people say that he isn’t any better than he ought to. be.” “He’s a regular black sheep, he is, Arty,” Billy said, decid- edly. ‘* He’s a dock-rat—steals any thing he kin get his hands on, He’s hin, up to the ‘Island’ half,a dozen times. Was sent up to Sing Sing once, for five years, but, he’s a big man in the ward,’round ’lection time, an’ his gang got him par- doned out, Then they had him up once fur stabbing a man down in South street, an’ how he ever got out of that I don’t know. I reckon, though, it was political influence that fixed the job. Mebbe they pigeon-holed the indictment.” “What's that, Billy?” “Why, suspended the case an’ let him go on straw bail; put the papers in a pigeon-hole; 80, you see, if he don’t work jes’ rivlt "bout ‘lection time they kin take the papers out an’ put him through,” Billy explained, “ But why did you want to know if J knew him?” ‘°’Oos I heard him mention George Dominick's name, the other night, in a liquor saloon up the street. The place is kind of a crib where the snoozers hang out, You see, l met my old boss, an’ we went in to take a smile. An’ while we were b’istin’ our p’ison I heered this Mickey Shea, who was talkin’ in a corner with another rounder, say somethin’ ’bout George Dominick, In course I couldn’t make out what they were a- talkin’ about. I only heered the name. ButI kin tell you one thing, Arty, if your sister’s husband is any friend of Mickey hea’s, be ain't the kind of man fur your sister to tie to.” “Tm afraid that Hero ain’t very,uappy,” the girl said slowly; “she don’t look well at all; she’s real thin, and i never saw her so pale and careworn before,” “Well, I bope that her old man hain‘t got into any trouble. but I'm afeard that he his,” Billy remarked. “I don’t believe the captain would take the trouble to pump me about him if there wasn’t somethin’ up.” “ She is living round here, somewhere,” Arty said, suddenly, “though she didu’t say where she lived., Lam pretty sure thal it aint tar off. Do you s'puse that anybody saw her when she caine to see us to-day? any of the police, mean ?” | | ) | =
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—_— Gentleman George. 9 Billy gave & low and prolonged whistle. It was evident that he felt uneasy in his mind. “Well, Arty, [ don’t want to discourage you, but I’m a leetle afeard that they are close on her track,” he replied. “ Seeing the detective with Captain Murphy looks kinder suspicious.” “What do you suppose that they are after Mr. Dominick for?” Arty aed: with a shudder. ‘Didn't you read "bout that fight on the river, the. other night, between the Harbor Police and a party of river-thieves, when one of the officers was shot ?” “* Yes, I read it.” “Well, do you know it struck me when I read ’bout that fuss that Mickey Shea an’ his gang had somethin’ to do with it,” Billy went on to explain. “ Fou see, Arty, I used to go ‘round with the boys a good deal in the old time, an’ I knew a heap bout these river-rats, as they call themselves. This Mickey tried one night to rope me in to go with ’em, an’ I jes’ told him what I thought of him an’ his crowd in pretty plain words; then ‘he got mad an’ picked a muss with me, an’ it took me ’bout two minutes to warm him so that hisown mam- my wouldn’t have known him; an’ he bad his crowd with him, too, but there was five or six of the Fulton Market fel- lows round, an’ they jes’ see’d that I had a fair show. Mickey threatened to lay me out, but he knows that I can flax him an’ any two of his gang all put together if I only have half a chance.” “Do you suppose that my sister’s husband had any thing to do with shooting that officer ?” asked the girl, anxiously. “Yn course I don’t know any thin’ bout it,” Billy replied, with a shake of, the head. “But, when the, captain tried to tet me to-day about Dominick, an’ I remember hearin’ fickey speak "bout him, it jes’ struck me that mebbe he had omethin’ to do with that affair.” “If the police were on the watch, perhaps they followed Hero from the honse to-day ?” “ That’s what I’m afeard of,” Billy observed, thoughtfully. Then up the street with uncertain steps came a fat, elderly man, gray-haired and heavily jowled. It was the venerable Christopher Walebone. He beheld the couple seated Ye the coal-box and straight: ened himself up in righteous in ignation, CHAPTER X. TIMELY AID, THE woman proceeded onward with rapid steps and the Doctor followed close behind. She entered the door of a large tenement house, situated on Market street, turned her head as if for the purpose of seein that the man whom she was conducting “was at hand, and then, satisfied that he was following closely behind, proceeded up stairs. The Doctor followed silently; the rustle of the woman’s dress was his guide through the dark passages. At a door on the upper landing his conductor halted. “This is the place,” she said, opening the door and enter- ing the room, The Doctor followed, and at a single glance noted the scanty Pg oh of the apartment, and the sick man extended upon e bed. “T will be buck soon,” and turning round, the Doctor ob- served that the woman had left the apartment, closing the door behind her. He understood at once that it was her pur- pose to leave him alone with the sick man, and advanced to the bedside. Gentleman George nodded his head in salutation. ‘You are ‘ doctor?” ae es,”’ “Pve got a bullet in my shoulder. I thought that it was only a scratch, or that the bullet had passed clean through, but from the way it pains me I have come to the: conclusion that the lead is still in the shoulder.” ited np eis ae the wound; then he took out a little case of instruments mh i foeved a *" brotve:” is pocket, opened it and se- A cry of pain came from the lips of the wounded man, de- spite his Indiau-like hardihood, as the instrument was inserted in search of the ball. “The wound is inflamed,” the Doctor said: “it is lucky that you called in medical aid; ten hours more and it would have been too late. It is not dangerous, with proper care,” Then another groan of pain, and the Doctor held up the lit- tle conical piece of lead between his thumb and forefinger, ‘There it is, you see.” : A long-drawn breath of relief came from George’s pallid lips. “That's a weight off my mind,” he muttered. “I was be- ginning to fear that I should lose the arm.” “As [ have said, if it had not been attended to within ten hours, it would not only have cost you your arm. but in all probability your life.” The Doctor spoke gravely. “A narrow squeeze, eh?” Dominick exclaimed, with light laugh. “Yes: and even now you must be caretul and not take cold; the wound is very much inflamed.” ‘“That comes from neglecting to take care of it,” the hurt. How much do I owe you, Doctor?” “ Nothing,” replied the stranger, wiping the instruments off carefully and returning them to the box. “ Nothing?” exclaimed Dominick, in astonishment. ‘That is correct,” said the stranger, quietly. ‘‘I am not a regular doctor, anc do not practice for a living, but I am always glad to place my professional skill at the service of any one who needs it.” “Men like yourself are rarein this world,” Dominick re- marked, thoughtfully. “Ts that true?” queried the stranger, smiling as he speke. ** And now let me tell you what you must do to complete your cure,” he continued. “Apply some cooling dressing to the shoulder, and remain in absolute quiet until the wound closes; that should be within a week at the most.” “T’ll have it attended to the moment my wife comes back.” The Doctor turned toward the door, and the invalid watched him with a nervous face. **Oh, Doctor!’ Dominick said, suddenly. “ Well?” and the stranger turned toward the speaker. “Tf I might ask another favor of you—” “Oertainly ; what is it?” “Tf you will keep your visit here a secret—” “ Of course,” the visitor answered. “ Your wife requested that, and I willingly gave her the promise.” ‘“There are sometimes reasons for things which a man can wot explain.” ‘Oh. yes, I understand that,” the surgeon remarked, in an absent sort of way, as he took a long look at the man stretched upon the bed. Dominick observed the glance, and wondered at it. Then the Doctor turned again and advanced to the door; but, with his hand upon the knob, again he hesitated, and turning, faced the sick man. From the expression upon his ne it was evident that he wanted to speak, but hesitated to 0 80. There was a slight pause, during which Dominick surveyed the man, curiosity strongly written on his face. “I beg your pardon,” the visitor said, abruptly, “ but your face is very familiar to me, and yet I can not remember that I have ever met you before.” George was somewhat astonished, for he was sure that he pag Aten seen the stranger before. He therefore shook his head. “ You do not remember to have ever met me before?” the Doctor remarked. ‘* No; in fact I am almost certain that we never met unti. you came into this room to-night,’ was Dominick’s confident answer. “It is very strange indeed,” the visitor said, ina dreamy sort of way. “I could have sworn that I had met you before —not recently, but a long time ago,” Again Dominick shook his head. “I am certain we never met before. I have a most excellent memory for faces, and I should not be likely to forget one as strongly marked as your own.” “ Have you any objections to tell me your name ?” the Doc- tor asked, suddenly. Dominick thought over the question for a minute or so. “TI don’t know why I should have any objections,” he at length answered. “I am sure that you would not use the knowledge to my disadvantage.” xo gre you my word as to that,” the other said, quickly. “IT only wish to know to satisfy myself upon a certain point, and I freely promise to forget your name the moment the door of this room closes behind me.” “That is fair enough,” Dominick continued; “and as you have favored me I will try and oblige you. My name is George Dominick.” The Doctor shook his head; it was plain that he was disap- eons: se he asked: “ You were born in this city ?” es. “Are your parents living?” “No, both dead. My mother died when I was only an in fant—I do not remember her at all—and my father some four years ago.” “Tt is a most singular circumstance,” the visitor said, reflec tively; “ your face reminds me of a woman whom I once knew, and yet you do not in any particular feature resemble her at all.” “That is strange.” : “Yes; her eyes were brown, while Foe are blue; her hair dark also, and le, the very moment I beheld your face, you put me in mind of her.” “ What was the name of the woman?” demanded Domin- ick. The question was but an idle one, and he himself, if ques- tioned, could not have explained why he asked it. , ** Lina Aton,” “ A strange name,” Dominick remarked. “Ido not think that I ever hear it before.” “ Yes, it is strange; well, good-night, and I hope that you will speedily recover.” The Doctor passed out of the door into the darkness of the entry,
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10 Gentleman George. CHAPTER XI. HUNTED DOWN. As the Doctor advanced along the narrow dark entry toward the head of the stairs, he became conscious thgt some one was in the passage-way; he could. hear the quick breath- ing, and then the rustle of a woman’s dress fell upon his ear. He guessed at once that it was the wife of his patient, so he paused, and the woman came up to him. ‘‘ Well, Doctor,” she inquired, anxiously, “is there any danger ?” “Not the slightest unless he takes cold. I have extracted the ball.” “T am so thankful!” witha sigh of relief. “Here is five dollars, Doctor; is that enough?” As she spoke, the woman endeavored to put the bill into his hand, but he gently repulsed her. “IT do mot require any pay, madam,” he said, firmly, but kindly. “Tam nota regular practitioner; only an amateur, {t would be downright robbery to take pay for the slight service I haye rendered.” She did not attempt to force the money upon him, realizing that the effort would be fruitless. “ You are very kind, indeed, sir,” she said, in a voice full of gratitude; “and I trust you will not feel hurt if I request that you will not mention your visit here to any onc.” *‘ Certainly not, madam !” he replied, gravely. ‘‘ Rest assured I will keep it a profound secret; and if you should bave an furtlver neéd of advice, do not hesitate to call upon me. { sha]! be most happy to oblige you.” “Thank you, sir; I shall not forget your kindness, although I may never have the opportunity to repay you for it. Good- night, sir!” She passed swiftly along the entry, and entered the room wherein the wounded man lay, while the Doctor proceeded down-siairs, his mind busy in deep reflection. ‘‘Ivis very singular,” he muttered, as he descended the narrow stairs; “ but the very moment my eyes fell upon the face of this man, Lina’s image rose before me; and yet there is not a single individual feature in his face that resembles her. It is only in the general expression. If she had’ married a man of the German type, large, blonde—a very fair-haired Saxon—the child of that union would have looked like this Dominick. It is only & fancy of mine, however, for he knows both his parents, and can not be the descendant of this girl who possessed the face of an angel and the heart of a fiend.” PUndering over the durk memories of ‘the past, the olive- faced stranger descended into the street. The girl, Molly Bawn, concealed in a neighboring doorway, was eagerly awaiting him. “ Oh, Mister! come here, quick!” she exclaimed, mysteri- ously, as he came from the door of the tenement-house, and she stuck close to the place of concealment as she spoke. “ What’s the matter, Molly ?” he demanded, advancing toward her. “The cops! Come into the doorway, quick!” she cried, with fiery energy; and as she spoke, she reached out her little hand, as if to pull him into the darkness of the doorway. * What of them?” he inquired, taking a position by her side. “ They’re arter somebody, and I thought maybe that it was you,” his little companion explained. “ How do you know tliat they are after somebody ?” ‘“Why, I see’d ’em!” was the confident reply. “When ?” “Just arter you went inter that old barracks with that wo- man. ‘T'wo of em came down the street, an’ they had a talk right in front of here, an’I know’d’em. One of’em was Cap’n Murphy, an’ the other a p’liceman on this beat; an’ they’re arter somebody in that house—the one you went into, an’ I thought maybe that it was you.” “T guess they are not after me,” the Doctor remarked ; but as he spoke, the thought came to him that he could easily tell who the officers of justice were after if they sought some one in the tenement-house which he had just quitted. Then the idea occurred to him to warn the parties of whom he guessed the officers were in search. “You are sure, Molly, that the police are after some one in that house ?” he said. ‘‘T bet you!” replied the girl, emphatically. “I heered Cap. Murphy say so when he passed by here. He p’inted right to that old barracks an’ sed, ‘He’s in the upper front room,’ an’ then I didn’t hear-no more!” ‘*Tt is Dominick, then !” The quick ears of the girl caught the muttered words. “ Did you say Dominick ?” she exclaimed, impulsively; ‘‘ an’ is it him they’re arter an’ not you?” ‘‘ They are not after me, that’s a sure thing,” he replied. **T bet you I’m glad!” cried Molly. \ “You know Dominick ?” “ Yes, when I see him.” ‘«He’s in an upper front room in that house and sick; I’m afraid that it is he the police are after.” “ Why, what has he done?” Molly asked, in wonder. “T don’t know that; but, Molly, I think we ought to let him know the officers are after him.” ‘That’s so!” she exclaimed, “S’pose I run up stairs an’ tell ’em that old Murphy is arter ’em ?” ** Just what I was going te suggest,” the Doctor said. “ Do you think you can find the room? It’s on the upper floor ont, 9) “T know the one, I guess! T see’d a light in itasi was comin’ down the street.” ** Just knock at the door and tell Mrs. Dominick what you heard; say that I sent. you; say the Doctor—they’ll understand who you mean.” - “Tl do it up first rate!” cried Molly, stepping down to the sidewalk, but then in a second she hopped back to her hiding- place again, ~ “Tvs "too. late!’ she cried. ‘*'There’s the peelers on the other side of the street now.” The girl’s sharp eyes had detected the truth. On the op- posite side of the street, approaching with measured steps, were five men; four of them wore the blue uniform of the Metrongitiap olice, while the fifth was clad in plain clothes. ghia | crossed the street and halted in front of the tenement- ouse. “That big man is old Murphy,” the girl said, in a whisper. From their concealment the Doctor and Molly commanded a view of the squad, and were also near enuugh to hear their conversation. “T suppose that we might as well go for him, right away,” the police captain said, addressing the gentleman in dark clothes, who was one of the detectives from ‘‘ Head-quarters.” ' © Yes; he’s up-stairs, safe enough. I tracked his wife from her father’s place here, this evening, and I found out from one of the people in the house that there was a young man with blonde hair and mustache lived with his wife in the front apartments, on the upper floor. It’s our bird, fast enough.” 2 ie you suppose that he will offer any resistance ?” Murphy asked, ‘‘T think not,” the detective replied. “If Mickey Shea spoke truth, he’s pretty badly hurt.” “You and I had better go up together; that will be enough,” the police captain said. “Just so,” and into the tenement-house went the officers, leaving the three ‘‘ Metropolitans ” on guard at the door. CHAPTER XII. THE WORKINGMAN. CHRISTOPHER WALEBONE was a man of sixty, a heavily- built, gray-haired, pig eyed man, with a fat, unmeaning face, always untidy-looking in his appearance, despite the care of his two daughters; his necktie was never properly adjusted, and his frowsy pepper-and-salt suit-hung, baglike, upon him. A decided character was the “ hard-handed workingman,” as Walebone delighted to call himself. Staggering up the street with uncertain steps, returning from his accustoméd haunt, the corner liquor store, Walebone beheld his daughter and the young fishman seated so cozil together upon the coal-box of the Dutch fepess man. He at once paused in his unsteady progress and lifted both eyes and hands to heaven as if appealing for the clouds to fall and hide the terrible sight from his view. The girl regarded the movement in dismay. That panto- mime revealed to her the state of her father’s mind as plainly as though he had expressed his ideas in words. “Oh, run, Billy!” she exclaimed, nervously ; “ father don’t like to see you here, I know!” “ Nary run,” sepponded the courageous young fishman. ““T ain’t afeard of the old snoozer, if he is your dad. I might as well cheek it out now as any other time.” Then Walebone, who had halted a dozen yards or so away, looked around him for a moment as if in search of something, and a moment after lifted his nose high in the air as if in- spired by intense disgust. ‘*Oh, how it smells of fish!” he cried, in a loud and sonor ous voice, as though he was addressing his remarks to a crowd assembled in the street and utterly ignoring the two who sat on the coal-box, side by side. “Oh, how it does smell of fish,” he repeated; “of fish that are not fresh, and whose rankness smells to heaven. Bah!” The blood of Billy West boiled in his veins; the stubby hair on his tightly-cropped head rose in indignation, and it is more than probable that if the girl had not pressed the hand of her lover within her own soft palm, the indignant fishman = have “gone” for the aged Walebone, there and then. After he had relieved his mind, Walebone again advanc and as he came close to the door of the house, he pretende to see the couple on the coal-box for the first time. Imme- diately he straightened himself up and bowed with stately dignity to West, a salutation which that gentleman returned in a very sulky manner, “If my eyes do not deceive me, I have the pleasure of be- ——— my esteemed friend, Mr. West,’ Walebone said, with stolid dignity—‘‘ a merchant in the fish trade. Ah, Mr. West, you do not visit my humble mansion often enough. Why do you ot let us see more of you? ‘Oh, Willy, we have missed y!u!’” Considering that the young fishman visited the lively daugh- ter of the house of Walebone seven nights a week, on the average, it will be seen that the stern parent of the fishman’s love spoke sarcastically. But, when it came to chopping, Jack was as good as his master, and Billy West had not been brought up among the fish-boys of Fulton Market for nothing.
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Gentleman George. 1 “T’m very much obliged to you, I’m sure, Mr. Walebone,” Billy retorted, with a great deal of mock respect; “ the fact is, I’m kept so busy at my trade that I don’t have much time to make calls in, but hereafter I’ll try to come and see you oftener, and I feel very much obliged to you for your kind invitation,” Walebone gazed at the two for a moment, with a stolid face, supporting himself by holding on to the doorway with one Wand; he was not so much under the influence of liquor — aot to understand that he had gotten the worst of the first u ‘Artemisia, eldest and fairest bud now left of the Wale- bone stock, I have been thinking of making ou a present,” said the old man, slowly and ponderously. You have ever been a dutiful daughter and you have always obeyed your father’s lightest wish in regard to the company you keep.” More sarcasm on the part of the aged Walebone, which made Billy grind his teeth, and fervently wish that he could give the old’ soaker one lick “for luck.” “ You have always obeyed your father,” repeated the old man, “ your poor, aged, worked-out father, who is but asa worm trodden on by the foot of the worlé—who is a down-trodden workingman, not & bloated aristocrat, not even a wealthy fish-merchant,” (an- other touch at Billy), “ but he is an honest man; though his coat is ragged, it covers the heart of one of nature’s noble- men. Tam a mechanic. T do’ not blush to own it—I am a mechanic!” and Walebone gesticulated wildly with one hand; Le had sense enough left to know that if he tried it with the other he would lose his balance, so he clung tightly to the side of the door. “Where are you working now, anyway, old man?” put in Billy, suddenly, much to the disgust of Walebone; but he was equal to the occasion, and paid no attention to the inter- ruption. “IT am_a workingman—a hard-handed son of toil!” ex- claimed Walebyne, with a great deal of dignity, ‘ and despise the bloated aristocracy who thrive on the life-blood of hard- working men like me, But, a workingman has feelings, even if he és trodden on. I love my children, and, Artemisia, in my hours of toil I think of you, and 1 have determined to muke you a present. I am going to buy that coal-box that ou now sit on from Dutch John, and give it to you. For the ast three years this eminent fish-merchant, Mr. West, and you have sat on that coal-box nearly every night, and I feel within my soul that you ought to own it.” “Pm wery much obliged to you!” exclaimed Billy, quick- ly, “but, as for me, if I want this here coal:box, I kin buy it tor myself without axing any odds from any two-legged ma and if Dutch Jobn don’t like my roosting on his old box, al he’s got to do is to spit out, and I’]] bet two dollars and a halt that if he opens his head to me, there'll be the worst whipped Dutchman round this block that ever was seen.” ; Artemisia, it is time for you to retire,” said the old man, gravely, paying no attention whatever to the excited fish- man. “Your poor father has come home, tired out by his daily toil, and requires you to pull off his boots.” The daughter jumped down from the box and Billy fol- lowed her example. ‘“Good-night, Billy,” said the girl, offering her hand, in spite of the scowl upon the face ag the old man, as he beheld the aaa ** Say, Arty, I’m going to speak right out to the old rooster !” exclaimed Billy, in an andeltone to the irl. “Oh, don’t, Billy !” she protested, half frightened. What’s the use of waiting?” the fishman demanded, in remonstrance, and then he walked up to Walebone, who was still ——_ steadying himself by the door. “See here, Mr. Walebone, Arty and me has bin a-keepin’ company now for’bout three years, and I think it’s about time that we fixed things. Kin I have her? Say!” For a moment the old man glared upon the free-spoken fishtan, as though unable to comprehend his meaning, then slowly he raised his hand toward the sky. “T can not!” he cried, with a wail of anguish, “I can not give my daughter to this fish-merchant. I could not fold her to this hard-handed workingman’s heart, with the odor of salt mackerel and stale porgies fresh upon her. I could not look upon her face—her fresh, young, innocent face—and think that she depended for her daily bread upon a man who skins eels and opens clams fora living. I can not!” and then the old man broke down in a torrent of sobs, much to Billy’s disgnst and the girl’s alarm. “T have set my heart upon her marrying a hard-handed workingman like Iam; a man who earns his daily bread by the sweat of his brow. If she should marry you, the very first time you drove your cart through this street and cried ‘ clams, two shillin’ a hundred,’ my heart would break, Become a workingman, like I am, and she’s yours ; good-night—Heaven bless you, though you are nota et toil!” & dthen the old bummer staggered t r,s Billy “ mad” and Artemisia eortowtal. mu rodes tire CHAPTER XIII, THE MYSTERY. Tue cool and self-possessed Business Manager looked at the actress in utter astonishment. He had never seen her excited about any thing bef*re. A woman of ice, holdin her passions under an ths rule she was always calm aan quiet; but, now, with her flashing eyes, quivertng lips and burning cheeks, she seemed like another being. Medham came suddenly to the conclusion that he did not really know the woman, whom but a minute before he had fancied he thoroaghly understood. Medham did not speak; he waited and watched. For a minute or so the fiery beauty stood quivering with passion in the center of the room; then, suddenly, catching a look at herself in the mirror at the other end of the apart- ment, a low laugh came from her lips, and, with a petulant cry, she sunk back again into the chair from which she had risen. The bouquet had rolled from her lap to the floor. Medham rose as if to pick itup, but with a gesture the lady cestrained him. ‘* Let it stay there,” she said, listlessly; “sit down and tell me all about this gentleman—what did you call his name ?” Medham laughed. “Very well played indeed, Miss Desmond,” he exclaimed, with a bow of mock politeness; ‘‘ but you can’t humbug me; the pupil must not attempt to deceive the master. You will do me the'justice to admit that I have taught you acting; so don’t try acting upon me.” Medham resumed his seat, but his quick eyes noticed the contraction of the pupils of the brown-black eyes, and the pe- culiar lines which appeared about the mouth. Already the beautiful student chafed at the slightest touch of the rein. ‘Well, I will not attempt to deceive you,” she said. “TI do remember the name of the gentleman. Now tell me all about him,” “T suppose he is not a stranger to you, by the surprise my announcement of his name caused,” Medham said, “The name is familiar to me,” the girl replied, evasively, “but whether the man is or not, is a question I can not an- swer until I know something about him. Come, tell now, that’s a dear, good fellow!” “T don’t really know a great deal about him,” Medham an- swered. ‘‘I was introduced to him last night by one of our managers, who merely said that he was one of the great men of New York, very wealthy, and a great patron of the drama, He’s one of the big guns in politics, has been a Judge, I be- lieve; yes,I am sure that one of the gentlemen called him Judge, when we were drinking champagne together.” “Is he married or single ?”’ asked the actress, abruptly. “A widower, I think,’ Medham replied, reflectively. “TI remember that Palmer said the Judge had not been to the theater for some time, on account of the death of his wife.” The actress remained silent for quite along time, while Medham watched the expression upon her features, but he could not réad her thoughts; the face was as a blank to even his sharp eyes. ‘* Has he any children?” she asked, with evident interest. ‘*No; I heard some one of the party mention that fact and wonder to whom the Judge’s immense wealth would de- scend at his death.” “Now describe him to me,” she demanded, in a tone that distinctly betrayed some eagerness. ‘*He’s a man of fifty or thereabouts, I should say, although he shows very few signs of age; not a gray hair visible, i I remember aright; Jarge and portly in form, full face, yellow mustache and hair, and a pair of full blue eyes.” “Tt is he!” the actress murmured to herself. ‘* Does the description answer?” the other inquired. ‘Yes, I think so, although I have not seen him for years,” she made answer. It was now Medham’s turn to look astonished. “ For years, eh?” ‘* Yes; if it is the same.” “You must have been quite young then.” “Yes; I was a child.” The lip of the actress curled contemptuously as she spoke. Medham could not understand the reason for it. The whole matter was a puzzle to him. “Now, tell me what he said about me,” she demanded, abruptly. “ Very little to me,” Medham replied. The actress looked disappointed. “ He only said that you were a very talented young lady, and that there was a very bright future in store for you if you persevered in your profession.” “That is what they all say,” the “bright particular star” exclaimed in contempt. “But Palmer told me before I met the Judge that he was very much impressed with you, and had ordered one of the lower boxes to be reserved for him every night during your engayement.” “That is a compliment.” “Yes; not only a compliment, but good hard, solid cash,” replied the Business Manager, with an eye to the main chance; “] wish that a half a dozen of your other admirers would do the same thing.” “How much was in the house last night?” the actress asked, abruptly changing the subject. ** Guess!” “Twelve hundred dollars ?” The Business Manager whistled. “My dear, you mustn’t imagine that every one that comes in front pays for it.” ‘‘T allowed for a large number of dead-heads, for they snid on the stage that there must be from fif\een to eighteep hundred in.”
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12 Gentleman George. “The people on the stage are generally bad judges.” “ But how much was there ?” “ Eight hundred dollars—a few dollars over that; I forget exactly how much.” “That is not so bad,” the lady said, thoughtfully. ‘* No, not afier playing in the West for from fifty to three hundred per night.” gl: We shall make some money out of this engagement, then ?” “ Yes, a couple of thousand dollars at the least.” ‘‘There is money on the stage, then ?” “For one out of a thousand,” replied Medham, dryly; ‘the rest make a bare living.” “ About this Mr. Bruyn.” “ Well, what of him?” demanded the Manager, surprised at the sudden question. “ He did not speak as if he had ever seen me before ?” ‘*No,” replied Medham, much astonished at the question. “Or that I reminded him of any one?” “« No.” * Ah.” Now Medham’s curiosity was excited. ‘* But have you ever met this gentleman before?” he asked. The actress appeared to be astonished at the question. “Why, what should put that into your head?” “From what you have said about him, you appeared to be acquainted with him—at least one would think so.” “You do not seem to understand that I might know a great deal about a gentleman occupying a prominent posi- tion in the world—as this gentlenian does—and yet not be personally acquainted with him,” she replied, quietly. Medham understood at once that he was not to ask’ any more questions in- regard to the matter. “Tf lie wants an introduction shall I give it to him?” said the Manager. “ Yes,” replied the actress, promply. “ Allright.” Medham took up his hat to leave. “TI say, Nell, if you should happen to fascinate the Judge, that would peg than acting. What a shine you could cut as his wife The girl’s lip curled in contempt. “ That can never be.” Her words were decided, and Medham departed, consider- able mystified. CHAPTER XIV. THE HAWK’S SWOOP. Ur the narrow stairs of the tenement-house Captain Mur- phy and the detective from head-quarters proceeded with cautious steps; not that they feared alarming the man whom they were after, but the entry was dark and the turnings abrupt. ‘‘T suppose that I may as well have my revolver ready in case resista ice is offered,” Murphy whispered. “Hardly necessary, captain,” the detective replied; “the man is too badly wounded to try that game.” “ But if there should be any of the gang there?” Murphy suggested. “Not likely,” replied the detective, tersely. “They’re a rough set—river rats, you know; knock a man in the head almost as soon as look at him. - I’ve had my eyes on the gang for a long time, but have never been able to get one dead to rights, yet.” “ve got the Ruts this time,” the detective exclaimed, in a tone that betrayed a great deal of satisfaction. “That's more than any other man ever could say,” the police captain remarked. ‘‘I wonder how you contrived to get the crowd in a hole ?” ‘A little streak of luck and a quick following of the luck up,” the gentlemar from head-quarters rejoined, complacent- ly. ‘You see, the Englishman reported the loss of the dia- mond jewelry at head-quarters, about niidnight, and the re- port of the fight between the harbor force and the thieves reached there about the same time. From the description I jumped at once to the conclusion that some of the East-side gang had a hand in the affair, although it was really a cut above their way of doing business; more in the bank-robber style. I started on the scent at once, and by three o’clock in the morning I had a clue to the man I wanted. I ran across a dock-thief down by Catherine Market who used to run with this Mickey Shea, but has been out with him for some time, for some ill-treatment on Mickey’s part, and of course m bold laddie was only too glad to ‘give Mickey away.’ e told me that he had seen Mickey and another one of his gang about twelve o’clock, going up Market street, supporting a man between them, who was either very drunk or badly wounded. As luck would have it, he knew the man, too, one George Dominick. I guessed at once that it was our Gentleman George, and saw that I was on the right track. The sergeant of the polive-bout reported that he believed one of the Rats to be wounded in the skirmish on the river. I understood the trick.. Dominick, down on his luck, had hap- pened to learn in some way, of the diamonds that the Eng- lishman had, and had gone in with Mickey Shea and his crowé to relieve the Briton of the sparklers As I told you, the moment I heard of the affair, | knew that It was too nice a stroke of business for any of the common river-thieves. So after receiving this information I went for Mickey Shea in- stanter, and by five o’clock. I had the bracelets on him and my gentleman safely jugged. He stood out for a long time that he was as innocent as a baby in regard to the whole af. fair, and that he had never seen, heard, or even dreamed of any such man as George Dominick. But the Superintendent and the District. Attorney got hold of him, and finally he ‘squealed,’ and gave the whole thing away.” _ “*Made aclean breast of it, eh?” the captain said, listen- ing intently to.the recital as he climbed the stairs after the astute detective. “ Yes, only he either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell where Domi- nick was concealed.” ‘* But the woman fixed him!” the captain exclaimed, tri- umphantly. “Yes, but if Mickey hadn’t peached,I should never have thought ofa man like Dominick being concerned in such a job as this one.” “Tt will be something of a feather in your cap to lug Gentleman George by the heels,” said the captain, in a reflec- tive manner. “You can bet your bottom dollar on that,” the detective answered, complacently. “It will, be the first time that the steel bracelets have ever ¢losed on his delicate wrists. He’s been a deuced lucky fellow, but the pitcher, you know, will get broken at last; but here we are!” The two men halted in front of a door from the transom over which came a dim light. The hunters had tracked their prey to its lair, but now hesi- tated to enter. Did they fear that, tiger-like, the human quarry would turn and rend them ? Softly, and with smothered voices, the two had ascended the stairs and stolen along the entry. “Shall I kick the door in?’ Murphy whispered in the ear of the other. “No; wait.” The detective stooped and applied his ear to the key-hole, but the key being still in the lock prevented him from view- ing the interior of the room. _“‘ Curse the key!” muttered the detective, as he rose from his stooping posture, and as he did so, he came in violent oot with Murphy, who had approached quite close to the oor. “ Blazes, you’ve made my nose bleed, I believe!’ Murphy growled, ruefully rubbing his nose with his hand. light as had been the noise of the collision, it was plain that it had attracted the attention of some one within, for they could plainly hear the rustle of a woman’s dress and a light footfall moving toward the door. “* She has discovered us—Dominick’s wife, I suppose,” the detective whispered. “Better knock and see if she will open; if not, smash the lock in,” Murphy suggested. The detective gave a thundering rap at the door. No answer came from within. Again the detective beat his iron-like knuckles against the pangs but elicited no response. “ Let me try my foot at it,”’ Murphy said. ‘“ One good kick will smash the lock right in.” The detective stepped aside, and Murphy, bracing himself, dashed his foot violently against the door. The heavy sole striking jnst above the lock the door darted wide open as if by magic. Within the room George Dominick lay, extended on a bed, while Hero, his wife, stood in the center of the apartment, a cocked and leveled revolver in her hand. Both Murphy and the detective were brave men, used to facing danger in a thousand shapes ; but both hesitated when they beheld the woman. There was something in her eyes which said “ shoot,” as plainly as though the word had been spoken. Just a second or two the tableau lasted, but Dominick rais- ing his head from the pillow, and catching sight of the de tective, broke the silence. ‘‘Jjm Lane, eh?” and then with a look of despair, the wounded man sunk back again on bis bed. ‘* Sorry to trouble you, George, but I’ve come for you,” the detective said, blandly. “How do you do, Mrs. Dominick?” said Captain Murphy, persuasively, ‘‘ I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you since your marriage,” Still the woman held the leveled weapon at the poise; still the word danger was written on her face. “T suppose you understand, George, that it is useless to of fer any resistance,” the detective remarked. “Yes,” with a sullen groan. ‘ Drop your hand, Hero, dear. It’s no use making any trouble, I couldn’t run even if you winged both of these hawks.” urphy lgoked decidedly uncomfortable at the thought, | “ Have you a warrant for her too?’ George asked, as Hero quietly let down the hammer of the revolver and thrust the weapon into her pocket. ‘‘No; for you alone,” the detective replied. ‘“ We've got you this time; Mickey has given you away.” George ground his teeth together, and a groan came from his lips. An hour later and the Tombs prison held Gentleman George. < | |
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ae CHAPTER XV. NEIL JEMMISON, A QUARTER to eight, and the large and magnificent theater known as Niblo’s Garden was two-thirds full, and the people were still pouring into it, One of the managers—a dapper, plump, jolly-looking gen- Uemun with a blonde mustache—and Miss Desmond’s busi- hess agent, Medliam, stood near the bouquet-stand, in the front lobby. ‘* They are coming in pretty fast,” Medham remarked, with a look at his watch; “ it wants a quarter to ‘ ringing- up’ time.” “Yes; we've got ’’em,” the manager pie complacently, carefully twisting the ends of his well-waxed mustache. “ Friday night is a, bad. night, too; we'll have a house to- morrow night that will make you open your eyes, This isa litle different from playing in the Western barns which they Call opera-houses, isn’t it?” “Yes, rather.” “When we get a house here it means twelve hundred to two thousand dollars. Hallo, there’s the Judge—Bruyn, you know ; | introduced you to him the other night.” The Judge, with a party of three gentlemen, attended by & colored servant, was just at that moment passing through the lobby on his way to the private box that he had taken for “ Miss Desmond’s nights,” to use the booking term. The colored servant carried a large bundle, wrapped up in White paper, carefully in his hands. “ Bouquets,” suid the manager, with a laugh, referring to the parcel that the colored servant bore; ‘the Judge is a great theater-goer, but I never saw him so interested before. Medhum, my boy "—and the manager patted him softly on the back—“ there’s rigs | like a pretty woman to fetch ’em; talent is all very well, but if talent is ugly, talent won’t draw, and we run theaters to make money.” And then the manager paused in his observations to bow to an Olive-faced, well-built gentleman, dressed entirely in black, who chanced to pass, just at that moment. ‘* Hallo, who’s that?” exclaimed Medhbanm, attracted at once by the stranger. “He looks like a cross between a Spanish prince and a leading tragedian.” Do you notice what a remarkable resemblance he bears to the pictures of the Nupoleon family?” asked the manager, replying to one question by asking another. “Yes; that is what suggested the Spanish prince; he looks too deuced solemn to suit my ideas of a Frenchman.” .» ‘“He’s a wealthy New Yorker—lives up-town somewhere; I met him first, years ayo, in Paris, across the water. He was studying medicine then.” My an a doctor ?” “Yes, but he doesn’t practice, I believe; he’s enormously wealthy ; an uncle died and left him a California gold mine ; I heard the story long time ago.” “* Whut’s his name?” “ Neil Jemmison.” And leaving the manager and the agent of the “star” to watch the people coming into the theater, and to speculate as to how much money they would take that night, we will follow the ,dark-faced stranger, who moved amid the butterflies of fashion—the daintily-dressed young gentlemen with roses in their buttonholes and carefully-oiled locks parted in the center —like u very king ; not one by accident of birth, but one of the brawny-sinewed rulers of the olden time, who clutched their scepter with the strong arm and maintained it by dint of might, backed by a cunning brain. own along the right-hand lobby Neil Jemmison saun- tered, until he came to the third door from the stage. Being open, it commanded both a view of the stage and the vast auditorium, now a sea of heads. ., The orchestra had just commenced their overture, and the curtain had not yet risen. , Jemmison leaned against the side of the door and Jistlessly surveyed the “house.” We use the term in its theatrical sense meaning, not the building, but the people in it. , Andus Jemmison—the inheritor of the California gold mine, as the Chatty manager characterized it—leaned against the side of the door, cold and calm as an iceberg, two short- haired, bullet-headed young men in the lower circle opposite, dressed rather flashily and evidently in the theater strictly on business—in the Dik poss line—and not for amusement, caught sight of the tall, lithe figure framed in the open door way. “ Oh, Bob !” cried one to the other elbow, “ if there ain’t the ‘ Doctor,’ Rg pes i a postop The other took a good look and became satisfied that the dark-faced gentleman in the doorway was indeed the man who, in the slums of the East Side, had been known as “ The Doctor.” “I guess that he’s here on business too,” and then the second night- fe grinned pt ne first. he sharp eyes of the two representatives f stree had detected the truth. nom Weeee ; Neil Jemmison and the Doctor were one, The overture ended—the curtain rose, Jemmison, like the rest of the audience, turned his atten- tion to the stage. The play progressed, the story began to slowly unfold it- self, and then, after due preparation, the “star of the even- ing ” made her appearance—habited as an Indian girl, a daugh- ter of the great Comanche nation—to @ wild burst of music from the orchestra, Gentleman George. 13 A “round” of applause came from the vast audience and half a dozen bouquets fell at her feet—one elegant bouquet coming from the box on the left, occupied by Judge Bruyn and his friends. The actress bowed her thanks, gathered up her flora) trophies, and the play proceeded. Jemmison, who had sauntered into the theater for an hour’s amusement, not knowing what was to be played or who was to play it, had listened to the opening dialogue in his careless, listless way, but on the appearance of Miss Ellen Desmond his manuer had undergone a wonderful change. At first he had started and stared at the stage, and all the time that the vast audience were applauding and the actress was bowing her thanks, picking up her bouquets and de- positing them on the table whereon reposed the buffalo- tongue, the supposed product of the young Indian gir'l’s rifle, he had been rubbing his eyes and staring at the beautiful girl with her long raven tresses ; Miss Desmond wore an “ Indian wig” over her own fair locks to carry out the idea of the ae ag of the prairie. ‘* By Heaven! it is the woman, or else lam going mad!” he muttered, between his firm-set teeth. ‘“ But her hair was not as dark as that, nor as long.” Then the thought of the stage disguises came to him. “*Oh, what a fool I am; it is a wig she wears; her own brown tresses are underneath. The man who would put such a strange incident as this into a novel would be langhed at, and yet it is reality. The woman that I have searched for amid all the low haunts of crime in this great city—whom I imagined that I would find poor, depraved, a wreck of what she formerly was, flashes before me on the stage of one of the leading theaters of New York, the star of the night— the magnet which has drawn a couple of thousand people together, more beautiful, younger looking—more fascinating, more dangerous than when I first met her, some twenty years ago!’ And, by the time Jemmison had come to the end of his un spoken speech, the actress opened her mouth and spoke. f the “Doctor” had been astonished at the sight of the young and beautiful Miss Desmond, he was no less surprised when the tones of her voice fell upon his ear. Again he stared blankly at the stage, then he passed his hand over his forehead and endeavored to call back the sound of the voice of the woman, who, twenty years ago, bad been him as the guardian-angel who held ajar the gates of Para- ise. The face astounded him and the voice perplexed him. The face was familiar to him; he would have recognized it among a thousand, but the voice—if he had heard it com- ing fyom an adjoining apartment and had not seen the speaker, he would willingly have sworn that the owner of the voice was a stranger to him, ‘What can this mean?” he muttered, in agitation. “Am I mad or dreaming ?” CHAPTER XVI. THE ROSEBUD. Tux speech of the Indian girl was ended; it was a “ tell- ing” speech—stage parlance again—full of dowers, freedom —and bathos. Again the audience had signified appreciation of that sort of thing coming from a pretty woman. Jemmison was in a maze; clear, cool-headed fellow that he was, his brain was in a whirl. Again he looked upon the sweet, fresh young face of the actress—an Indian girl, white as pearly water-lily ; such little inconsistencies are the charm of the drama—and as he look- ed he was sure that it was the face of the woman who had pillowed her head upon his breast, who had been the mother of his child, but who had wedded herself to evil, and plung- ing into the world, had disappeared beneath the great life- tide as suddenly and completely as the poor wretch who seeks the dark waters of the rolling wave to find forgetfulness and rest, But when she spoke, his heart answered not to the voice ; it was the tones of a stranger that he listened to. “Years change voices as well as faces,” he muttered. “Time, that has spared her angel-face, may have worked its will upon her voice, and yet, the voice of this woman is like liquid.music. §8o, too, Lina’s voice was pleasant to the ear, but far less strong, and with a different ring to this one.” Intently Jemmison watched the progress of the play. Every look, every action of the woman he recognized, and when shyly, during the course of the scene, she withdrew herself from the embrace of her lover, the gallant young American gold-hunter—represented by a mature gentleman of forty, with the obesity of an inn-keeper, and a voice like the roar of a bass-drum—Jemmison remembered how often in the old time, before the wedding-ring had penne her finger, she had acted in a like manner with him. The coyness was a¢ting then, as now, and the dark-fated man ground his teeth violently as the thought came to him. When she was silent he was sure that the actress, Ellen Desmond, was the woman whom he had known, years before, as Lina Aton; but when she spoke, he doubted. The end of the scéne came, and the actress disappeared— amid a burst of ap lause, as usual, Then, losing all hiceruat in the mimic scene, Neil Jemmison cast his eyes to the floor and meditated.
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~ 14 Gentleman George. “Ts it, or is it not?” he muttered; like all men who are solitary in their natures, Jemmison communed much with himself. ‘ Shall I satisfy my curiosity, or, now that I am al most certain that I am face to face with the woman that I have sought, shall I pause and not convince myself?” Long he pondered over the question, but at Jast he decided. “T’ll satisfy myself?’ he said, shutting his lips firmly to- gether. ‘‘ Teaching, thorough culture, may have produced the change in the voice; besides, sometimes the voice in sing- ing sounds altogether different from the same in speaking; it may be the same effect here, I will get nearer the s'age; pane 1 shall be able to decide, if 1 am close to the foot- ights,’ emmison left his position by the door and walked through the lobby until he came to the door nearest the stage. Open- ing it, he found that he was within some twenty feet of the magic cirele of lights which guarded the realm of the buskined ueen. Four or five young men, elaborately “ got up,” with flowers, kids and perfumery, were gathered in a little knot just inside the door. Jeminison, tall and stately, clad in complete black, leaving carelessly against the side of the doorway, appeared like a prince surrounded by a train of bowing courtiers. Standing as Jemmison did, he could not help overhearing the conversation of the knowing young gentlemen who com- prised the group. “Say, Fred, did you see that bouquet that the Judge threw the little girl?” asked one of the young men, addressing the one next to him, ‘“‘T bet you!” replied the other, languidly; ‘‘it must have cost ten dollars if it cost a cent. Hang it! what chance can us fellers stand, if a swell like old Bruyn is going to enter for the race? He owns about a dozen banks. I tell you what, fellers, this chicken don’t throw away any more stamps on bouquets while that old monster over there is around.” By this time Miss Desmond was on the stage again, and Jemmison, looking over at the box opposite, attracted by the conversation that he had overheard, could not help noticing how visibly Nicholas Bruyn seemed to be impressed by. the looks or talents—or both combined—of the actress, And watching the stage closely, too, as well as the occupants of the box, Jemmison, old theater-goer as he was, could not help noticing that the pretty actress played more directly to the private box than she did to the audience in front. ‘Ts it possible that she has fascinated a man like Bruyn ?” Jemmison asked, again communing with himself. The Judge was well known to Jemmison. He knew his iron nature, and wondered that any woman could cast a spell over him, ‘It is such women as this fair-faced demon that make men ruin themselves, and then laugh at the mischief they have wrought.” Closely and carefully Jemmison watched the stage until the tableau at the end of the first act came, and the curtain de- scended. Then he went to the stand in the front lobby and procured an opera-glass. ‘“This may enable me to penetrate the illusion that art has cast around her, and to decide whether she is the woman that I think she is or not,” he muttered, as he sauntered along through the lobby to his old position. Regainitig his former station, he pondered over the memory of the past, “Tf it were not for the child, I would let the woman go,” he murmured; “but 1 can not forget the child. I must learn whether it is living or dead. True, I have this poor little waif that I-have picked out of the gutter as it were, but stil), L can ae obec until I learn the fate of the other ; and learn, it will. The music ended, the curtain rose on the second act. First came a long scene between the villain of the play, the Spanish commandante, and the guileless Mexican girl; then came Miss Desmond again, and this time amid the raven, tresses of her long hair, she wore a half-open white rosebud, evidently se- lected from one of the numerous bouquets that had been be- stowed upon her during the first act. Jemmison, who had been watching both the actress and the Judge, through his opera-glass, detected the flush of pleasure that came over the massive face of the Judge as he noticed the rosebud in the rayen hair. ‘‘He takes it as a signal to him,” Jemmison muttered, “ But is the web that this woman can weave strong enough to hold so big a fly as Judge Nicholas Bruyn ?” A question which time alone could answer. : Medbam had come round, at the end of the first act, with the cheering intelligence to Miss Desmond that there was over a tnousand dollars in the house, and he had also asked her if she had noticed that Mr. Bruyn was in the box. At which the actress had laughed and pointed significantly to the rosebud which she was weaving in amid her hair. “ From him, eh ?” Medham inquired, “Yes; do you think that I would wear it else ?” she asked, scornfully, ‘‘Ti’s a splendid idea!” the max of business exclaimed, rub- bing his hands together, gleefully. ‘‘ Every man in front that threw you a bouquet will imagine that that rosebud came from his bouquet. It’s a magnificent ideal” Then the manager withdrew, The actress felt that she had never played better ; she tried as she had never tried before; and yet, in all that vast audience, she only cared to gain the applause of one man ; and how her heart swelled with triumph as she watched his face and saw it kindle under the influence of her art, What power like acting to make a vast audience .augn or weep at bare command? And then, right in the full flush of her triumph, just as she felt that the world was at her feet, begging that her dainty slipper be placed upon its neck ; jnst as she turned away from the handsome features of the millionaire Judge, a face, so cold and stern that it chilled the life-blood in her veins, rose out of the vast sea of heads before her as distinct as though the great audience had but one face, and that face was the one that frighted her. CHAPTER XVII. A WOMAN’S DODGE. ‘Tam fright of the actress lasted but for a second, and then "her self-possession returned to her, and she went on with her speech. That brief hesitation was noticed, both by those engaged in the business of the stage and the vast audience in front, but none L baer? its cause except the dark-faced eae who leaned against the side of the doorway, motionless as a marble statue. The actress played with a strange and flery energy now, and ever and anon a hectic flame burned in her cheeks, paling the color of the vermilion with which the art of her dressing-maid had adorned her as a corrective of the yellow, ghastly glare cast by the footlights. The second act followed the first; the third the second, and then the curtain descended, vailing the face and figure of the actress, and the audience began to pour out of the thea- ter, Jemmison, still undecided and uncertain, followed the throng. Acting upon a sudden impulse, he proceeded at once to the back-door of the theater on Crosby street. A little crowd of people were hanging around the portal which gave entrance to the charmed precincts of the stage, and a close one-horse carriage was drawn op near ot The little knot of people around that back-door of the thea- ter were composed of some half-a-dozen of the young gentle- men who usually make themse.ves so conspicuous in the front of the house, and six or eight half-grown boys, the ods of the gallery, all intent upon seeing the performers in their street- clothes. Pushing his way boldly through the throng, Jemmison walked up to the door and entered the narrow passage-way which led into the interior of the building. A bluff, hearty old fellow, in shirt-sleeves, guarded the en- trance. “Ts it possible to see Miss Desmond ?” Jemmison asked. The doorkeeper surveyed the questioner for a moment ; saw at a glance that he was different from the usual run of gentle- men who besiege the back-door to see favorite actresses, and A replied that it was not possible. “Will a five-dollar bill aid me in any way?” Jemmison in- tired. “I thought that 1 recognized the lady from the ront of the theater, and I should like to satisfy myself whe- ther she is really the person I think she is or not.” “Tt’s no use my taking your money, sir,” the door-keeper said, honestly. ‘If I'were co let you go inside, you would only be turned out by the first person you met, for the would detect in an instant that you were a stranger. It would cost me my situation, too, and without doing you any good. ‘You couldn’t see Miss Desmond even if you were in- side. She’sin the dressing-room, now, and after she is dressed she will go right home in her carriage.” “Js that her carriage standing outside?” Jemmison asked. Oe BEES VO TOR) ab ‘‘] am much obliged for the information.” “Not at all, sir,” replied the door-keeper, civilly, and then Jemmison retired. Outside the door, he took ‘up a position on the curbstone near the carriage, a little apart from the knot of loungers who were watching the door. The people concerned on the stage began to issue from the back-door, and depart for their homes. First came the scene-shifters and “ fly-men”—the work- men who attend to the borders suspended over the stage, representing the sky, drapery, ete.; after them came the su- pernumeraries—the ambitious young gentlemen, who seek, in a lowly way, to gain some knowledge of the histronic art; then the ladies of the corps de ballet, one by one and two by two, ill‘paid and owe dressed, hurrying to their humble homes; then the preminent people, the actors and actresses, began to come forth; their dresses, being more elaborate, re- uired more time for their removal. Full twenty minutes Jemmison had waited and yet saw no signs of Miss Desmond, but tue carriage still remained. «As long as that stays I am safe to wait,” the watcher re tiected, as he noticed the dark forms emerging from the door, one by one. ‘ Naturally it will take her some time to dress; a half an hour is not too long a time to allow.” , And just as Jemmison had made up his mind that it would be fully ten minutes more before the woman would come for whom he waited, a bright, sharp-looking lad came out of the back-door, went up the driver of the carriage, and said something to him in a low tone, and then went back in- to the theater. .
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The man on the box of the carriage took up his reins, whistled to his horse and drove off up the street. Jemmison Was somewhat astonished at this movement. ‘She will not use the carriage to-night then,” he mut- tered; “‘that is strange. Can it be possible that she has dis- covered, in some way, that I am here, and thus seeks to throw me off the scent? By Heaven! Iam sure now that she is the woman; Ellen Desmond is Lina Aton!” Then a sudden thought occurred to him. “Perhaps she has ordered the carriage round to the front of the theater!” he exclaimed ; “ that is easily ascertained!” So, without loss of time, Jemmison hurried round to Broad- way. Two or three carriages stood in front of the hotel and near to the entrance of the theater, but a single glance told Jemmi- son that the vehicle he sought was not among them ; all were two-horse coaches; the modest little one-horse cowpe of the actress was not there. “T am outwitted!” Jemmison muttered, as he stood in front of the now dark and desolate theater entrance; ‘‘ but, the very precaution that she has taken to avoid me proves that uiy suspicion is correct. She is the woman that I think slie is. The whole proceeding is strange; she must have discovered that I was in frout of the house and anticipated that I would distover and lay in wait for her. I swore té het once that, if she ever played me false, I would kill her with as little mercy as though she was a snake coiled in my path with head upraised to strike. Perhaps she remembers my words and fears that I will attempt to make them good,” aud, as he spoke, Jemmison laughed bitterly to himself. _ His meditations were disturbed by the irruption of some half a dozen young men from the saloon attached to the aotel, They gathered on the pavement right in front of him and Jemmison discovered that it was the same party who had sat in front of him in the theater. It wus plainly evident the young meh had been drinki more strong liquor than was good for them, and that theif weak heads were now in a sad state. “Tam done for, Gus!” exclaiined one of them, who seem- ed to be a sort of leading spirit, and who was elaborately at- tiréd in a costume of which a light yellow overcoat and & red necktie were the leading features. “ My goose is cooked !” The tone of the gentleman with the red necktie was des- pairing in the extreme. ‘ But is it a sure nuff fact, Fred?” demanded another, who We endeavoring to steady himself by the aid of a cane about as big round as a lead-pencil. ou can bet stamps on it!” replied the first speaker, em- ‘phatically. “*Oh, I loved her and she might have been the happiest in the land, ig away with Bruyn the lawyer, who came with a German howled the youth, dis¢ordantly and disconsolately. a name of Bruyn attracted Jemmison’s attention to the muudlin atterances Of the devotees of fashion. “ Wlio'saw her go, attyway ?” asked another of the party, who was holding up the bill-board in front of the saloon with the ‘smal! of his back; and whi, by this simple device, was ena- bled to preserve a very upright carriage. “T saw it, myself,” said the red necktie gentleman. “I came to the door here; after that first cocktail, while you fel- lers were chinnin’ it inside, and I saw old Bruyn and Palmer talking together, and then Medham—that’s Miss Desmond’s pe an know—cume out and joined them. I heard him , ‘ Wait a minute, she’s’ nearly dressed,’ and then he went in again. Oh, gents, when I heard that, and saw that old thief of a lawyer waiting for the woman that I was willing to lavish ‘all’ nity salary on, I felt as if I would have liked to putich his head for him: I stood right here, gents, and saw the woman that I adore get into a carriage with Bruyn and Palmer, and that sneak of a businéss-agent who promised me af introduction to hur, and saw 'em go off—heard old Bruyn tell the coachman to drive ’em to the Maison Doree.” CHAPTER XVIII. THE SUPPER. As the curtain touched the stage and the actress rose from the mimic couch of death, whereon the Indian girl had yield- ed up her life to the deadly bullet of the Spanish comman- dante, she found Medham awaiting her at the wing. He followed the exhausted girl to her dressing-room where the a was in attendance. Miss Desmond sunk down breathlessly into a chair. “ Splendid !” exclaimed Mediram, enthusiastically, “I never saw you act better than you did to-night. We'll get ’em to-morrow night. I wouldn’t take fifteen hundred dollars cash down for the house this minute. Don’t you remember, 1 told you when you were playing in those beastly little one- horse towns; to fifty dollars a night, that the time would come when we'd pull ’em to the tune of a thousand? and after this engagement we can sweep the whole country, my dear; these donkeys of managers will change their note now. I tell you what it is, loveliest of your sex, there’s nothing in this world 80 successful as success.” “Oh, Iam tired,” the actress murmured, as she removed the raven wig from her head, exposing her own golden Gentleman George. 15 ‘Palmer is delighted ; he declared that business will still better next week. He’s going to put out two thousane extra sheets of printing Saturday night, and [ve engaged three men to go and chalk your name on the pavements all over the city, so that when New York wakes up Sunday morning it will see nothing but the name Desmond staring them in the face.” The lip of the actress curled in contempt. ‘Tf I am as talented and attractive as they say I am,I do not see why the people will not come to see me without alt this advertising.” ‘* You've got to do it, my dear; you can’t hide your light under a bushel, now-a-days, and expect people to see it. Placard on every dead wall, and in every newspaper, that Miss Ellen Desmond is the greatest actress that ever was or ever will be, and two-thirds of the people who come into the theater, and pay for coming, will be perfectly satisfied that she 78, vefore the curtain goes up and they see her at all. The people who pay come to be amused, and it doesn’t take much to please them, either; and as for the critics, they are a set of donkeys who wouldn’t know guod acting if they saw it.” Miss Desmond laughed ; she knew the business manager’s contempt for the men whom‘he so cleverly used to advance his own interests. ‘“‘ Well, I’ll say what I’came to say, and then get out and let you dress,” continued Medham. ‘Mr. Palmer presents his compliments to you and would like to have the pleasure of pout company at a little supper as soon as you are ready ; and 1e would like also to present to you an esteemed friend of his, Judge Bruyn, if you have no objections.” The eyes of the actress flashed, and the hot breath came quick and strong from the parted lips. ‘* The Judge will make one of the party, then?” she asked. ‘‘ Yes; there will only be Palmer, the Judge, and myself.” “T will go, of course!” she exclaimed, with quick decision. “T tell you it’s a clear case,” and Medham winked at the actress, “If you play your cards well, it will be the mose successful engagement of your life,” ‘*Do you think so?” Absently she spoke, and the fair brow was clouded over with thought. Little did the business agent, Almer Medham, know in re gard to the past life of the actress, Ellen Desmond. “T’ll tell Palmer that you will come as soon as you are dressed, Do you want the carriage to go home in? You can have it as we as not?” Medham addressed the negress. ‘* No, tank you, Massa Medham; I’d rather walk,” the ser- vant replied. “ All right; I’ll send the carriage off, then. The Judge has his own vehicle outside, two stunning blacks, gold-mounted harness, and all that sortof thing. I'll tell Palmer that you'll go and then come back after you.” Medham withdrew. With the assistance of the negress, Miss Desmond proceeded to discard her fanciful Indian dress and array herself in a walking-garb. Plain and dark was the suit, a somber contrast to her own bright beauty. Dressed within fifteen minutes from the time that Medham had left, on opening the door of her dressing-room, she found that that gentleman was in attendance. Together the two proceeded through the now deserted theater to the front of the house, where the manager and the Judge were waiting in the vestibule. ith the urbane gallantry so characteristic of him, the manager introduced the actress to Judge Bruyn. Modestly, with quiet retirement, Miss Desmond acknow ledged the Judge's expressions of pleasure at making her ac- quaintance, And as the little party passed from the vestibule of the theater to the carriage in waiting, at the curbstone, the Judge got a good look at the features of the actress. If Miss Des- mond had appeared beautiful on the stage, amid the glare of the gas and the illusion of the surroundings, she looked fully as pretty in the dim light shining from the gas-lamps of the street, and clad as she was now in a simple walking-dress, un- relieved even by a single glare of color. Only a few words of conversation were exchanged during the short ride to the famous restaurant. * But at the Maison Doree, in a private room, with a delight- ful supper spread upon the table, and the sparkling cham- pagne passing freely, the ice of reserve soon melted away, and the conversation became general. The actress, modest and retiring in her manner, charmed the Judge fully as much with her remarks as with her beauty. Wit and govd sense were skillfully blended in Miss Des- mond’s conversation. Bruyn felt that he was becoming deeply interested in the beautiful girl; there was a fascination about her which he could not understand. As he looked back over the record of his life he could not remember to have ever met a more charm- ing woman. And yet, strange to say, at the very moment that he was most enjoying the society of the beautiful and sensible girl, there came over him a peculiar sort of feeling; he could not understand it, could not explain it; could assign no reason for its coming, no reason for itsstay. It was like a nervous sort of apprehension—not exactly of danger; in fact, he could not tell what he apprehended, and finally he made up his mind that he was jealous—jealous that any one else might attempt to claim’ the thoughts of the fair woman, whose face seemed like a truthful crystal mirror whereon faith and goodness alone could shine,
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15 \ Gentleman George. 13 hour of mirth and socia? chat, and the supper was ended. Never had an hour passed more pleasantly. As the party rose to depart, the Judge gallantly assisted Miss Desmond to don the light sack which she wore, and trusted that it would not be the last time that he should have the pleasure of meeting her. With great modesty, Miss Desmond thanked the Judge for his kindness, whispered how grateful she was for his kindly words, but said no more. Bruyn was disappointed ; he expected that the actress would have invited him to call. Again he felt the strange sensation creep over him, and this time he was sure that it was jeal- ousy. As the party crossed the sidewalk to enter the carriage again, @ man stalked so near the actress that he could have touched her. The face of Miss Desmond turned pale, and her eyes flashed, The man was Neil Jemmison, the “ Doctor.” CHAPTER XIX IN THE TOMBS. LrGaL business took Judge Bruyn down to the Tombs prison on the next morning afver the supper with Miss Des- mond, the actress. The Judge saw the party whom he had come to visit, and held a long conversation with him. It was a ward-gang leader who had got into the stern clutches of the law fora little playfulness with a stranger, passing by night through the “ stamping-grounds” of the aforesaid politician, The result of the interview between Tim Driscol—the ward leader—and the guileless man from New Jersey, was that the stranger lost his watch and pocket-book, and got a choking which forcibly conveyed to him an idea of what strangulation consisted. Tim, retreating in triumph with the spoils of war, had been unfortunate enough to run into the arms of a policeman, ‘and that blue-coated worthy had conveyed the valiant Tim to the Tombs, not without a struggle on the part of the ‘ ward light, though, as the uniform of the policeman, and a chawed-up finger could testify ; but a free use of the locust club had soon taken the fight out of Tim, and he had been run into the Tombs in an extremely demoralized manner. Tim had sent instantly for Judge Bruyn. He had some little claim on the Judge for services rendered. on election- day. The Judge had listened to Tim’s story and had qnietly in- formed him, after he had got through, that he thought ‘the chances were just about a hundred to one that he would have a chance to do the State some service at Sing Sing. Tim listened in holy horror, and his short thick hair almost stood upright at the Judge’s words, “ Sure, ; udge, dear, ye won’t be after lettin’ °em send me up the river ?” he exclaimed. “ Why, Judge, don’t ye remember your last ‘lection? I was worth two hundred votes to yees, in one ward, that day !” ‘Tam noton the bench now, Tim, and you don’t seem to understand that things are changed from what they were.” “Sure, you kin bail me out, Judge—get some of the byes to g° me security, an’ then I’ll hop the bond,” Tim cried, anx- usl ously. «Can't be done, Tim,” the Judge announced, decidedly ; “can’t run in straw-bail :* in the old time. I don’t think they will admit you to bail at all. They won't, if the man you went through appears to prosecute you.” “44 fh, the unhung villain !” exclaimed Tim, in righteous in- dignation; “sure, I only choked him till he was black in the face. Bedad! he couldn’t make more fuss about it if I had kilt him outright!” ““The only way to do is to hire this fellow not to prosecute; but then there’s the assault on the officer.” “The murdering thafe !” exclaimed Tim ; “ sure, if it hadn’t ‘a’ bin that he hit me forninst the nose wid his club, I'd have bate the divil out of him.” “The district attorney may take it into his head to make ar example of you,” the Judge suggested. ‘But, Judge, dear, you can run me out of it,” the ruffian persisted, persuasively. “Get me out, Judge, and I'll do any thing you pl’ase for you, from stuffin’ a ballot-box to stick- in?’aman. Sure, ye know, ye might have an inimy wan of these days, an’ it would be mighty handy to have a dacint bye like meself to bate him for you.” ‘* Well, Tim, if I can do any thing for you I'll do it for the old time, not for favors to come, although I'll bear in mind what you've just said.” “ You know I’ll live up to it, Judge,” the rough said. “I’m a man of me word; divil a man breathes that I iver promised a b’ating to that he didn’t get it, unless maybe he gave the b’ating to me,” added truthful Tim, thoughtfully. \ “ Who saw your fight with the officer ? “4 whole crowd, an’ there wasn’t a mother’s son of 'em had the dare to give the ‘cop’ a whack in the back for me,” asserted the ruffian. “IT suppose that you can bring plenty of witnesses to swear that the officer struck you first and that you were only de- ae yourself against his attacks?” ventured the wily ndge. ““Troth an’I can!” replied Tim, promptly. “T can f the names of twenty byes that will swear to any thing you hk provided that you tell them beforehand what you want them to swear to.” “ We can arrange that all right,” the Judge said, thought- fully. ‘‘I guess we can get at the Jerseyman and buy him off.” If he does not appear to prosecute, by bringing a cloud of witnesses we may be able to lighten up the charge of assault- ing the officer. By the way, who got the worst of the af- air?” “Sure, an’ I did,” said the ruffian, ruefully ; “the divil of a p’liceman used tbe club on me. It’s black an’ blue I am from the crown of me head to the sole of me fut. I only tore his clothes; 1, was drunk at the time, or I would have warmed him so that his own sargeant wouldn’t have known him—the murderin’ thafe!” ‘“You had better let the police alone in future,” the Judge suggested, dryly, and with a shrewd smile. “Faith an’ L will,” returned the rough, promptly; “ the next time, I'll lay for em behind a corner, wid a thunderin’ big brick in me fist.” ‘Of course you understand that I can not appear in your case in person, at all, but I will see that you have a good law- yer, and I’ll have the witnesses come to my office and ask them a few questions, about what they know of the affair.” “Put the question the right way, Judge, an’ they’ll say yes to every one. It’s familiar with courts they are; sorra 8 wan of them that hasn’t been on trial a dozen, times at laste. Sure, if 1 hadn’t ran into the arms of the peeler, bein’ blind drunk ty wate all the byes would have sworn that I wasn’t there at , at all. ; “T’}] do what I can for you,” the Judge said, rising. “I guess we can pull you through.” “They’ve set the trial for to-morrow, Judge ; it’s to railroad me into State Prison, bad ’cess to ’em!” “ We'll try and switch you off on another track,” replied Judge Bruyn, with a grim smile. “Keep a still tongue in your head.’ And with this parting admonition the lawyer left the cell. As he walked along the corridor, he happened to glance down to the open space below, and saw a female form, clad in a dark walking-suit, passing across the courtyard, The Judge recognized the woman in an instant. Tt was Miss Ellen Desmond, the actress, with whom he had supped on the previous evening! Bending over the railing, the Judge saw that she was alone, and from the direction in which she was going, guessed that she was about to leave the building, hat could bring the young and pretty actress to the Tombs? Not curiosity, surely, for in that case she would be attended by an escort. ; At the head of the stairway, Bruyn met the warden of the prison. Returning his salutation, the Judge proceeded to in- quire regarding Miss Desmond. “The lady in a. dark: walking-suit, with blonde hair? Ah, es! I know her,” the warden answered; ‘‘she is an actress iss Desmond, playing at Niblo’s Garden now.” ** Yes, I recognized her, and was somewhat astonished a seeing her here.” _ “ She comes to see one of the prisoners.” “Indeed!” The Judge was again astonished. “ Yes, George Dominick—Gentleman George.” ** Never heard of him.” ‘‘Iv’s the first time that he has ever been arrested. He’s an old offender though; bank-robber; a handsome, dashy fel- low, perfect gentleman in appearance.” “ Did he send for Miss Desmond?” _ “Yes; we only got him night before last; he’s got an ney wound in the shoulder,._He sent a note to Miss Desmo this morning, and in two hours after she.was here.” * That’s rather strange |” “Oh, no; he’s a handsome fellow, and she probably don’t know what.a scamp he is,” rr ‘i F The warden passed on, leaving Bruvn white with rage and jealousy. ‘CHAPTER XX. GEORGE’S VISITOR. A NARROW prsamesls held Gentleman George within ite confines, scantily furnished but scrupulously clean. George lay extended upon the narrow bed. His eyes were closed as if in sleep, but the convulsive move ment of the muscles of the mouth told that he was not in the, embrace of the drowsy god, but wide awake and muttering to himselt. “Will she come?” _, ; : Thrice at least he put the question at intervals. : It was the same old story—old since the world was young. The eastern king who claimed that a woman was at the bot- tam of all mischief in this world, was not so far wrong, after **She must come!” he declaimed, with fierce and flery ut- terance, opening his eyes suddenly and staring wildly around him as though he expected to see the face of the woman of whom he spoke, gazing at him from some dark corner of the prison-cell. “She will not. dare to refuse to come,” he mut- tered, defiantly, after quite a long ppnee “She is bold and reckless enough, but she will not dare to provoke me.,
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» > Gentleman George. 17 knows me too well, and she has a wholesome dread of my wrath, cunning and desperate as she is. Let me see,” and then the prisoner pulled the ends of his long, blonde mus- tache in a thoughtful manner. ‘“ She will receive my note by noon, then it will take her an hour or so to reflect whether to obey or not. She will think the matter over, see that the consequences attending a refusal may be very unpleasant, and decide that it is better to be my friend than to pro- voke my enmity, and then will come; so I may expect her about three or four o’clock this afternoon.” And, with this ae era Gentleman George turned over restlessly on his side. The imprisoned man was lying on the outside of the bed, fully dressed, with the exception of his coat which lay on the little stool at the head of the bed. As he turned upon the bed, he felt a sudden, sharp twinge of pain shoot through his shoulder, and was thus abruptly reminded of his wound. “Curse the scratch |!” he muttered, fretfully; ‘I wish that I knew the name of that doctor that Hero brought the other night. The fellow had a touch as light asa feather. If I knew where he could be found I would send for him to at- tend to this matter. I hate the very sight of these police surgeons.” And then, speaking the name of his wife, brought up a new chain of ideas. ‘It wonld be cursed awkward if Hero and this woman should meet!’ he said, musingly ; ‘‘it would be apt to put me in a precious hobble. ero, patient as she is, would be apt to make a terrible row, and as for the other one, she would only be too glad of an excuse to throw me. I must take care that neither one surprises the other here. By Jove! between the two women, I should suffer. Hero already has a suspicion that she has a rival, and I must be careful that she does not succeed in proving the suspicion to be truth.” The entrance of one of the prison officials interrupted the meditations of the prisoner. “A lady wishes to see you, Mr. Dominick,” the man an- nounced, The heart of Gentleman George gave agreatleap. His mes- sage had been promptly answered. What sort of a looking woman is she?” he asked, in gare & careless manner, as if it was but an indifferent mat- ik Rather smallish in size, light hair.” “ Well, I suppose that I may as well see her,” Dominick said, rising to a sitting posture, perfectly satisfied that the visitor was the one he had expected. As Let her come up then?” the official questioned. Yes; and, by the way, if it is not asking too much, can you arrange it so that if any one else should come to see me ret lady is here, they will not come up until she is “ Oh, certainly,” the officer replied; “‘ that is simple enough. I will leave word down-stairs that you are engaged for the present and do not wish to be disturbed.” “Thanks; I shall be very much obliged if you will have the kindness to do so; and if my lawyer should happen to come—I don’t expect him until one or two o’clock though Para that 1 shall not be engaged long, and request him alt, “All right; what lawyer is it ?”’ y Counselor Watt.” The ’ Three-decker ? I know him. I'll attend to it for you. And with this assurance the official withdrew. Aha!” cried Gentleman George, gleefully, as the cell door closed after the officer; “there’s no chain in the world 80 picong as fear; boasted love is a silken thread compared to it. er prompt compliance with my request proves that I still possess my old power over her.” Within a minute, the prison official returned, accompanied by Ellen Desmond, the actress. The officer politely conducted the lady into the cell and then withdrew. Miss Desmond was dressed very plainly, as indeed was usual with her, but the dark dress only seemed to enhance her wondrous beauty. She stood just within the cell, looking at the man whom she had come to visit with a face that was as expressionless as a Waxen mask. George rose gallantly from the bed and advanced to her with outstretched hand, “ You are very prompt indeed!” he exclaimed, as he took the thin, white hand within his own; ‘‘ permit me to thank you for your kindness.” The cold hand that he clasped so tightly seemed like a norveless piece of flesh rather than the hand of a fresh, young woman. ‘““My farniture is rather scanty here,” he continued, with a glance around at the narrow prison cell, “ but it is the fashion of this hotel. You have your choice between the bed and the stool for a seat; which will you have ?” “The side of the bed will do,” she said, coldly and quietly. George retreated backward a few steps, and Miss Desmond, without further remark, seated herself upon the foot of the low bed. Then George brought the stool and sat down by her side. ‘* Here at your feet, as in the old time,” he said, with a ten- der expression in his voice; a trick which was utterly lost upon the cold and unimpressible Miss Desmond, as she Only curled her lip and looked at him in the most disdainful man- ner. George watched her for a moment and then burst into s loud laugh. : “ Sentiment 1s thrown away upon you, eh?” he said. “Yes,” she replied, cold as an iceberg; ‘“‘I should thing that you would know me better than to attempt to treat me as a child or a sentimental school-girl.” “You do not believe in the ‘ old time,’ then?” “No; what is past, is past; let it rest,” she answered. ‘“Tt was pleasant, though,” he said, reflectively. “The end was not pleasant,” she retorted, quite bitterly. The prisoner looked at her curiously for a moment. “That remark, I suppose, was not intended to be compli- mentary to me,” was the prisoner’s half-serious remark. Miss Desmond looked the prisoner straight in the eyes, her face a face of wax as far as any expression was concerned, but she did not reply. “Am I right qn my conjecture ?” he asked. “JT should think that your own heart would be able tc answer that question without the necessity of referring to me,” she replied, very coolly and very calmly. i “And you have not the highest possible opinion of me?” he continued, “You are quite right in that,” was the calm response. “ And yet you came prompt y at my request.” - Bobet} am willing to forget the wrong you have done me, and desire to aid you if I can.” “And that is the reason, eh?” George said, a peculiar ex- pression upon his face. “Yes, what other reason should there be ?” she demanded, her manner a decided contrast to what it had been. ; “T’ll tell you what the other reason is,” he returned, his bold, blue eyes fixed aeseoee on the face of the woman. “You are afraid that I shall publish to the world the relation- ship that existed between Miss Ellen Desmond, the popular actress, who is nightly filling one of the largest theaters in the country with an overcrowed audience, that goes away raving of the youth, beauty and talent that they have seen, and George Dominick, better known to police officials as Gen- tleman George, the bank-robber, confidence-man and thorough- paced scoundrel—the man who lives by his wits and trades on the weakness of human nature, who believes that ‘ property is robbery,’ and acts on that motto,” OHAPTER XXII, THE REQUEST. Wrrn a cold and quiet face the woman listened to the speech of the prisoner—a speech which vailed a threat, and vailed it so thinly that she had no difficulty in discovering it. The face was calm, expressionless, except that there was a latent gleam of fire in the eyes. “Perhaps you do me injustice?” she half queried. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed; “Iam quite sure that I am cor- rect when I say you simply come to see me for fear I should speak ; for fear 1 should tell the world that Miss Ellen Des- mond, the favorite actress, the sparkling, brilliant dramatic star, who bids fair to reign as a very queen in the Thespian world, has stood in a very intimate relation with the wounded River Rat, who occupies room 40 in the well-known hotel commonly called the Tombs.” *Do +s judge all the world by yourself?” she asked, sar- castivally. ‘That is quite a sharp reply, isn’t it?” he retorted, disdain- fully; ‘‘ like a skillful move in chess, you attack me while you defend Somes But, to answer ny question, I may not judge all the world by myself, but 1 do judge you. I think that I know you. You area woman andl ama man, but there is precious little difference in our disposition. I did not believe that there was a person in the world so like myself until I met you.” “ You think, then, that if our fortunes were reversed—if it was I who occupied the prison cell and you who was follow- ing a successful career and joying in the triumphs of the world, it would be fear alone that would make you own that there had ever been aught in common between us two ?” “ Yes,” he replied, quickly and decidedly. “You are worse than I thought you,” she said, coldly and contemptuously. ‘‘No, more honest than you thought me. I do not wear a mask in the presence of a confederate, and try to make her believe in the trick that has deceived the world. Iam what the world calls a bold, bad man. If there is a hereafter, and men are punished there for the deeds done in the flesh, the chances are that I shall suffer. But, if my theory be correct, that when we die we die, and there all ends, the future will trouble me but very little.” “Ido not suppose that you sent for me to discuss such an abstruse subject,” she suid, betraying decided tones of 1m- patience. ‘IT had forgotten how distasteful such subjects are to you,” he replied, with a light laugh. ‘‘ You are like a child in the dark, who buries his head under the bed-clothes and thinks by the act to shut out the sight of the hobgoblins which exist only in his fancy. You wourt stab aman with your ~ eyes shut, and then afterward try and persuade yourself = you had not done the deed, because you did not see the ow.”
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18 Gentleman George. ‘You are very complimentary,” an ominous light in her dark eyes. ff “T am only trying to make you see yourself as you reall are, or, to: speak more, correctly, to make, you own, the truth that you: know.” “ Letius» stop the discussion!” she exclaimed, impatiently; “it will not benefit you nor’profit me. You sent for me and I have come. ‘Now: then, what do you wish ?” “ Money,” returned’ Gentleman George, laconically. “T presumed «is:much,” “J amin a hole, and I need assistance to get out of it.” “ The expedition that you had in prospect when I met you in Market street was a failure, then?” ‘* Yes; did you read the account in the newspapers of a fight between some of the river-thieves and) the Harbor Po- lice, in which one, of the policemen. was shot and dangerously wounded ?” “T never read any thing in the newpapers but the theatrical articles,” she answered, ‘Well, there: was a row on the river, and one of the me- tropolitans came pretty near,.receiving his passport to the Other world.) ' vs “ And you shot the man, I suppose ?” ‘*[litell you that»better after I hear the evidence,” he re- plied, laughing, ».‘‘ But.one thing I can tell you, and that is that] have got an ugly wound in, my shoulder, and it is not over and above pleasant.” “ Whiat,a pity/that the. police didn’t send the ball through your heart,” she continued, with scornful, accent. “ Well, that is a‘ nice speech.for you to make,” he was constrained; to; say, just.a little staggered at the coolness of the woman. ‘*T speak exactly as I think,” she replied, calmly, .‘‘ You made arfew remarks.a litue while ago about wearing masks and concealing thoughts; I trust that, you will do me, the jus- tice now. to believe that I Go, not wear a mask to you, and that I speak freely the thoughts that are in my mind,” * And yet, only a few minutes back it appeared to me that you were trying to persuade me that some other motive than fear of what might huppen, if you ‘refused to come, had made you obey iny wish so promptly.” » the isos ““Tt- was /not fear that! made me come,” she replied; ‘it was a wish to serve you if I could?) » aon bare ' dor “Then why do you say that it was a pity I was not shot through the heart instead of the shoulder ?” he demanded, in some little astonishments ~-- “Have you never met with some poor, unfortunate mor- tal, afflicted in such a way that involuntarily you have ex- claimed that death wouldbe a blessing?’ she asked. ‘* Oh, that’s the idea, is it?” he exclaimed, making a wry lace. “I am so utterly bad ‘that the best office a friend can perform for me is to. wish me dead, eh,?” re MOB “Did it ever occur to you that, you are in about the same boat—that, when Old Nick down below picks outa particularly hot corner of his realm for my abiding-place, a similar spot will be reserved for you ?” ‘¢ Whatever evil deeds I may have committed, I have tried to alone; for them by sincere repentance; besides, I have not sinned against the world one-tenth part as much as the world has sinned. against me,” she answered, with much feeling. ‘That is the cant of the Pharisee,’ George retorted, con- temptuously, . ‘Sin until the eleventh hour, then repent and be. saved; ‘I am not wicked by nature, I am, only what the cruel world has made me.’ Bah! I have no patience with such pretenses. I fight the humans who are more fortunate than I in worldly wealth, because I think that I have a right to fight them, ‘The Wall street broker made his money by gambling in stocks, cheating by means of lying reports, robbing by pushing weaker men than himself to the wall, precisely the same as the foot-pad who throttles his victim until he gives up his money. The merchant robs. his cus- tomers, tricks them in measure and in quality; the manufac- turer grinds down his hands, produces his goods at starvation wages to them, and literally coins his money out of their life- blood, Ifit is a sin to rob these.men, then I am a sinner, and on my head be my deeds. But, now to business; as I have told you, 1 am in a hobble, and I want some money.” “ How much ?” “That depends entirely upon what you can spare. I don’t want to rob you; the world has gone badly with me for some time past, or I should not have had to trouble you ; but once I am free from this difficulty the fiend will be in it, if I do not_ make up for lost time. The police think they have got a strong case against me, for one of the River Rats—the actual leader of the gang, too—has turned State’s evidence and they expect on his testimony to convict me.” “ Willa hundred dollars be enough?” she asked. ‘‘For the present, yes; but is that all you can spare? Mind, this is only a loan; I will pay it back to you, and with compound interest if you like, within thirty days after I am free from this den.” ‘No; I can let you have four hundred more by Saturday.” “That will be quite enough to see me through,” George said, gleefully. The woman rose, walked toward the door, then turned abruptly. “ George, it is not pleasant to have the thought coming to me every now and then that I am in fetters,” she said, slowly. “ You wish me to free you, then ?” he asked. “ Yes.’’ “Tam agreeable,” he said, carelessly; ‘‘the matter can be arranged easily enough. I'll send the proper man to you.” “When ?” ; ‘* As soon as I am out of this scrape; it won’t be long; be patient.” ‘‘ Have I not been patient?” the woman asked; a world of meaning in her voice; then'she said ‘*good-by,” and departed, CHAPTER. XXII. THE THREE-DECKER. GrorGE seemed like a different man after his visitor's de parture. | The restless, impatient creature who, stretched upon the bed, had so closely calculated upon the time when his request,,should be fulfilled, was now a joyous hopeful aspirant for freedom. a ‘Aha!’ he cried aloud, rubbing his hands together, “ the quewa of war are provided; now to make a good fight for iberty.” ni Then the thought came to himof the man who had so basely betrayed him to the authorities. “Curse that Mickey Shea!” he exclaimed, grinding his teeth ; “ [ll be even with him for this job. If it had not been for him I should never ‘have been »mixed 4 in the affair at all,, Let me once get out of these ugly walls, and [P’}) square the account with the cowardly hound. It serves me right, though,” he muttered, ‘‘ for allowing re fom to have anything to do with such beggarly beasts. If 1 had» but waited and bided my time, some good fat operation might: have fallen in my way; some job where | might have turned up thirty or fifty thousand dollars at a single stroke, instead of that paltry sum that I did get. There's one consolation, though, I’ve got the diamonds, and néither Mickey Shea nor his cut-throat gang shall ever receive a single cent from them.” Again the cell-door opened and the officer appeared, con ducting a tall, portly man with a double-chin and a fat face; aman of huge dimensions and of solid tread.’ This was the celebrated criminal lawyer, Counselor Watt, better known, perhaps to the frequenters of the ‘Tombs police court by the appellation of the “'Three-Decker,” the name probably be- stowed on him from his resemblance in size to the frigates of the walls of-oak period. And, in reality, the counselor, in his ponderous way, sailed about amid the lesser lights of the var- jous court-rooms' much'as a three-deck war-vessel of the Na- poleon time would have sailed amid a fleet of merchantmen that she had been detailed to protect. Counselor Watt practiced solely in the criminal court: A man really of decided talent in the law, and well versed in every trick and quibble possible in a desperate case, he was the first lawyer retained when any leading “‘ operator” in the art of getting-money-without-working-for-it fell into trouble, and was “ gathered in” by the blue-coated metropolitans. To use the expression common to both thieves and lawyers —no disreapect intended to either profession by bringing them in such close conjunction—in regard to the learned, dignified, and ponderous counselor, ‘‘ What Lawyer Watt didn’t know about the law wasn’t worth knowing.” ‘*Here’s the counselor,” the officer said, introducing him and then withdrawing. “ How are you, George?” said the lawyer, nodding famili- arly to the imprisoned man and helping himself to the stool standing by the side of the bed. Gentleman George and the lawyer were well acquainted, although this was the first time that the former had been in durance vile, and required the professional aid of the disciple of Coke and Blackstone, but he had employed the lawyer on aoe of friends of his who had fallen under the law’s stern ar. “Pretty well, considering,” replied the prisoner. ‘* Well, they’ve got you at last,” said Watt, caressing his fat cnin in a thoughtful kind of way. M bd os I’m a caged bird now,” George admitted, with a light augh. “Tt doesn’t seem to trouble you much,” “No; why should it?” “ A weak case aginst you, eh?” “ No; on the contrary, a very strong case.” ‘* Ah,” and the lawyer looked wise. ‘“ What’s the trouble?” ‘* Did you read the account of the robbery of the diamonds from the captain of the English liner, the Golden Dragon ?” ‘* Yes—a v-e-r-y n-€-a-t job,” replied the lawyer, slowly. “Tf you remember the account published in the newspapers, after the thieves got away with the plunder, one of the harbor police-boats happened to come up and gave chase to the Rats, and a as the police got within range, one of the thieves put a bullet into the bow-oar of the police-boat, and in the confus- ion occasioned by that, the Rats managed to pull into the foy and get away.” ‘** Yes, 1 remember all about it,” the lawyer rejoined; “ but how are you mxed up in the affair?” “ They say that I am the man who shot the policeman.” The counselor gave a low whistle of astonishment, “Well, now, that & a serious churge,” he remarked; “ but, George, my boy, an accusation of that kind will be pretty hard to sustain.” “The government has got a pretty good witness,” George suggested, quietly, ‘Who? ‘*The nian who sat next to me in the boat and saw me fire the shot.”
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_—— po Counselor Watt looked astonished at this statement “ **One of the fellows has given you away, then ?” “ Just so.” © “CW lint reason ?” “None that I know of,” George replied. ‘I suppose the police shadowed and pounced on him, and to save himself he ‘squenled ? on me.” * Pretty tough witness.” * We'can get over him, though.” * Well, bays = really I must be honest with you. It seems to me that the fellow’s testimony will be hard to shake,” the counselor was constrained to say. “Suppose IT bring two people who will swear that at the time this’ affray took place t was ina certain place with them ?”? | The lawyer shook his head doubtfully. * My dear ‘George, an alibi i8 the best thing in the world to clear'® man, provided the witnesses can stand a rigid cross- examination ; but if the evidence-is no first-class it’s a risky thing to try.” oon “My witnesses can stand it,” George said, Sn PAY “Ah, in'that. case it will do to work it.” Then the lawyer stroked his chin thoughtfully for a few minutes. “The night was dark, I suppose ?” “ Yes.” ‘* None of the police could swear to you ?” ‘* Not one of them.” ‘HOw’ are you Off for money ?” “ Five pancved to a thousand at command.” we “T guess we ‘can pull you through if we’re lucky,” the souns¢lor announced, quite confidently, ‘* This witness for the governinént is ‘a pretty hard case, I suppose?” “Mickey Shea; you know him.” ““And Mickey has. gone back on a friend, eh? Well, I wouldn’t have believed it,” and the Three-Decker shook his head, gravely. , “ You kuow Mickey pretty well, don’t you—you know how pe he has escaped Sing Sing ?” : “Yes, I think Iam posted,” the counselor responded, with a knowing wink of bis left eye. “Don’t you think you can use Mickey up on @ cross-exam- ination?” ag ““Tthink I’ cat,” Watt replied, after due deliberation. “After I get through with my esteemed friend; Mr. Shea, I think both Judge and Jory will be of the opinion that, to hang a “yaller-dog’ on his testimony would only be the grossest murder.” ‘ “The policeman is pretty badly hurt, but they aay he is BAK danger. 1 got a ball in the shoulder myself, in the 2 hapa I De “The deuce you did !” exclaimed the lawyer ; ‘‘ that will be an ra point to get over,” ; ‘‘ Not at all, Dhave thought of a way.” , * Géor, , you ought to go into the legal profession!” ex- tlaimed the ponderous man of the courts, in admiration; “ you a ees dodges?» usihed ‘Thank you; Iam a big enough rogue now,” the prison- bird'replied, Intighing, | oe BNC NOM The lawyer smiled good-naturedly. : " ae now to return to our matters; our defense is a general enial,” “Exactly ; and) delay trial’ all you can. Mickey may be reached.” There was a menace in the speech. ‘“ All right,” and the counselor rose as he spoke; “ be care- ful, and don’t do any thing rash; cover up your tracks well. I'll be in' to-morrow, and we'll discuss the subject more fully.” And then’ the Three-Decker departed. . $e CHAPTER XXIII. A WIFE’S DEVOTION, Harpy had phe ponders form of the lawyer disappeared before the prison- officer stuck his head in at the cell door, and announced that another lady wished to see Gentleman George. George anticipated who his visitor was. “Show her up, please,” he said; and then, as the official withdrew, he muttered: “ She came within an ace of surpris- ing the other one here; then there would have been a pretty ket- tle of fish; but a miss is as good as a mile.” George cast himself carelessly upon the bed, and waited for the lady to make her appearance; that it was his wife he had no doubt. - - His guess was correct; it was Hero whom the officer con- ducted into the cell. She looked as pale and gareworn as usual, and waited until the officer departed before she spoke, - “ Are you well, George?” she asked; her tone cold and calm, but there was.a look in her eyes. which fully betrayed how deep was the interest slie felt. “Oh, yes; aswell as can be expected,” he replied. ‘The wound in my ‘shoulder still troubles me a little. By the by, Hero, do you think you could find that doctor for me—the one who extracted the ball I mean?” ““ Yes, I know,” she said; “he is down-stairs now.” ‘‘ Indeed!” and Gentieman George looked astonished at tbis intelligence, that he saw the account of your arrest in Nek « 1d. ; rife’Thined ison g, and guessed instantly that it was the Gentleman George. TERS 19 same man whom he had tended, so he thought he would come and see how you were. I met him on the steps outside and he recognized me at once. I,told him that I would tell you he was here.” sed) ; **T am glad he’s come; I have been wishing for his skillful hand ever since ’ve been shut up in this cursed hole.” “I think he will do you good,” the wife said, “although there is a mystery about him that 1 do not understand. He is a gentleman, I can tell that easily enough, and what his reason was for loitering about the low dens of Water and Cherry streets I can not guess.” : “Oh, he may have got into some little trouble and found it convenient to keep shady for a while,” “T’ve sold the diamonds, George,” the woman stated, abruptly. “ You have?” George looked surprised at this intelligence. “Yes; I thought that you would need money, so I tools the ae out of the settings and disposed of them. I got eight undred dollars for them.” ** That’s a pretty ood price,” George exclaimed,‘ The set cost two thousand, believe, but I did not think that it would bring nrore than a quarter of that sum. These thieves of ‘re- ceivers never give more than a quarter of what any thing is worth.” “*T went to old Moses and he would. only give tliree hun: dred; I thought I could get more and .so,came away. Com- ing down Broadway I met Lewis Allen, the man that you used to be so intimate with. He stopped me and inquired about you, and I told him that you were in trouble. He said he bad made a big stake and was going to Europe to enjoy himself for a short time; that he was sorry you were in diffi- culties, and asked if;wanted any;money to see you through; said he was flush, and that he would willingly lend you five hindred or so. Then a bright idea came to me. I told him that I had diamonds worth from a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars, and that I would, gladly sell them to him for eight hundred, dollars, and that if he didn’t want them himself he could easily dispose of them. without risk over. the water. He instantly said that was a bargain, gave me the money, and took the jewels.” ‘‘ Hero, you’re a trump!” George exclaimed, enthusiastically ; ‘come here and give me.a kiss, old girl.” The woman knelt by the side of the narrow bed and pressed her soft arm around Gentleman George. Her eyes were filled with tears—tears of happiness—as she felt the pressure of his lips upon her own. She loved him with a devotion such as is rare in this life, and he, cold, callous heart, traded on that love, and cared ouly for the benefits it brought... . “Give me a hundred dollars, pet,” he said, “and be sure and keep the rest safe.. Come and see me every morning. I shall have to try the plan that you devised to get out of this scrape. My lawyer was here a few minutes ago ‘and’ he seemed to think it would work.” “TI am sure it will,” Hero replied, in her quiet way ; “‘ they can not shake father’s evidence, and he will testify good and strong for you. Now, I must go; good-by. Ill send the doc: tor np,” he gave him the hundred dollars and rose to de- par Again George kissed the pale lips, and then Hero left the cell. A few minutes after the prison officer conducted Neil Jemmison into the stone cage. “How are you, doctor?’ exclaimed George, offering his hand as the door closed behind the official. ‘‘ They've got me in limbo, you see.” “Yes, 1 read an account of your arrest in the paper, and uessed my patient had fallen into the meshes of the law,” the Soin answered, ‘ And how is the wound 2?” ‘* You had better examine it, doctor,’’ George sat upon the edge of the bed, took off his vest and slipped the shirt down. ith a careful, skillful hand the visitor removed the band-' age and examined the injury. ‘‘ The jaunt here hasn’t helped it any, but it is all right. I brought a fresh supply of salve and bandages with me.’ And then the doctor produced the articles from his coat pocket and proceeded to prepare them. “’m very much obliged to you, doctor,” George said, grate. fully; “ few men would take such trouble for a stranger.” “Ah, but you don’t seem like .a stranger to me,’ Jemmison rejoined, thoughtfully. “I don’t exactly understand it, but you seem like one that I have known, years ago.” “Years ago!” exclaimed George, in amazement. ‘‘ Why, doctor, I should not take you to be many years older than I am, aud I am hardly more than a boy.” “And I am almost old enough to be your father,” Jemmi- son said, with a laugh, applying the fresh bandage to the wounded shoulder as he spoke. “Indeed! ; How old are you, doctor ?” ** Forty.” “And I am twenty-two.” “You see I was right in regard to our ages.” Then Jemmison adjusted the shirt over the bandage. **And you think that you have met me before ?” “Yes; but when I say that, it hardly seems possible that I have really met you, but some one whom you resemble greatly —your father, perhaps.” Gentleman George laughed. ‘* My father and I were about as mucb alike as daylight. and darkness. George Dominick, senior, the worthy lock- smith of Fortieth street, was short and stout, his hair dark
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20 Gentleman George. and straight, his eyes black ; nota bit of resemblance between us in any thing, looks or disposition.” ** That is strange; perhaps you have an elder brother whom I have met?” “No; Lam an only child. I probably take my blue eyes and A gh hair from my mother. She died when I was only a child, and [ don’t remember much about her except that she was light in complexion.” ‘“‘It is very strange that your face, voice, manner, all seem so familiar to me when, from what you have just told me, it is pssinly impossible that I have ever met any of your kin- dred,” the doctor admitted. ‘It is rather queer. My father was an Englishman, with- out a single relative in this country; indeed, I am not sure that he had any in England either. I am inclined to think that he hadn’t a relative in the world; at least, I never heard him speak of any.” “I suppose that it is one of those chance resemblances which we meet with sometimes,” Jemmison suggested, rising to depart. “Is it asking too much to say come again, doctor?” “ Oh, no; Pll drop in to-morrow. I shall not give you up now until the wound is entirely healed.” “If you would only allow me to pay you, doctor, for the service that you have rendered—” **Oh, no!” exclaimed Jemmison. “Iam out of practice now—only an accident made me take charge of you; good- day.” Then the olive-faced man retired, creatly Srealee, CHAPTER XXIV. A TRANSFORMATION, In Thirty-sixth street, near Fifth avenue, stood a twenty- foot front brown stone house; one of the kind that a graphic real-estate man would designate as “cosy” if the property was put into his hands, either to sell or rent. And cosy indeed was the little brown-stone house, still more cosy inside than outwardly. The door plate bore the name of Neil Jemmison. And here it was that the “ Doctor” had his home. Much the denizens of the East-side dens would have marveled could they have seen the abode of the man whom they had look- ed upon as being one of themselves, an outcast who had dared the power of the written law and feared its strong right arm. The house was richly furnished from top to bottom. Two servants, an aged Englishman and his wife, took charge of the domicile. “The master ”—as old Mr. Burton and his fat and buxom wife termed Neil Jemmison—was away from home a great deal. His coming and going were alike erratic. No warning of the one, no preparation for the other. The “ master’s” favorite resort when home was the library, which was the front room over the parlor on the second floor. The back room was his bed-chamber. The library was sumptuously fitted up, and the cases which adorned the walls contained an excellent selection of books. One particular case was filled with medical works, proving that, although Jemmison did not pursue his profession, he still had not lost his interest in the study of his early days; and if the medical works were not proof enough of that, the elegantly mounted human skeleton which stood on a pedestal between two of the book-cases perhaps would have convincea a doubter, On the center-table the current magazines were carelessly strewn; the medical ones including the leading English and Continental publications, Every morning at eight o’clock precisely Mr. Burton served the breakfast, then touched the cord which rung the bell in the master’s chamber. And if Mr. Jemmison did not make his appearance in the dining-room within fifteen minutes, Mr. Burton understood that he was not at home, and he would then summon his wife and they would sit down to enjoy the repast. The same mode of proceeding was gone through with at dinner and supper. Five a had the aged couple resided with Mr. Jemmi- son, and, naturally, by this time they had become pretty well accustomed to his ways. Great was the astonishment of the worthy couple when Mr. Jemmison descended to breakfast one morning, after hav- ing been abseut for four or five days, accompanied by a wild- looking young woman, or girl rather, who rejoiced in a great profusion of fiery red hair. The old gentleman, who always attended to the table, was so amazed that he gazed at the girl with open mouth, much to that young lady's anger, and only the presence of her benefactor prevented her giving the wonder-struck = Burton “a piece of her mind,” to use the common expres- gion. The rags in which the girl was clothed did not tend to de- crease the astonishment of the worthy steward. The master had seated the child at the table as politely as though she had been a princess and the heir to a throne, Then had told Burton to place the breakfast upon the table and further informed him, after that was done, that he nee nut wait. Burton understood at once that his services were dispensed with ut the breakfast table in order that the new-comer might be more at her ease. After placing the various dishes upon the table he withdrew to acquaint his wife with the wonderful circumstance. And much the worthy coupe wondered at the strange addition to the Jemmison household Five years had the two resided with Mr, Jemmison, and in ,all that time they had never heard the master mention aught concerning any relatives, and long ago they had come to the deliberate conclusion that he had neither kith nor kin in the world. Sure, therefore, were both husband and wile that the red-headed girl in the ragged clothes was no relative of Mr. Neil Jemmison, and in due course of time they came to .4e opinion that the bright-eyed, defiant-looking child was some waif whom the master had found in his mysterious ram- bles. The worthy couple’s amazement_was still further increased when, after breakfast was over, Mr. Jemmison summoned Burton to his library and informed him that, in the future, the young lady—Miss Mary, as he termed her—would make one of the family, and that he wished Mrs. Burton to send out instantly and procure suitable clothing for her, and, if all necessary articles could not be procured ready-made, to em- ploy a seamstress and have the girl’s wardrobe made up. And he also desired Mr. Burton to procure a young girl to act in the capacity of lady’s maid to “ Miss Mary.” The steward proceeded to execute the orders at once. The clothes were procured, boots, hats and all the little etc., which go to make up a young lady’s outfit at the present day. The lady’s maid was also secured—a trim little Irish girl, Bridget Heal by name, ' ¥ The ragged girl had been wonderfully improved in looks, long before the lady’s maid arrived. The kinky hair, fiery red in hue, had first been carefully washed and then as care- fully oiled and arranged by Mrs. Burton’s skillful fingers, and the result was that the fiery hue was subdued and changed into a sort of golden tint, Attired in a neat house-dress of calico—the master had given strict orders, that Miss Mary’s wardrobe should be en- tirely plain and that no “finery” should be purchased—the dress reaching to her ankles, the girl looked more like what she really was, more of a woman than a child. Mrs. Burtdn was quite delighted when she had finished her task and surveyed the result. Molly Bawn, neatly dressed, with her go bright hair, and her wondrous complexion, so clear red and white, pecu- liar to the blonde daughters of Erin’s green isle, looked really reity. - re so Mrs. Burton told her husband, when she joined him in the regions below, and added that it was her belief that the master had wonderful taste to discover the girl’s beauty beneath its uncouth covering. And Molly Bawn, child of the streets and heiress of the gutters, accepted all the attentions offered to her with a face as grave and a manner as self-possessed as if a luxurious bath, a skillful hair-dresser, and linen fit for a princess, were to her but as common bhings. Gravely and quietly she submitted to be washed and dress- ed, to have the comb force its way through the tangled curls, and never even made a remark in regard to the novel opera: tions. Mrs, Burton wondered at first, for the good old lady was inclined to be talkative; and though she had been warned not to question her charge, yet she could not help trying to enter into conversation with her. But the girl merely answered “ Yes, ma’am,” and “ No, ma’am;” and as conversation was tedious when confined al- most entirely to one person, Mrs, Burton at last gave up the attempt; and when she went dowa-stairs, conveyed to her husband her belief that-the new young lady was really the strangest girl she had ever seen, and she did not wonder that, being an oddity himself, Mr. Jemmison had taken a liking to her. By the time the lady’s maid arrived, Molly had fully mas- tered the situation, and apparently felt as much at home in her new clothes as though she had been used to neat and be- coming apparel since the day she had come into the world. In truth, Molly was old beyond her years. The life of the streets sharpens the wits, and if it does not kill the subject, “forces” it onward as the hot-house does a foreign plant. Molly, a child of sixteen, knew as much as nine-tenths of the young ladies of twenty-two. CHAPTER XXY¥V, MOLLY’S FATHER, Just four days had Molly Bawn enjoyed the hospitalities of the Jemmison mansion. The master had met her at the tabie each day, but had not seen her else, as afier the mea. was finished, he always re- tired to the sanctity of his library, and the girl went to her own chamber. The front bedroom on the third floor had been assigned to her. After breaktast on the morning of the fifth day, Jemmison had asked the girl if she would like to look at his library, and phe, eagerly catching at the opportunity to enjoy the society $ —
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el s —s Gentleman George. 21 —ooo a of her benefactor, had quickly replied that she would like to see the library. So Jemmison conducted Molly into the ;“‘ sauctum”’ that was sacred to him alone, for rarely did any other foot than his tread upon the green carpet of the library floor. The girl looked around her in wonder, stared at the skele- ton, but did not manifest the slightest sign of fear. “You are not afraid, Molly ?” he asked. “Not a mite! I’ve seen too much wickedness alive to be afeur’d of dead bones. Mebbe I might be skeer’d if I came in bere in the night, and didn’t know that it was here.” Jemmison laughed. He sat down in his accustomed seat, a huge arm-chair, and pushed another one toward the girl. “Sit down, Molly,” he said, ‘‘and-tell me how you like your new home.” The girl obeyed, but a peculiar look passed over her face as she pondered over the question, Jemmison fie pretty accurately what thoughts were in her mind, and smiled as he noticed her hesitation. Peat be afraid, Molly; speak out,” he said, reassur- ngly. “ And you won’t be angry or nothing if I say what I think ?” Molly inquired, anxiously. “No, of course not,” he replied. ‘Tell me exactly how you like living here with me.” “ Well, iv’s awful slow,” she said, hesitatingly, and with a look of apprehension upon her face, lest by her plain speak- ing she should offend the gentleman who had so kindly res- cued her from the misery of the street. ' “The wild life that you formerly led is more agreeable to you, thei, than dwelling here in quiet with me?” “No, it ain’t that,” Molly answered, quietly; ‘but I’m lonesome here; I ain’t got. anybody to talk to.” “ Why, there is the young girl that waits on you,” he urged. **She’s nice enough, I s’pose,” Molly ex ptatsiod ; “but I can’t talk to her. She thinks that I’m a regular lady, calls me Miss Mary, and is awful anxious to wait on me; and if I was to try and talk to her, she’d find out quick enough that I’m only a make-believe lady, and not the genuine article, and no’ mistake.” ‘So, to keep up your character, you are obliged to hold your tongue” Jemmison asked, laugiting. ‘* You bet!” replied Molly, quite emphatically. “ Well, is there any thing you can suggest in order that I may remedy the difficulty, and make your stay here more agreeable?” he inquired. ‘“T guess there is,” was the hesitating response. “ Let us hear your ideas on. the subject.” “Send Bridget away ; I don’t want her, and let me wait on myself. I allers want to call her Biddy, too. I don’t like her, ’cos she’s a paddy-whack, and the Mulcarthys, who used to beat me, were paddy-whacks too, and I jest hate °em— that’s what I do.” Molly’s flashing eyes and earnest face fully revealed how earnest she was. * You want Bridget to go away, then?” “Yes; and I want you to give me something todo. I don’t care what it is. Let me sweep down the stairs, or any thing like that; I do it just as nice as anybody ; or let he make the beds and take care of the rooms. I can do it, I now.” _ You would rather work than play lady, eh ?” and a pecu- liar sinile was upon Neil’s dark face. “Yes, a heap sight!” returned the girl, promptly. “All right; you shall have your wish. Now we will ar- range the programme. Breakfast at eight; at nine an hour to make your room tidy, and to clean up this room. At ten, schoo].” “School!” Molly’s face grew blank. “Yes; does not that idea please your “I can read and almost write,” the street child said; “I can write a little. I learned with a piece of charcoal on a cellar-door, and on the coal-box, at the corner.” “Do you know where Paris is ?” Msg way off somewhere; ’tain't here,” was Molly’s dubious reply. “* You must go to school,to learn where Paris is. This shall be your school-room and I will be your teacher.” Molly’s face brightened up wonderfully. ‘“‘That will be hunkey !” she exclaimed, delighted at the idea. “I'll learn quick ; ‘see if I don’t.” Jemmison smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm. ‘ pu won’t send Bridget away; we can find enough for her 0 G0, “She’s good enough, I s’pose,” Molly confessed, ‘‘ but I ain’t used to be waited on; and she’s so slow, too. hy, it don’t take me five minutes to get my clothes on. I say, Mr. Jem: mison, PA are taking a heap of trouble with me,” the girl ex- claimed very abruptly. “ Are you my father ?” ‘““ Why, what put that idea in your head ?” he demanded, in surprise, ‘** Well, I don’t Know,” Molly replied, thoughtfully. “ L, thought that, mebbe, you were my father, that night when you offered to take me home with you, I heard you inquiring about a woman and achild from one of the rounders, down on Cherry street, and | thought that p’baps, I was the child. Aud | kinder cottoned to you as if you were my father, any- way.” It made Neil Jemmison young again to listen to the earnest words of the girl; the story of the slums sounded so strange, comiug from the fresh young lips of the child, — — “ And you have got the idea into your head that I am your father?” : “Yes: ’cos if you wasn’t, you wouldn’t take me to this grand house and hife servants to wait on me, jest as if 1 was a queen, or something of that sort,” Molly replied earnestly and she fixed her bright eyes inquiringly on the grave face o the master as she spoke. “Do you not remember anything of your parents?” She shook her head. ‘‘Did not the folks with whom you lived ever speak of your parents ?” “ No; only they used to call me a begger’s brat when they got mad at me,” “ You are sure that they were not your parents?” “Oh, yes,” replied the girl, quickly. ‘I heard Mrs, Mul- carthy say a dozen times that 1 was no chick of their breed, and that they only kept me out of charity. Ever since I was big enough to understand anything about it, I’ve been on the look-out for my father or mother to come and take me away. And the very first time I saw you talking to one of the rounders outside of Patsey Doolin’s place, I heard you say something *bout a woman and a child, ‘id I jest made up my mind that 1 was the chick that you was after.” Jemmison silently rose from his chair, took the girl by the shoulders, and led ser up to the large glass which occupied the wall between the two [front windows. “ Look !” he commanded, directing Molly's attention to the two faces mirrored in the glass. “ Yes, I see.” “Ts there any resemblance between — oval, olive face, dark eyes, dark hair, and your red-gold locks, blue eyes, slen- der face, and clear red and white complexion?” “ Not much.” “Would you take that girl to be the daughter of this man ?” he demanded. “ Girls don’t always look like their fathers,” Molly averred, stoutly. It was apparent that the girl did not relish giving up the father theory. Jemmison laughed, as he said: * ae are determined that I shall be your father in spite of myself.’ “T don’t believe that I can get any better father, and I guess I’ll hold on to you,” Molly declared, in a tone that Jem- mison understood. The girl was firm in her belief. CHAPTER XXVI. JEMMISON ON THE SCENT. SATURDAY eveuing at = seven; the crowd wr ee the box-office at Niblo’s Garden plainly indicated that there would be an excellent audience present that night to receive the charming Miss Ellen Desmond. The manager as usual was nage about the entrance, and the indefatigable Mr. Medham, posted by the ticket-taker, was mentally calculating how much money there would be in the ‘* house” that night. By one of those lucky chances which sometimes occur in this life, Neil Jemmison, passing into the theater, came face to face with the manager, and the thought occurred that from that jovial personage he might learn something respecting the woman whose face had produced such an effect upon him. Possibly if Jemmison had not beon brought face to face with the manager, he would never have thought of cross-examining him. “ How do you do?” said Jemmison, halting, and extending his hand. “Glad to see you!” exclaimed the manager, almost at the same time, and then he shook Jemmison’s hand cordially. “ How is business with you ?” “Oh, excellent; look at them coming in!” “ Miss Desmond is attractive then ?” “Oh, yes; she has been doing splendidly.” “So I judged ; I have attended three or four times myself.” ‘‘ Yes; I saw you the other night.” “By the way, where does Miss Desmond come from? Jemmison asked, carelessly. ‘ Is she an English actress?” “Oh, no, American ; she has been playing in the West for some time—three or four years, I believe.” ‘‘J do not remember ever hearing of her before,” Jemmison remarked. ‘* She made no reputation to speak of; this engagement is really the beginning of her career. But, how do you like her ?” ‘* Very well, indeed.” ‘She is very pretty.” “Yes, magnificent hair.” “ Perfectly splendid !” responded the “Very long, too, and so very black.” ‘* Black !” cried the worthy manager, in astonishment. “Yes; black of course.” “ But her hair isn’t black!” “No?” Jemmison assumed to be surprised; “ why, it looks black from the tront of the house. It’s a dark brown then, I presume.” “ Neither black nor brown; it’s a most beautiful gold-color —-a tawny yellow.” Now Jemmisop was really surprised,
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22 Gentleman George. “ She has light hair?” “ Yes, she wears a wig in this piece.” Jemmison had noticed the yellow hair when the actress had passed him in front of the Matson Doree, but at once had come to the conclasion that it was not her own. *T did not think of that,” Jemmison confessed. ‘* Most beautiful golden hair!” the manager repeated. _ During this conversation the two had withdrawn to one side so as to get out of the way of the human life-current that Was streaming into the theater. “In fact,” continaed the manager, “she is about as pretty a woman as I have seen in a long while. That’s one reason why she draws, you know; there’s nothing like beauty and talent combined. It was just an accident that I happened to get her here. I was going to do a new show-piece'and found out that 1 couldn’t get it ready in time. I had about two weeks open, and nothing that was sure to draw to put in. I had considerable correspondence with this lady’s business manager, a Mr. Medham—deuced smart fellow, by the way; knows what the people want—and' had made up my mind to give the lady a trial on the first favorable opportunity, so I engaged her for the two weeks, but I think that she is safe to play six or eight.” . hen the manager spoke of the actress’ business agent the idea flashed at once into Jemmison’s head that possibly from her own business manager he could procure the information he wished. ‘Medham,” Jemmison said, reflectively; “ that name sounds familiar to me, Is he one of our New York men ?” “No, I think not; he’s been around New York a great deal though. He’s‘a theatrical speculator.” ‘ ‘** Probably I know him; the name is very familiar.” “There he is now.” The manager pointed out Medham, who, standing by the door-tender, caressing his fat chin, seemed tlie very picture of happiness. The steady inflow of paying patrons delighted the soul of the lady’s business-manager. : ae took a good look at Mr. Medham, then shook his ead. “No, I was wrong; I don’t know him,” he had to confess. “Shall I call him over and introduce you?” the manager asked. “If you feel at all curious about Miss Desmond ‘he can tell you all about her. He discovered her somewhere out West playing in some little traveling company, I believe. In fact he bas made her what she-is. Her talent ‘wouldn't amount to much without his advertising skill to make it known. He’s smart as a steel-trap—a regular Massachusetts Yankee,” . “Yes; I really think I should like to know him,” Jemmi- son replied. Just at that momént the manager happened to catch Med- ham’s eye and beckoned for him, When Medham approached, the manager introduced him to Jemmison, and then; begging to be excused, withdrew to ‘his private office. “ Likely to be a large audience in attendance this evening,” Neil remarked. Rabbing his hands together briskly, Medham replied, with an air of intense satisfaction, that the audience promised to be the largest of the week, Then Jemmison came at once to the subject which formed the attraction of the audience, the young and pretty actress. Medham was in no! way averse to conversing about ber, but his conversation only tended to her talents as an actress-— the great success she was meeting with, and: how worthy she was of such triumphs. Jemmison, keen and subtle student of human nature, per- ceived, after about five minutes’ conversation, that the business manager was no fool, and that he was not to be put through the process of “ pumping” with impunity. Of Miss Ellen Desmond the actress he spoke freely and frankly, but of Miss Desmond off the stage and in private life he was strangely reserved. Jemmison quickly comprehended that to gain the informa- tion he wanted, he must pursue some other plan than to at- tempt to extract it from the shrewd business-manager by any series of deftly-put questions. So, deciding upon a plan of operations, he proceeded te carry it out. When the curtain rose, Jemmison and Medham in company repaired to the auditorium. The eyes of the business-man- ager sparkled with delight as he gazed upon the well-filled house. Together the two’ watched the progress of the play ; together, between the acts, they sought the saloon of the Me- tropolitan Hotel, where Jemmison ordered a bottle of cham- pagne, much to Medham’s astonishment, who at once set his new-made acquaintance down as being a “ full-blooded white man.” Jemmison insisted upon paying for every thing, and at the ‘end of the fourth act it was with regret that Medham felt obliged to excuse himself to Jemmison and’ explain that he had to visit tie'box office to “ count up the house,” and there- by ascertain how much money was due to Miss Desmond as her share of the proceeds of the night. Jemmison simply asked how soon be would be at liberty, and, on Medham replying that’ it would only take thirty minutes or so, said that he would wait for him, and suggested that as they had commenced they might as well make a might of it, to which the business-manager gravely assented. It was not often ‘hat)Mr.-Almer Medham ran across an ac- quaintance who insisted upon standing champague of the best brands at every “ round,” (iliwe Medham peagrally. rode home with the actress but he knew how he could arrange that matter. Jemmison smiled grimly to himself as he reflected that soon the secret would be revealed to him. CHAPTER XXVIII. “WINE WORKS WONDERS.” Just a minute or two before the curtain descended, thereby indicatinty that the play had ended, Medham came forth from the box-office and rejoined Jemmison. ‘Tt will be over in a mirfute or so,” the business-manager said, referring to the play. “Just wait for me in the saloon. Lsball have to explain to Miss Desmond that I have an en- gagement. I usually escort her home. It won’t detain me over ten minutes.” ‘Don’t hurry yourself on my account,” Jemmison re- marked; “ [ll wait,” Then Medham proceeded at once to the am bSiga leaving Jemmison to witness the closing scene of the play. Finally the curtain descended, and Medham, encountering the tired actress at the “ wing,” escorted her to her dressing- room. “ A splendid house,” she said, as she sunk down, exhausted, in a chair, while the burly negress proceeded to remove the rayen-hued wig. “Yes, a little over fifteen hundred dollars!’ Medham ex- claimed, jubilantly. ; “ And how much for the week ?” “ Forty-five hundred and sixty-three dollars.” “ And we share after three thousand.” “ Yes, our share is fifteen hundred and thirty-one dollars and fifty cents,” “That is something like a share!” Miss Desmond exclaimed, exultingly. ‘I bet ye!” the business-manager replied, tersely; “a lit- tle different from the one-horse towns that we used to figure in, where we were lucky if we got enough to pay our board and printing bill and fare to the next town.” “What is our expense for the week ?” “Only about three hundred dollars ; it only cost about two- fifty to advertise, and I think I did the thing up brown, too.” With great satisfaction Mr. Medham indulged in this observa- tion. “We have made six hundred apiece, then, by the week,” the actress said, thoughtfully. - pa correct!” Medham replied. ‘‘ A very tidy little sum; and Zimmerman—he’s the treasurer, you know—told me when we settled up to-night that he felt confident we would do fully as well, if not better, next week.” “Why, if this business continues we shall make a small for- tune out of this engagement!” the actress exclaimed, and there was a strange sparkle and gleam in her eyes as she spoke. “Oh, yes; but, my dear, I am sorry to say that there is only one New York in this country; still, after this triumph we shall be able to demand better terms from the Western man- agers, and perhaps pick up a few ducats out there in the fall, If we can get Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, New Orleans, Baltimore and Pittsburg, we are pretty safe for about three yee dollars; the rest of the towns don’t amount to much or us.” ‘‘Oh, yes, if our business only holds here. Boston and Philadelphia, too, will be good for us if we can get time at the right theaters. A New York success sweeps the country.” The business-manager felt extremely jubilant. Never before in his career had he carried off fifteen hundred dollars from the box-office on a Saturday night. . “ Here’s the six hundred for you, Nelly,” he continued, drawing a huge roll of bills from his pocket and placing it on the dressing-place before the woman, “I want you to excuse me from seeing you home to-night. I want to go off and cele- brate after the week’s brilliant success.” “ Very well; just as you please,” Miss Desmond said, care- lessly. “‘ Did you notice that Mr. Bruyn was in the box again to-night?” ‘* Yes; L saw the Judge when he came in. By the way, he asked me to inform you that he should be pleased to call upon you if it was agreeable.” The eyes of the actress snapped, aud the little white teeth cume together for a moment with a savage clink as the points met. The look upon the face of the woman was a strange combination of rage and triumph blended. It was a minute or so before she spoke. “ Well,” she said, at length, “I suppose that there is no harm in my receiving the gentleman.” “ Not the slightest!” Mediam exclaimed, abruptly. “I tell ‘you what it is, Nell, you’ve got the Judge foul. If you have a mind to play for it, you can win a position that will make Shulf of old Bruyn’s female friends turn pale with envy. The Judge is in dead earnest. He's no light-headed fool like these young dandies who sit in the front seats and try to attract our attention by flinging bouquets at you. [tell you what, Neil, to marry the Judge would be the biggest kind of a star evgagement.’ “ And do you really think that he would marry me?” the actress demanded, seriously. ‘Why not? He’s evidently ‘struck’ by you, to use the common term.”
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Gentleman George. £3 ** But he is very rich, they oe ‘““What of that?” exclaimed Medham, contem pEaoHsly “ he’ll not be the first man to charm a pretty woman by the offer of a golden cage. ‘Go for him, Nelly! From what I have seen of the Judge, and from the way he speaks of you, I'll bet ten to one that you catch him!” “ Well, I'll see,” she said, with evident thoughtfulness. ‘ By, by; I’m off. If I happen to meet the Judge, I'll bring him up, to-morrow afternoon.” And then Medham withdrew and hastened to the saloon, where he had promised to meet Jemmison. The business-manager had discovered that gentleman smok- ing at the door on Broadway. : After Medham had apologized to Jemmison for keeping him waiting so long, and Jemmison had begged him not to mention it, Medham suggested some champagne to commence on, to which Jemmison had replied that he had already ordered sup- per in the adjoining restaurant, and that the champagne was in the ice. At this announcement, Medham came at once to the con- clusion that the dark-eyed stranger was a prince in disguise, and then he suddenly remembered what the manager had told him about Jémmison being the heir to a gold-mine, and ceased to wonder at his liberality. To the restaurant the two adjourned, and soon the supper was placed upon the table. A thorough judge of the good things of this world Jemmi- son had taxed to their utmost the resources of the establish- ment. And Medham, who, during his checkered career had trodden every round of the ladder of fortune from the foot to the top, had fully learned to appreciate the delicacies of the table, devoured the viands with great gusto. The wine, too was excellent, and by the time supper was eaten, the two had got to the second bottle, and Medham felt supremely content- ed with himself and all the world. Jemmison while playing the part of a courteous host still kept a wary eye upon his guest, and at length cautiously broached the subject. ‘‘T have been very much pleased with Miss Desmond,” he said, carelessly, after he had listened to Medham’s praise of the lady’s talent; “and her face seems so familiar to me that I feel sure I have met her before.” ‘* Seen her act somewhere, perhaps,” suggested Medham. “No; I have never seen her act; { am sure of that; but I think I used to know her before she went on the stage, say some sixteen or eighteen years ago,” Jemmison said, “ She’s only eighteen now, you know,” Medham observed with a sly wink, filling up his glass as he spoke, ‘“To the public; yes, 1 understand all about that. But if my a is correct, she is about thirty-six or thirty-eight years old,” “T don’t really think she is as old as that, although she’s no chicken,” Medham remarked; ‘‘ of course I shouldu’t say this to every one.” “ But is her name Desmond ?” “ Yes, I think it is,” Medham responded; “at least I never knew her by any other name, and if it isn’t her right name she knows enough to keep that shady. I can tell you all I know of her, in about a minute. I was out West as agent for a dramatic company playing in the small Ohio towns, and this Miss Desmond came from Cincinnati to join us, sent by a dramatic agent there. I saw that the girl had stuff in her, though she only came to play small parts. So I proposed to her to go starring with me. I hada stake of about a thousand dol- lars that I was willing to risk. She jumped at the offer and so we started. As to her past life, what she had been before she went on the stage, 1 know no more than the man in the moon. And, now I think of it, it is rather strange consider- ing how intimate we have been, that I have never heard her mention a single word of her past life,” The trail had ended—no thoroughfare beyond! CHAPTER XXVIII. THE JUDGE CROSS-EXAMINES. Art ten o’clock on Sunday morning, Mr. Medham opened his eyes and suddenly became conscious that he had a terrible head-ache. “Contound that champagne!” he muttered, as he got u and proceeded to bathe his head. “I ought to have sack to whisky, my native beverage, and let the sparkling fluid alone. Then Medham dressed himself and proceeded down-stairs for breakfast. After the meal was dispatched, he went to the reading-room which looked out upon Broadway, and seating himself in ao easy-chair, proceeded to look over the newspapers. An hour or so Medham glanced over the various journals; then Judge Brayn entered the room, and interrupted his soli- tary meditations. As the Judge advanced at once to Med- ham, he naturally guessed that the Judge had been seeking him. “ Good-morning,” the Judge said, seating himself by Med- ham’s side; ‘‘ how do you find yourself this morning ?” Medbam replied that he wus in tolerable health, and ex- pressed the hope that the Judge was the same, to which of course the Judge made suitable answer, Then Bruyn picked up one of the papers that Medham had carelessly dropped and glanced ata head-line. “ Gentleman George,” he said, repeatin, the substance of the boldly displayed Fine of type; ‘‘an odd.name for a ras- cal, isn’t it?” And as the Judge spoke, he watched the face of the business-manager narrowly, but Mr. Medham wore his usual placid smile in blissful unconsciousness of the Judge’s search for information, ‘Oh, they give those fellows all sorts of fancy names,”| Medham said. ‘‘I remember .one fellow in California—a sporting gent who ‘gambled on the green ’—who was usually called ‘ The Panther) yet he seemed to be just as nice and well-mannered a gentleman as one would wish to see. Who is this Gentleman George?” “One of. those clever rascals for whom the law is always reaching, but. whom, somehow, it never manages to touch. .,He’s,.in the Tombs now, on a charge of assault with intent to kill.” “Oh, yes,” Medham exclaimed, abruptly, “I believe that I did read something about him in one of the newspapers last week, Shot a man on the river, didn’t he ?” “Yes; I think that is the offense he is charged with,” ‘T suppose he’ll get off if he has es of money ; from the way things have been going lately, it has struck me that & man with plenty of money can do almost anything in New York and not. be troubled much for it either.” ‘It does look like it, sometimes,’ Bruyn said. He was fully satisfied now that Mr. Almer Medham knew nothing of Gentleman George, but the fact of the actress visiting the prisoner in his cell was still an unsolved mystery to him. When he reflected, upon the circumstance he saw how pro- bable it was that Miss. Desmond might be acquainted with Gentleman George and Medham still be ignorant of the fact. ‘*How is Miss Desmond, to-day ?”’ the Judge asked, after a little pause. ‘“*T really don’t know; I have not seen her this morning. Naturally, though, I suppose she must feel a little tired after her week’s work. .1 shall call upon her, about three this af- ternoon. If you have no engagement, Judge, I should like to have you call upon Miss Desmond. I know that she will be delighted. to see you,” Medham added, in his careless, good- natured way. “ [am at liberty this afternoon, as/it happens,” Bruyn said; ‘* and if you have nothing better to do between now and three, take a drive with me through the Park.” Medham accepted the invitation at once. Bruyn’s team was outside, and the two getting in, drove out to High Bridge ; there they alighted, had a lunch, and then returned to the city. as after they had got fairly started on the trip, Bruyn, by a series of skillfully-put questions, endeavored to draw from . his companion all that he knew in regard to Miss Desmond. But Medham, careless and off-handed as he appeared to be, was not the man to be “ pumped,” even by so able a lawyer as the Judge. Besides, he reasoned in his own mind that there was a wide difference between Judge Bruyn and Neil Jemmison—and he might also have added with truth, be- tween Almer Medham at midnight with two bottles of cham- pagne under his jacket, and the same gentleman at noon with a slight head-ache and perfectly innocent of sense-bewilder- ing drink. To Jemmison he had frankly revealed all he knew concerning the actress, even his own opinion regarding her age, but to the Judge he was as dumb as an oyster. And innocent and artless Mr. Medham never betrayed by a word or look that he was perfectly conscious he was under- going the legal operation known as a cross-examination, , The Judge, able and skillful as he certainly was, had his labor for his pains, and therefore alighted at the door of Miss Desmond’s house no wiser in regard to her than when, three hours before, he had driven with Medham up Broadway. Miss Desmond, dressed as usual very plainly, but in such becoming garments that they seemed to enhance her beauty, received the Judge with a blush and a smile. Gracefully and charmingly she begged his pardon for receiving bim in house attire, but added in her innocent, child-like way that she had no visitors except Mr. Medham, and he was used to her simple dress. The Judge, old, cautious man of the world as he was, well versed in all the tricks of humanity, was caught by the. frank simplicity of the actress. She possessed far more natural abilities in the acting line than he gave her credit for, and she did not always need the stage of the theater to display them. Bruyn never thought of the trite adage that a woman is never so dangerous as when she seems to be most helpless, After a few minutes’ conversation upon the common sub- jects of the weather, Miss Desmond’s success, and the pros- pecis for the future, Mr. Medham begged to be excused for twenty or thirty minutes, as he had some business letters to write in reference to Miss Desmond’s future engagements, and asked the lady’s permission to use her pen and ink and turn the dining-room into an office. Miss Desmond smilingly gave the desired permission, and called to the negress to get Mr. Medham what he wanted. After Medjham withdrew, promising as he did so that he would not be long, the Judge noticed a Sunday newspaper lying upon the table, and as he gazed at it, again the bold head-line, “ Gentleman George!” caught his eye. Carelessly he picked the paper up and read the name aloud, and as he did so, closely watched the face of the actress. Not a muscle moved. The face calm and white, might have ha i in Sa ae er rs es See Ban ne De AS a Be
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24 Gentleman George. been carved out of marble for all the emotion that it betrayed when the felon’s name was pronounced. “A strange name, Miss Desmond,” the Judge remarked. “Yes, very strange,” she retufmed, and as she spoke she darted a quick glance at the Judge from her long dark eye- lashes—so quick that even the sharp eyes of Bruyn did not detect it. ‘“*Have you read the particulars of the case?” he asked; and, despite his effort to appear careless and unconcerned, the legal sharpness of the lawyer was plainly apparent. Again came the short, quick glance from under the long, dark lashes. The man skilled in the law was no match for the sharp-eyed woman of the world. His face betrayed the secret that hers preserved. ** Yes, I am quite interested in his case—to use your legal term,” she replied. Her face as calm and ‘her voice as firm as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be interested in the career of a society brigand. The Judge’s face fully revealed the astonishment that h felt at this candid confession. “T really cannot understand why you should take any in- — - the life or death of any such fellow as this Dominick,” e said. “Why, I know him,” she answered, innocently. “You do?” “ Yes, 1 became acquainted with him about a year ago. He stopped at the same hotel that I did. It was in 4 little town out west. He seemed to be very much of a gentleman and helped me a great deal ; I was just struggling along then. He said that he was connected with the New York press and promised to aid me to get an engagement here. Then he went away suddenly andy never saw or heard of him again until I received a letter, telling me that he was in the Tombs and asking me to visit him.” “And did you go?” The Judge put the question admir- ably, considering that he knew that she had gone. “Yes; he wished me to assist him if I could do so, and said that his arrest was all a scheme of some personal enemies, to ruin bim.” “Don’t you believe it, Miss Desmond!” exclaimed the eee da “He is a thorough scoundrel, I know it as a fact. ‘*In that case, then, I will not take any more notice of him,” the actress said, eg promptly. The | Judge smiled; he imagined that he had “made hie game. CHAPTER XXIX. THE TRIAL. In just two weeks from the day of Gentleman George’s ar- rest his trial came. His lawyer, the ponderous Three-Decker, had vainly tried to stave off the trial, but the officers of the law, urged on by a healthy public sentiment manifested by the newepaper clamor for justice, pressed the case to an early hearmg, and so Gentleman George was produced in open court to answer to the law that he had outraged. The doctor who attended to the wounded policeman, struck down by the ball of the river plunderers, testified as to the na- ture of the hurt that the officer had received, and stated, too, that even now the recovery of the man was a matter of doubt; that the chances for life were fully even with the chances for death. Then the policemen who were with the wounded man in the boat were placed upon the stand, one by one, and testi- fied as to the manner in which the wounded man had received his hurt. So far this was the usual course and routine of the legal machinery, and implicated no one as being the author of the owtrage. Then Mickey Shea took the stand and told a plain, straighttorward story as to the work of the night when the rats of the river had relieved the British captain of the Golden Dragon of his diamond charge. He told how he had been enticed into joining the river thieves by the prisoner at the bar, Gentleman George, as he was nicknamed, or George Dominick, as he should be called; how in a moment of weak- ness, he had yielded to the temptation and had joined Domi- nick and his companions in their raid upon the Liverpool liner. He then described embarking in a boat at the foot of Market street with the masked men—how they had given him a mask, and he had placed it over bis face in obedience to their instructions. Then they bad pulled out into the stream and headed straight for the vessel swinging at its anchors off the Battery. Plainly and tersely Mickey related how they had ascended the side of the ship, and, descending into the cabin, had robbed the Briton of the diamond jewelry intrusted to his care. After that, descending to their boat again, Mickey and his companions had pulled off quite leisurely, until the police- barge had given chase; then he described how Dominick, the Jeader of the party, finding that the police-boat was gaining upon them, had deliberately leveled his revolver at the officers, and fired; and further testified that he had heard a groan come from the police-boat and had seen one of the officers drop his our and fall, evidently wounded by the pistol-shot of Dominick. Mickey’s evidence was direct and delivered without hesita- tion. It would bave been much more likely to carry conviction if he had been a better looking man, but the contrast between the witness in the box swearing a man’s life away, and the prisoner at the bar, with the prospect of ten or twenty years in the State Prison before him, was great indeed. Mickey Shea, a red-faced, bullet-headed fellow, with evil eyes, and the impress of the rough and shoulder-hitter stamped indelibly upon him, was just the opposite of George Dominick —Gentleman George—with his pale, delicate face and gentle- manly bearing ; the contrast rendered still more marked by the unusual pallor of George’s face, caused by the suffering And near the prisoner, too, sat his wife, pale and evidently deeply agitated. This was a device of the astute Three-Decker, who fully understood what effect the pale and anxious face ot &@ pretty woman would have upon the tender susceptibilities of an average juryman. Mickey’s evidence closed the first day’s proceedings. Vainly Counselor Watt had pleaded ‘that the case might be ih offuntil Captain Drummond, the commander of the Golden ragon, could be summond from Europe to give his evidence in the case, but the Judge, rightly understanding it was for the purpose of gaining time alone that the motion had been made, quietly denied it, and decided that the trial must go on. Just a single glance the Three-Decker cast around the court, but in the glance he fully expressed the opinion that there was no justice or his client in that court; then he sat down and gathered up his papers, apparently in deep despair. This was all done for effect, of course. Among the spectators in the court-room was Nicholas Bruyn. It was not often that the ex-judge troubled himself to attend a criminal trial unless he was personally concerned in it, but he felt a strange curiosity to see the desperado who had been honored with the friendship of the pretty Miss Desmond. Bruyn was considerably astonished at the appearance of the prisoner, and what still more astonished him, us he got a good look at the pale and handsome face of Gentleman George, was the impression which took possession of him, that at some previous time he had seen a face which resembled the face of the man in the prisoner’s dock with an almost life-long im- prisonment staring him in the face. The more Nicholas Bruyn looked at the prisoner the more he became convinced that somewhere he had seen the face before. And then the ex-Judge went back over his past life and tried to remember when and where he had met Gentleman George. But the effort was a failure, and Bruyn possessed a wonderful memory, too—a fact that many a criminal had cause to remember when Nicholas Bruyn had sat in judg- ment. “Tam sure that I have met this fellow somewhere,” the Judge muttered, impatiently, amazed that he could not ‘*place” the face. “ But where?—that is the rub. I wonder if he has ever been through my hands? It is not often that a face escapes me, and I am sure 1 have seen this one before; the eyes and hair, the peculiar shape of the face; oh, no! there is no mistake. I have met this gentleman, but hang me if I can remember the circumstances.” Then the Judge suddenly remembered that during his po- litical career he had been obliged for a brief period to associ- ate with some very peculiar people, for politics, like misery, makes strange bed-fellows, and the thought occurred that, possibly at some caucus or primary election of the unterrified, he had encountered Gentleman George. With this solution the Judge was fain to be satisfied. He remained throughout the trial, for he lad taken quite an inter- est in the proceedings, and when he thought of Ellen Des- mond, the actress, in connection with the man on trial for a deadly assault, he came quickly to the conclusion that it was as well that the handsome face and form of Gentleman esd should adorn the corridors and workshops of Sing Sing rison. fhe Judge fully understood the interest that a face like George Dominick’s would naturally excite in a susceptible’ fe- male heart, and really was afraid that the society brigand would prove a dangerous rival should he choose to enter the lists and contest for the love of the pretty actress! “The fellow is just what I was twenty-five or thirty years ago,” the Jadge thought, as he left the court-room, ‘‘ and a woman is sometimes fool enough to prefer an adroit scoundrel with a handsome face and plausible tongue to a man a little advanced in years, even if he has money at his back.” Bruyn went straight down to his office in Wall street.. He was pretty deeply engaged in some large real-estate specula- tions, and still retained his office although he had almost givea up legal practice. Receiving his: morning mail from the clerk, he passed into the inner office, his sanétwm, and began to peruse his letters, He was interrupted, after ten or fifteen minutes, by the clerk, who informed him that a deputation of gentlemen wished to see him in the outer room. Proceeding thither, Bruyn saw at a glance that his visitors were nearly all officers of'the metropolitan police—that is, all that he knew of the party were. They were in plain clothes now, and ayers off duty. “ Good-day, Judge,” said one of the gentlemen, who stood in advance of the rest, and had apparently been deputed to act as spokesman for the rest. ‘* Good-day, gentlemen,” the Judge replied, with an inquir- ing glance as though with an intent to ask the reason of their Visit. * Judge, you must excuse our calling upon you about a little legal business, but we thought that possibly we might get you to undertake our case, although we understood that Dr do not practice much at present. But, Judge, we’re all of uw and loss of blood entailed by his wound. |
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Gentleman George. 25 from your district, and have backed you up good-and strong when things were mighty close on election-day,” said the spokesman of the party. . “IT know that, gentlemen,” the Judge replied. “I don’t for- get oy friends; what do you want?” il ** Mort Burke i» dead—killed by George Dominick, and we want you to goin and help the District Attorney to swing this Gentleman George.” CHAPTER XXX. GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. THe announcement of the death of the wounded policeman naturally created quite a deal of talk among those who had taken an interest in the trial of Gentleman George, and the interest created was not at all allayed when it was publicly reported that the eminent, lawyer, ones Bruyn, would, give his services to the prosecution. ,.Of course people naturally understood that the Judge had been retained by. the friends of the murdered man, eager for justice upon the slayer. Counselor, Watt, the, Three-Decker, seated his _ office, within the shadows of the gloomy pile, known as the Tombs, gave a start of astonishment when he read the intelligence in & morning newspaper, that Nicholas, Bruyn, would assist the District Attorney in the trial of George Dominick. ’ The counselor was annoyed and, disgusied, , “The case is bad enough as it.is without having to fight half.a dozen lawyers,” he muttered, discontentedly. ‘The, Three: Decker had. met Judge Bruyn before, and feared his power over a jury. As well as any other living man who followed the! law for a trade did the astute counselor know the Weight of a plausible appeal to the twelve men, “ good: and true”—whom the newspapers generally playfully designate as rors twelve idiots—within whose hands the fate of a prisoner rests, Judge Bruyn’s great power as a lawyer lay in his specious oratory. ' ’ i The death of the wounded man who had been stricken down in the discharge of his duty by the bullet of the river-thief, naturally made quite a difference in-the manner of conducting the trial. The coroner’s jury had first to return their verdict. The proceedings were hurried through with railroad-like rap- idity, despite the.dfforts of’ Counsélor Watb to retard the pro- gress, and within a week George Dominick stood duly accused before the bar of justice with the murder of Mortimer Burke. * Then came the fight: over the selection of a jury to try the case, in which the Three-Decker manfully contested the. put- ting of ay man on the jury who had ever read any newspaper account of the case, or who looked as if he possessed sense enough to keep himself out of the insane asylum. But all mortal things must have an end, and the jury was at last im- panueled. — The counselor was not at all satisfied when the jury took theirseats on the opening day of the trial, and he got a good look at them. It was a pretty fair-looking jury, as juries go, and the Three-Decker saw to his dismay that three or four men in the box really looked as if they possessed an average amount of coinmon sense, and to the mind of the notorious criminal lawyer, common sense was a most dangerous thing to be possessed by a juryman, The jury in their seats, then came the tiresome details of the trial, tiresome to all, except the badgered witnesses, the cunning lawyers and the pale-face man who gat in the pris- oner’s box, On trial for his life. , if ¥ Upon the prisoner's side the first witness produced was. his wife, who testified that, on the night of the murder, her hus- band had accompanied ‘her to her father’s house, and had re- maived there until after twelve o’clock, and clearly stated that _ it was/five minutes past twelve before they had left the house to go home to their own dwelling: Dominick’s wife’s father Christopher: Walebone, fully corroborated this statement, as also did his daughter, Penelope. : ‘Now'as Mickey Shea had positively sworn that he and th hegre: at the bar, George Dominick, had embarked from the oot of Market Street, between eleven and: half-past eleven, and had emphatically declared, in answer to a question from Counselor Watt, that he was positive that it was before half- past eleven that the River-Rats had started on their expedition, this rather weakened Shea’s evidence.. The object that the Three- Decker had in holding the witness so closely to the time that the embarkation had taken place, was not apparent until tlie rebutting testimony was introduced; then it was perfectly plain that the object wus to throw doubts upon the truth of Mr. Shea’s statements: As to the wound in the shoulder, Mrs, Dominick testified that, on the morning after the night on which the policeman had been wounded, in’ carelessly hand- ling her husband’s revolver, it had exploded in her hand, and the ball had taken an erratic course across the room, chipped the post of the bed, and then had, entered ber husbund’s shoulder, he at the time being extended upon the bed. Then the counselor brought up four doctors who had exam- ined both the bed-post und the wound in Dominick’s shoulder, and they fully testified that it was t!:-ir belief that the wound could have been inflicted in such a u..w0ner, This strong testimouy rather shook the evidence that had been given by two doctors, witnesses for the government, who had ay the wound in - panes shoulder, and ex- preased their opinion that it h n inflicted by a spent as described by Michael Shea, Esq. , 4 a _- And then the counselor pafd hfs respects to the principal witness on the side of the prosecution. Ina delicate way he drew oat from him the damaging admission that he had been *‘up to the Island” three or four times; had also paid a visit to Sing-Sin , and even now was under heavy bonds to answe1 in an Seite and battery case. Of course during the exam- ination of Mr. Shea, there was an almost constant wrangle be tween the lawyers. One objected, and the other insisted, and a half-a-dozen times the Judge was obliged to interfere in or- der to restrain the ponderous counselor, and keep him within the bounds prescribed both by law and courtesy, And the result was that the spectators witnessed one of those disgraceful scenes so common—unhappily—in our courts of justice, and if one of the spectators could have closed his eyes, with no great stretch of the imagination, he might easily have thought that he was listening to some bar-room brawl common to election time. Then Judge Bruyn, calm, able and smiling, reviewed the case. He clearly showed how ane alibi could be proven even in the most desperate cases. He did not attempt to at- tack the credibility of the witnesses for the prisoner, but simply related the history of an English case when « prisoner “had established an alibi by witnesses who swore as to his bein in a certain place at a certain time, and how the prisoner h cunningly tampered with the clocks before the commission of the deed that he was accused of on purpose to prove an alibi, and go, on the evidence of innocent but deceived witnesses, he nearly escaped the punishment due to his outrage’ of the laws; and as to Mickey Shea, he simply described the man who had felt the power of the law, and, terrified by the weight of its iron hand, had tremblingly come forward to do one act of justice ; and had surrendered himself, bound hand and foot as it were, to answer for his misdeeds, and Judge Bruyn took it upon himself to declare that the Government had made no agreement with the witness whereby, in consequence of his evidence, he was to be shielded from punishment. © _ And then the Judge briefly reviewed the career of the pris- oner at the bar as far as it was known to the police. A bank- robber and confidence-man, al ways “‘ wanted ” and never cap- tured; aman as able and skillful as he was wicked; a very Brig- and of Society who preyed upon his fellow-men as rut He as the footpad who beat his victim tothe ground with a bludgeon or choked him, garote fashion, while a companio went through his pockets. When Judge Bruyn finished his speech and sat down, & lit- tle murmur of admiration went through the court. Short, aud apparently without effort as the speech was, it covered the round thoroughly; each point was a fact planted in the dull rains of the wearied jury; no glittering generalities to dazzle and befog, but stubborn statements difficult to evade and im- possible to answer. Then the Judge deliverea his charge tothe jury; not a .engthy one but quite to the point, and it bore hard on the prisoner, The Three-Decker moved uneasily in his seat while he list- ened to it. The Judge carefully drew attention to the witnessvs who swore to the alibi, and then to the principal witness for the Government who swore so positively to the presence of the prisoner in the boat, and to his firing the shot which gave the policeman his death-wound, Although the Judge did not say so, in plain words, yet he inferred that the balance of proof was agaiust the prisoner. And the Judge, too, spoke of the Brigand of Society as being the most dangerous of his class, dangerous because he ha brains as well as hands. Ugly words these for Gentleman rge. The jury retired to deliberate upon their verdict. - George set his teeth firmly together; the warm rays of the afternoon sun that stole in through the curtained window, and played at hide and seek upon the uncarpeted floor, seemed to mock him with their bright, gladsome beams. They revealed to his mind the contrast between a life of freedom and the prison-cell, or worse still, the dark embraces of a felon’s grave, CHAPTER XX Xl. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR, Miss Desmonp, idly reclining in arocking-chair in her little lor, was wT the afternoon paper. She bad just fin- hed the account of the trial of Gentleman George. “T wonder what the verdict will be!” she murmured, and a3 she spoke, her smooth, white brow was furrowed over by the lines of thought. ‘“ Will they hang him?” A half-hidden shudder came over the slender form at the thought. ‘That would be dreadful, and yet he deserves it. How strange that he and Judge Bruyn should come in contact! What an excel- lent speech the Judge made, too.” He knows that I called upon George in the Tombs. T am sure of it, or else he would not have questioned me regarding him.” Then for quite along time the woman was silent, deep in thought, ° Her meditations were not altogether pleasant, judg- ing by the expression upon her face. " “It fairly made my blvod run cold the other day when the Judge questioned me about George. I think I succeeded in him though, keen and skillful as he is,” she exclaimed, i i . Mival ; ivi = ene ee a eee —— ke ee
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26 Gentleman George. abruptly. ‘Suppose by any chance that this haughty million- aire should discover my secret? Ah! good-by then to my scheme.” And with the thought the actress sprung to her feet and paced up and down the room, her lips pressed firmly together and her little white hands clenched, ‘T don’t want them to hang George, badly as he deceived me; but Ido wish that they would send him somewhere so that he will not trouble me.’ Miss Desmond paused by the window and gazed out upon crowded Broadway. ‘‘Gentleman George in the State Prison and I the wife of Nicholas Bruyn,” she murmured, thoughtfully. ‘Oh! what a glorious vengeance that would be! What a recompense for the wrongs of the past and the many pangs of pain that I have suffered in these long and weary years! And to have this man of ice—this cold-hearted, treacherous Bruyn at my feet; to see him kneel in humble adoration, when, if he onl knew who and what I am, he would spurn me from him with contempt and loathing. How many in this life could play as bold a.part as I do now?” Scornfully and with arrogance in voice and face the actress put the question. The abrupt entrance of the negress, Juno, interrupted Miss Desmond’s meditation. “ What is it, Juno?” the actress demanded, understanding at once from the mauner of the negress that she bore a mes- sage. % Dar’s a gemmen down-stairs dat wants to see you, Missy.” “Turn him away at once!” Miss Desmond exclaimed, re- suming her seat in the rocking-chair as she spoke, and picking up the newspaper which she had dropped. ‘* Yes, Missy, | know what you allers tole me fur to do, but dis yere gemmen ain’t like the rest of ’em,” the negress said, slowly. ; ‘‘Oh, they are all alike!” the actress exclaimed, impatient- ly. “Iam not at home to any one. You must remember and not allow any person to persuade you to the contrary.” “But dis yere gemmen ain’t none of yer common trash,” the negro woman protested; ‘‘he’s a rea methine for sure, an’ says dat he wants fur to see you on ’ticular business.” ‘That is what they all say,” Miss Desmond replied, quite enraged that any stranger should be able to produce such an impression upon her vigilant janitor, ‘‘ What is that you have there?” she continued, noticing something white in the hand of the negress; ‘‘ is it the gentleman’s card ?” ** Yes, Missy.” The actress took the card from the extended hand, A sin- gle line of print only on the smooth white surface. The name, Neil Jemmison. Just a moment Miss Desmond looked at the card, and then with an expression of rage upon her face, she crumpled it up fiercely in her hand and threw it away. ‘Tell him that I am not at home to any one!” she ex- claimed, quickly and imperiously, “and if be will not take no for an answer, show him the door and put him out by main force, if he refuses to go. I suppose that you are big enough to do that?” “JY dunno, Missy,” the negress said, shaking her head in a dubious manner. “Dis yere gemmen ain’t one of dat kind dat you kin sling t’r’ugh de door. He ain’t one of ’em starch- ed young fellas wid poseys in dere button-hole. TI’ll tell him dat you ain’t home; dat’s de way I'll fix it.” Juno then withdrew, leaving Miss Desmond in a very pecu- liar state of mind. , The negress descended at once to the front door where she had left the gentleman who desired to see Miss Desmond on one 9 business, and whose card bore the name of Neil Jem- mison. The negro woman had left the gentleman standing outside the door, but on her return, she found that he had taken ad- vantage of her absence to come inside and had also closed the door after him. It was the ‘‘doctor” in person who waited for audience with the charming young actress. As the negress descended the stairs and discovered that the ntleman was in the hall and had closed the door behind im, she shook her head gravely. She began to have an idea that she had a troublesome task in hand. ‘*I’se done gone and seen, sar, an’ she ain’t home,” Juno said. “ Ah, did you give her my card and tell her that I wished to see her on very particular business?” Jemmison asked, en- tirely ignoring what the negress had said: _ Juno stared in surprise, “ Deed, sar, I done tole you dat she ain’t at home for sure,” she said, earnestly, “Oh, yes, I understand all about that,” Jemmison replied, in the most careless manner ponsibins ‘**you are to tell me that she is not at home. The lady thought that was the ‘easiest and best way to get rid of me,’ $ Dest, sar, it’s the bressed truft!” declared the negress, stoutly. “ You are quite a valuable janitor, you lie with a coolness that is perfectly refreshing.” “ No, sar, I ain’t done tole no lie!” exclaimed Juno, indig- nantly. «J tole you dat de lady isn’t at home.” “ And when will she be at home ?” demanded Jemmison, abruptly. Juno hesitated; she had not been instructed by her mie- tress upon this point. —, aa “1 don’t. know, sar.” 9 « She will come home sometime, I suppose f* “ Yas, sar—I s’pose so,” Puno replied, very slowly. “ Well, I will wait until she does come home,” and Jemmi- son smiled, serenely, in the face of the woman. “No, sir!” cried the negress, enraged, “you can’t wait hyer, white man. You jes’ go out of dat door nov.” “ And if 1 don’t accept your polite invitation and go out ?” Jemmison asked, smiling in a manner that both enraged and awed the woman. “’Fore de Lord, I'll put you out for sure!” Juno cried, ad vancing in menace. “ Do you know what I’ll do if you try that sort of proceed- ing upon me?” Jemmison asked, his face as smiling as ever, but a dangerous light shining in his dark eyes. ‘You's gwine out, dat’s all,” retorted Juno, irresolutely. ‘*T shall forget the respect due to your sex, take you by the nap of the neck and fling you out {nto the street,” and as he spoke, Jemmison advan a step toward the negress. Juno retreated in alarm. The cool, determined manner of the man frightened her; besides, she felt pretty well con- vinced from his looks that he was able to accomplish the feat of ejecting her from her own threshold. As she had informed her mistress, it was no dandy young man this time. “Look out, white man! don’t you dar’ to put your han’ on me!” Juno cried, threateningly, retreating to the first stair as she spoke. “T Bnow your mistress is at home, for I saw her at the window from the other side of the street, not ten minutes ago,” Jemmison said; ‘and I'll swear that she has not left the house since then. Now go up-stairs, tell your mistress that the gentleman will not go away; that he wishes to see her on particular business, and that he will not leave the house until he does see her.” “She won’t see you, anyhow,” Juno muttered. ‘* Just you tell ber what I say!” Jemmison said, sternly, “and if there is any more talk of putting me out by force 0 just tell her that the probable result of such a course will that we will all fetch up in the station-house, and I don’t think that will annoy me as much as it will her.” Juno departed to bear the message. if in| CHAPTER XXXII, AT LAST. Tre actress was lazily reclining in the easy-chair, her eyes elosed as if she were sleeping, when the negress re-entered the room. Nor did she change her position at the entrance of the per- apt Juno. At the firat glance the woman imagined that er mistress was unconscious of her approach, but a second look detected just a little trembling motion of the lips which plainly showed that Miss Desmond was wide awake. The negress, coarse and brutal by nature and not given to closely analyzing the motives of others, did not stop to ask herself why Miss Desmond should pretend an indifference which clearly she did not feel, or why the visit of the serene but determined stranger should so annoy her. “« Missy, it ain’t no kind of use, he won't go; he’s jes’ gwine to see you or bu’st things for sure !” Juno blurted out. Miss Desmond opened her eyes languidly. ** He will not go?” “ No Missy.” S Why don’t you put him out then, as you did the others — who would not be satisfied with no for an answer?” the actress asked, coldly, and as she spoke there was a strange expres- sion upon her pale face; anger and fear were wondrously blended there. ‘J can’t'do it, Missy!’ replied Juno, bluntly. “TI jes’ tole him dat ef he wouldn't go I'd tote him into de street, an’ he od squar’ himself and sed dat he’d put me dere ef I didn’t ush my mouf.” ‘And were you afraid that he would do sof” Miss Des- mond asked, endeavoring to conceal her agitation and to as- sume a contemptuous air. “ Yes, 1 is, sure as you’re born !” Juno exclaimed, doggedly. “J's isn't gwine to fool’round dat air white man; he’s ugly, he is!. ’Fore de Lord, he sed dat ef 1 tried fur to put him out dat he’d sling me into de street, an’ den dat he’d have de hull lot on us fotched up afore de police, an’ dat dat would trouble you a heap sight more dan it would him.” Miss Desmond listened attentively to the words of the negress, and at the mention of the police she clenched her teeth nes tightly and for a moment or so the breath came fast and hard. ‘The police,” the actress said, slowly, and after quite a long pause. “Yes, ma’am, dat’s what he sed; I wish I may die dis bressed min’te ef I didn’t hear him say it with my own two ears,” “ And what have the police to do with either you or me—or with this stranger tor that matter?” Miss Desmond remarked, very slowly. One gifted witl the art of reading the thoughts in the face would easily have detected that there was a terri- ble struggle going on in the mind of the actress, and yet loug ears of constant dissimulation had so molded the mobile eatures of the woman that it was but seldom that her face betrayed her thoughts. “i I dunno, Missy ” replied Juno, shaking her head, w“ —
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Gentleman George. BF sagely, as much as to indicate that the questaon was a conun- drum and that she gave it up. Miss Desmond came to an abrupt decision. “Since this person is so determined in his purpose to see me, you may show him up, Juno.” The voice of the actress betrayed no sign of emotion; her face was calm, a trifle pale perhaps, but that was all. ‘* Yes, ma’am ; deed I’s glad dat you is gwine for to see dis yere gemman!” Juno ejaculated. ‘‘Dis yere nigger do’sn’t want for to have anything fur todo wid de perlice.” ‘*‘ Show him up; I do not think’that it will take me long to get rid of him,” the actress said. Was the boast to strengthen a fluttering heart, or was it the true index of power ? “Yes, ma’am,” and then Juno departed, but, as she left the room, she muttered lowly to herself; and, the burden of her discourse was that she in person didn’t care to “ interview ” the self-possessed stranger again. “If you please to walk dis yere way, sar,” the negress said, speaking from the top of the stairs. Neil Jemmison did not wait for a second, invitation, but immediately ascended the stairs. “Dat door, sar!” the negress exclaimed when Jemmison came up to her, pointing to the door at the further end of the entry, which led to the little parlor of the actress, ‘‘Thank, you,” Jemmison, said, politely, passing) by the woman and advancing at once to the door indicated. Jemmison’s steps were direct, his action resolute, yet his face was pale and his heart was beating high with excitement. Another moment. and he would be face to face. with the woman for whom he had sought so long, and who had, until now, so completely evaded his search. The “ Doctor” tapped at the door, the low sweet voice of Miss Desmond said “ Come,” and the next moment Neil Jem- mison and the actress were face to face, Miss Desmond had risen trom her chair and was leaning carelessly upon the back of it, her face turned from the win- dow to the door, and upon it was a fretful, impatient look, as though she resented the intrusion. Within the room, two steps from the door, Jemmison halted. A rigid, searching look he bent upon the features of the young and pretty woman before him. If he had any doubts as to the correctiress of his guess that the actress was indeed the woman whom he sngh t, the glance would have dispelled it. “ Well, sir, lam waiting to know the reason of this intru- sion!” Miss Desmond exclaimed, impatiently. _‘ My servant informed me that you insisted upon seeing me, although I sent word that 1 was not at home to any one. I did not for a mo- ment imagine that any gentleman would insist upon intrud- ing upon a lady when informed that she declined to receive m.’ ‘*You are disposed to treat me as a stranger, then?” was Jemmison’s calm reply. “In wuat other light should 1 look upon you, sir?” the actress demanded, quickly and sharply, an expression of as- tonishment upon her face as she put the question. ‘‘Aud yet 1 am not a stranger to you.” Jemmison’s voice was firm and low—more of sorrowful reproach than of menace in his tone. “TL really beg your pardon, sir, but I am positive that 1 never had the pleasure of your acquaintance!” the actress replied, uaa Tp and distantly. ‘*And I am sure that you have,” Jemmison retorted. “Sir, you are an utter stranger to me!’ Miss Desmond ex- claimed, angrily. “If I had ever had the pleasure of your acquaintance it is not likely that I should forget the fact,” “You.do, not forget it,” Jemmison replied, sternly; “ nor can you juggle me with any of your stage tricks. I have not forgotten you, although it is years since we have met, and you have manuged to change your appearance wonderfully, but I recognized. you the moment I saw you. I met you on the Bowery some time ago, dressed very plainly, and tracked you to.the neighborhood of Water and Market streets, and there you managed to elude me. I thought that you had descended the low sub-strata of mire, which is the natural end to. the career of all such women as you are—the end which years ago I prophesied would be yours. I expected to find you in some low den, poor and degraded; judge then of my surprise when, happening to stroll into Niblo’s Garden, I found you strangely transformed into one of the magnets of the stage. L recognized you, though; on the instant. Fora certain reason which | will soon explain, I wished to see you, and so 1 sought this interview, and you can be satisfied that I will not leave, tais room untill learn what I wish to know.” Miss Desmond listened io the words of Jemmison with an expression of utter amazement written upon her face, and then, when he hat finished, she looked around in apparent alarm as if seeking assistance. , “Oh, heaven! the man is mad!” she murmured half aloud. The quick ears of Jemmison caught the meaning of the mutiered words. “Bah!” he cried in utter contempt, “ what is the use ot piying our stage arts upon me? [ am nota child nor an diot. ou can not trick me out of my belief; I am quite sure that you ure the woman | take you to be,” “ You are mad, sir, to persist in this folly !” Miss Desmond exclaimed, indignantly. “For whom do you take me?” ‘* Eighteen or twenty years ago, you were called Lina Aton, and worked in a fancy store in Division street, near the Bow- ery,” Jemmison replied. Sr te CHAPTER XXXIII. AT BAY. For a minute or two there was a dead silence. The actress stared at her visitor in profound amazement not a muscle in her face betrayed any other sentiment, an Jemmison, even despite his fign belief, was almost inclined to think that he had been deceived by one of those strange re- semblances, which, though not common, are not impossible; but as he, wavering in his mind, gazed upon the woman upon whose privacy he had intruded so rudely, he nouced that the small white hand, which rested upon the top of the rocking- chair, clenched it with so firm # grip that the little pink nails were almost driven into the wood. Jemmison, quick of eye and astute of judgment, from this little circumstance perceived at once. the artifice of this woman. ‘*T really don’t know what to say to you, sir,” she said, her face betraying both amazement and perplexity. ‘‘ You do not seem to believe me when | assure you that you have made a mis- take, and that Ido not know you, and I presume that you will be equally incredulous when I say that I was never called Lina Aton, that I never worked in a fancy-store in Division street—or in any other street, either in this city or elsewhere and that eighteen or twenty years ago I was a — small girl indeed, attending school at Cincinnati, Ohio. am on twenty-five now, so, if you are not entirely insane upon th subject, you must clearly perceive that I can not be the per gon that you assume to think I am.” “ You are playing a desperate game, Lina, but it‘will not succeed, boldly as you play,” Jemmison replied. “ You know me of old; you should remember that I have an iron will, and that 1 seldom forget either my friends or my foes, In this world, so far, I have always succeeded in paying my debts with one exception: I owe you something.” Cold and calm as was the tone ef the man, it struck a chill to the heart of the woman. With an involuntary motion she retreated behind the rocking-chair, and for a moment looked as though she intended to cry for assistance. A contemptuous smile came over Jemmison’s features, as he divined the half-formed purpose of the woman, so apparent in her face. “You guess very readily for an entire stranger what that something is,” Jemmison continued. = ct | re that you menace me,” the actress retorted, vgn “and I freely confess that I believe you to be crazy, and it is little wonder that I am alarmed.” “You are resolved then to deny your identity?” Jemmison continued, “No, not my identity, but that Iam the woman whom yeu once knew, and whom you call Lina Aton,” Miss Desmond answered. “Tt is useless to deny the truth; you are Lina Aton, the shop-girl of Division street, who, some eighteen years ago, married a young medical] student named Neil Jemmison.” As should imagine that you are going to relate a romance, to jndge from the beginning,” the actress said, contemptu- ously. “Few romances equal the stern realities of actual ‘life,” Jemmison replied, “ but perhaps it will be plainer to you if 1 adopt the plan of the eastern story-teller, and under garb of fiction tell you truth.” “Will you leave me and go away?” Miss Desmond ex- claimed, petulantly. ‘ Again and again I deny that I am the person you know. My name is Ellen Desmond; two months ago 1 eame to New York for the first time, and: 1 have never even heard of a woman called Lina Aton.” “You may deceive the world, but you cannot deceive me,” Jemmison replied, firmly. ‘“ Now listen to the story of your life, and declare it false if you can. Twenty years ago you were a shop girl in Division street ; you formed a chance ac- uaintance with a young medical student, then boarding in ast Broadway near Market street, and after a courtship of two years you married him. Three years of wedded life fol- lowed ; a child was born during those three years, and in that time tle husband learned to hate the woman whom he had sworn at the altar to love and protect. He found thatthe little hrown-haired angel—” “ Brown hair!” cried the actress, suddenly, interrupting Jemmison’s romance. “Yes, brown hair.” ** And mine is golden !” she cried, in a tone of triumph. “* My story will account for that,” he replied, calmly. Just a single flash of fire came from the eyes of the actress; it was in her heart to kill the man who confronted her so coldly, and who wore to her the face of a judge and the heart of an executioner. The did not escape the keen eyes of Jemmison; it was to him as if the mask that covered the face before him had been cast aside for a second and then suddenly aced. “To resume my ‘romance,’ the young, tender, and loving husband discovered, a short time after his marriage, that’ his wife had far more of the demon than of the angel in her com- position. He was a man of the world; poor, he had felt the teeth of adversity ; careless, reckless, he had braved hard for- tune, and wrested content even from privation, and such a mn was not to be made a fool of, even by the womar that he loved. When he discovered that the girl whom he thought pure, innocent and guileless was but a desperate adventuress; that, instead of his being the first love of her young heart, as she had so often protested between her onate kisses, he was the second or the tenth, maybe—for he had discovered posi- ---———,
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28 _ Gentleman ‘George. tive proof that slic’ lad at Ieast one husband if not more, and that that husband was still living—that she had willfully and deliberately lied to him, his love changed to indifference; but she was his wife, and he determined that, whatever her career had been in the past, she should Jead a life without reproach inthe future. And then came a child, strangely unlike either the mother or father, with blue eyes and light hair, All the love Neil Jemmison had felt for the woman, who proved so unworthy, he gave to the child. When the infant was some two months old, the father became convinced that the mother designed to fly from her home and. take the child with her. He openly accused the woman, and swore a bitter oath that if she did steal his child he would hunt her down and_ kill her with his own hand, even if she fled to the very ends of the earth. She, biding her time, fled at last, and robbed the tather of, his child, and what was worse, she contrived to baffle all pursuit.” ..“ Your romance, then, as far as the woman is concerned, ends here,” Miss Desmond said, not a trace of agitation visible upon her marble-like face. ‘No; [use the privilege of the stor y-teller, and can easily relate her career,’ Jemmison answered, calmly, ‘‘ When she fled from her husband she went west, and sought concealment in some small city. A skillful seamstress, she easily supported herself. Some four years ago, chance led her to adopt the stage as x profession. She called herself Ellen Desmond, had her hair bleached from brown to gold, and with caustic com- pounds burned away the small mole on the left cheek, and the two moles on the right arm, the marks which might serve to identify her if any one who knew her in the past should hep- pen to see her in her new vocation. That chance came to puss, On the stage, the scene of her triumphs, turning with a smile upon her face, from acknowledging a tribute of flow- ers, she caught sight of the man in the audience whose. pres- ence there boded danger to her. And then, three hours later, descending from the Maison Doree to her. carriage, she came face to face with him, so near that she could almost feel his breath upon her cheek. Again she trembled, for now she un- derstood that she was recognized.. Like Macbeth, she was tied and could not fly, and so, desperate, she resolved to brave the danger. At last the threatened blow came. At first she denied herself to him; refused to see him, but finding that he would not go away, she, at last forced to the wall, determined to take refuge in her old resource, a maze of lies. She per- mitted Neil Jemmison to see her; denied her identity ; pointed for proof to her golden hair, and her young-looking face, for- etting that, despite the effect of the alteration of her locks, rom. brown to, gold, ler face for twenty years has hardly changed a particle, and is the strongest evidence of her iden- tity.’ ' The actress had listened attentively to the words of her vis- itor; and during his recital the expression upon her face had never changed. A lion-heart the woman bore within her breast, if, indeed, as Neil Jemmison asserted, she was Lina Aton. “ And I suppose that it only remains for you to kill me ac- cording to, your oath, and.so end the romance in the approved manner,” she said; “ put I warn you, sir, that there are half- a-dozen persons in the house within reach of my voice; and if you attempt to molest me, I shall call for assistance. i will not submit to be murdered by a madman.” Jemmison shook his head. “ Eighteen years have made me wiser than I was,” he spoke quite deliberately, no trace of passion in his voice or manner, “Tam content now to leave you to Heaven’s justice. I have sought yos for one object only ; I desire to learn what has be- come of my child ?” CHAPTER XXXIV... THE JURY. Tux twelve men who composed the jury filed slowly into the -room; the foreman locked the door behind him, and the deliberation as to the innocence or guilt of Gentleman George commenced. The jury-room, with its one long table and its twelve chairs, and the hot beams of the sun streaming in through the win- dow-blinds, was. not a remarkably inviting place; and each one of the twelve men who formed the jury mentally wished, as he looked around him, that the stay behind the locked door would not be a very lengthy one, Twelve men, good and true, anda fellow being’s fate in their hands. And who were the twelve men whose verdict would either give Gentleman George to the world again or else confi- » him ‘toa convict’s cell, or maybe give his neck to the ha»gman’s noose ? Andrew Hamersley, dry goods clerk, foreman of the jury, a lively go-ahead business-man of thirty-five; Isaac Jones, coach-maker, a steady, middle-aged Enylishman; James Eg- bert, carman, a stolid-looking man of forty ; Benjamin Haight, suddiler, a. little, dried-up man of thirty-five, or thereabouts, with a sober, honest face; Samuel Peape painter, an intelli- gent-looking young fellow ; Michael Fallum, salesman—hard- ware, a young Irishman, twenty-eight or so; William Kemble, watchmaker, a high-bearded gentleman, of forty-four; John Ramsay, banker’s clerk, a dashy young man of twenty-three; Patrick Spence, liquors (keeper ‘of a low corner groggery, ‘up town,”) a bull-headed, 1ron-Jawed man; Daniel Nitchfe, junk dealer, a fat-faced, common-looking foreigner, forty-seven, or thereabouts; Peter Murray, broker, bald-headed, oily and middle-aged; Marinus Blake, grocery clerk, a duli-faced Ger- man of twenty-one. It was a pretty fair jury, as juries go, although the counsel for the government had objected to both Patrick Spence (liquors) and Daniel Nitchie (junk dealer); and the counsel for the prisoner—the Three-Decker—had objected, vehemently to all of the jury except to the two men mentioned above. The District Attorney had objected to the two men really because he had an idea that the keeper of a low liquor saloon patronized by thieves and roughs, and a dealer in junk, always open to the suspicion of trading with the Rats of the River in stolen property, would not be apt to convict a criminal, no matter how plain his guilt might appear. And the Three- Decker had objected to each of the ten men, against whose honesty or respectability no word could be said, because he felt assured that his client would not receive “ jus- tice” at their hands, as they would be apt to find him guilty if the evidence’ went that way, no matter how artfully he might interpose the cobwebs of legal lore to blind their vis ion. But the twelve men were duly qualified, and now in solemn conclave they deliberated upon their verdict, The foreman of the jury, busy, straightforward Mr. Ham- ersley, proceeded at once to the business in hand. “ Now, gentlemen,” he said, pulling one of the twelve chairs to the head of the table, and sitting down, ‘‘ let us get to work right away. I suppose that you all agree with me that the quicker we settle this matter, and are set free to attend to our own affairs, the better.” Each one of the jury at once signified that they were in per- fect accord with this sentiment. “ And as the shortest way is generally the best, let us ascer- tain how we stand upon the question before us,” the foreman continued. ‘‘If you will have the goodness to draw your chairs up to the table, gentlemen, I will poll you as to your opinions.” The eleven men took their chairs, and seated themselves at the table in obedience to Mr. Hamersley’s suggestion. ‘*For my own part I have fully made up my mind,” Ham- ersley said, after the rest were seated. “I believe that this man is guilty of the killing of the policeman; and I think that our verdict ought to be murder in the first degree. All who agree with me will please hold up their hands.” Up went seven hands in the air. Jones, Egbert, Haight, Delap, Fallum, Kemble and Ramsay agreed with the foreman; Spence, Nitchie, Murray and Blake dissented. **Now we know how we stand; eight to four,” Hamersley continued; ‘‘and we must settle this matter by argument. We eight should be pleased to learn what the ideas of you four are on this subject. I presume that is the easiest way to settle the thing, isn’t it, gentlemen?” The foreman appealed to the seven whose hands had gone up in the air, As one man the seven nodded assent. “T will commence in regular order, and take the gentleman nearest to me, and so on,’ Hamersley announced. ‘‘ Now, sir,” addressing Spence, “ what verdict are you willing to give ?” “TI dont know, sur, exactly,” replied Spence. “I don’t think that the murder was deliberate, d’ ye mind? It was a foight; the perlice were a-firin’ at him, an’ sure, it was only human nature for him to hit back.” “You think that it should be murder in the second degree ?” the foreman asked. “Tm doubtful in my mind,” Spence replied; “but I’m ag’in’ hanging the man. Maybe I’d be willing to bring it iv manslaughter.” “And how do you feel in regard to it?” asked Hamersley, turning to Nitchie. “T agree mit dis shendlemans,” replied Nitchie, with his strong foreign ‘accent. The junk-dealer was not really a receiver of stolen goods— that is, he would not buy them knowing them to be the pro- ducts of a robbery, out he never asked any questions, and it went against his conscicnce to convict a “ Rat” for shooting one of that class of men who had so often interfered with his business by reason of frightening away his customers. Hamersley understood at once that this settled the matter as far as Nitchie’s reason was concerned. “And your sentiments on this subject ?” addressing Murray, who sat next to Hamersley on the left of the table. “T am really in doubt as to some points in the evidence against this man,” said Murray, whose mind, used to legal subtleties, and quick to admire the genius which turns wrong into right, and makes black quite light-colored, if not entirely white, had given due weight to the ingenious argument of Counselor Watt. P “ What points?” demanded Hamersley, with business-like directness. : Now, although the plausible words of the t legal lumin- ary who conducted the defense, had due effect on Murray’s mind, yet, when he came to think them over, as & preliminary to explaining his reason for objecting to the verdict of murder in the first degree, he suddenly discovered that he had taken upon himself an extremely difficult task, and, although to his own mind, the reasons seemed strong enough, yet when he un- dertook to frame them into words, he saw how weak they would appear. = like many an abler man, he took refuge in glittering gen- eralities. ; “ Well, 1 am no lawyer,” Murray said, with an air of great
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Gentleman ‘George. 29 dignity, ‘‘ nor gifted with the eloquence necessary for & man who rises in public to explain in terse and forcible language the sentiments which—which, I may say, gentlemen, I feel within my bosom—” and then the broker paused in confusion, and commenced to mop his bald head, vigorously, with his red silk handkerchief. “ But, what verdict would you be willing to agree to ?” per- sisted the foreman, impatiently. Hamersley was a plain man of business, and didn’t believe in using ten words where five would do, “ Well—I—am really unable.to say,” the broker said. ‘*I should prefer to hear opinions of all the other gentlemen expressed:;” and then Murray smiled benignantly at the rest of the jury. “Eight of us have expressed our opinivn pretty plainly}” the foreman reminded him. “We th that. the prisoner is guilty of deliberate murder, and that he ought to be hung. Two men are in favor ofa lighter punishmeut. | There is only one more gentiéman to hear from. What is your opinion, sir?” Hamersley addressed Blake (grocery clerk), who sat at the foot of the table facing the foreman. I think that he is innocent and ought to be let go.” There was a general start of amazement at this answer. CHAPTER XXXV.: FINDING A VERDICT. For a minute at least eleven jurymen sat and stared at the twelfth, amazement written on each face, . And as for the man who had created such a ripple of as- tonishment, so to speak, he sat with stolid face, as if uncon- scious of the effect that his words had produced. Blake was hardly moré than an overgrown boy, and from his face it was plainly evident that he was not gifted with any extra amount of brains. But, from his.dull, stolid face, one would have been apt to regard him more as a fool than a rogue. ‘Really, I confess I am not sure that I understand your remark, sir,” the foreman of the jury said. “Did you say yon panes the prisoner was innocent and ought to be ac- uitte iar That’s what I said,” Blake replied, placidly. “ Well, sir, 1 am at a loss to guess by what process of rea- oe you can arrive at any such conclusion !” Hamersley exclaimed, in amazement. Blake did not reply. ‘* Perhaps our friend at the lower end of the table believes, from the evidence of the old man and the wife of the pri- soner, that he was not present when the officer was shot?” wy ee the broker, in his smooth, oily way. /, ake made no answer to this implied explanation or ex- cuse for his opinion. He was leaning on his elbow on the table, resting the side of his head on his hand and staring va- cantly up at the ceiling. After waiting a little while, and finding that Blake did eo intend to say any thing, the foreman spoke up, with de- ion: ' “ Well, gentlemen, for my part 1 don’t believe a word of their testimony! Nor do I think that it is at all worthy of belief. I’ma New York boy, born and bred here, and, to my certain knowledge, when any of these rascals get into trouble the rest of the gang will swear to any thing to get him out. They will stick to one another.” “So do the perlicemen,” said Spence, (liquors), gruffly; **the half of them are as bad as the thieves. It’s in the same boat they are.” “ Dat ish so,” affirmed Nitchie, (junk-dealer.) “ Well, that is not my experience, gentlemen,” observed an- other of the jurymen, Jones, (coach-maker,) who had all the English respect for the men in authority. **I don’t see that this question has any thing to do with the case in hand at all!” the foreman remarked, impatiently, “The strong evidence against the prisoner is the testimony = Shea, who was with him in the boat and saw him fire the shot.’ “Shure he’s a cowardly informer!” exclaimed Spence, bit- terly. ‘* What has that got to do with it?” demanded Hamersley, in astonishment. “ An informer’s worse than a thief!” A certain instance was still fresh in the mind of the liquor-dealer of how a party who had a grudge against him nad once procured ‘“‘ drinks” of him on Sunday and then had gone straight to the police-station and “informed ” on him. ‘*Dat ish true,” the junkman assented, gravely. He like- wise had once got into trouble by reason of an informer. “But the man was under oath,” Egbert (carman) said, in a stubborn sort of way, as if that fact was enough to carry conviction to any one. “ Shure I wouldn’t belave an informer if he swore on a stack of Bibles!” cried Spence, indignantly. “ Gentlemen, we are wandering from the subject!” Hamer- sley declared. ‘‘ Gentlemen, I move that the gentleman at the foot of the table give us his reason for assuming that the prisoner is innocent.” ‘* Yes, yes,” muttered three or four of the majority. “ Now, sir, if you will have the kindness to satisfy our curi- esity upon this point, we'll be obliged to you, and perhaps, too, we shall be able to convince you that the stand you have taken is untenable.” , “Give us your rason, man, anyway!” exclaimed Spence, who felt curious upon the point. The juror, thus directly addressed, suffered hm eyes to come down from the ceiling a moment and rest upon the faces now turned toward him in curious expectation. “T sha’n’t tell,” said Blake, laconically. The eleven jurymen certainly were astonished. “ Gentlemen!” exclaimed the foreman, in despair, “it is no use wasting time after such an ‘answer as that. I move that we report to the court that we can not agree.” “There’s no lie in that!” Spence observed. «But, see here, gentlemen’! cried Jones, (coachmaker), rising in his earnestness, ‘*the Judge’ will never allow us to be dismissed until we do come to some sort of a verdict, or take a proper time to discuss the matter. Why, we have not been out over half an hour. I confess the case seems to me to be a very clear one, and that there is no doubt of the prisoner's guilt, although some of the jury may differ with me in regard! to the extent of the punishment.” Mr. Jones bowed to Spence, Nitchie and Murray. “If the young man at the end of the table has any doubts upon the | mat- ters, let him tell the foreman, and he can apply to the Judge and get the desired information: I’ve seen that done in cases ‘where I have been on the jury before and they did not quite , . Jones then sat down, and again every eye was fixed upon the stubborn juror, but he showed no indication of asking for information. , “Well, any thing that you want me to ask the Judge ?” the wrlnke shook his head, but dia not speak. i lake shook his , bu not § 1 footy “Oh, let’s go in the — ark what’s the use of foolin’ like this ?”’ Spence cried, impatiently. — “The man might give his reasons,” Haight (saddler) said, coaxing ly. a «Vis, wan of us might change his mind if he had good r’s- son for it to the fore,” Spence observed. P q But Blake never changed his position, nor allowed his eyes to wander from the ceiling. ords were evidently wasted upon him. rif “ Gentlemen!” said the foreman, rising, “ is it agreed, then, that we go back to the court-room and inform the Judge that we can not agree and ask to be discharged ?” ‘he jurymen, with the exception of Blake, all looked at each other for a moment, and then, one after the other, nod- ded their heads to Hamersley. Blake never st The foreman gave the obstinate juror one last chance. “Is that your wish, too, sir?” Thus directly addressed, Blake nodded. \ Then the jury filed back into the court. A hum of conversation passed around the court-room a the jury entered, but as they took their seats a dead silence succeeded, The Judge laid down the legal papers, which he had been perusing, and took a look at the jury. A single glanee at the troubled countenance of the foreman of tlie twelve men, ‘ good and true,” and the Judge instantly uessed that the jury had not been able to agree. An impa ient frown came over his face, as in his mind there was no doubt of the prisoner’s guilt. Briefly the foreman stated that the jury had not been able to agree. The Judge was not —— given to speech-making, but on this occasion he rather “Jet himself out,” and gave the jury such a reproof asa jury rarely gets; and at its close he told the jury to retire and not to come back until they did agree, adding, significantly, that before morning they would probably manage to find a verdict, but not to hurry themselves on bis account, as he was used to —Tt Back again to their dingy apartment the twelve men went, and again resumed their seats. Most of the jury felt that the Judge’s reproof was de- served, but Spence was as angry as a disturbed hornet. ‘‘He manes to lock us up until we do agree!” he ex- claimed, in exasperation. ‘‘ Bad ’cess to him! I change m vote this minite! 1 say the man is not guilty now, and!’ stick to it, if I stay here till I rot!” CHAPTER XXXVI. A REMARKABLE JURY. NeaRty all of the jurymen were struck aghast at the abrupt declaration of the Irishman. ‘““T repeat it!’ Spence cried, glaring around him as if with intent to pick a quarrel with some one; “the man is not guilty, and that blaggard of a Judge can’t make me go back of re if I stay here till I’m carried out feet furst, d’ye mind ?” “ But surely you wouldn’t alter your opinion simply be cause you think that the Judge is disposed to be a little se- vere?” the foreman asked, in astonishment. ‘« May the divil fly away wid me if I bring him in guilty, now!” cried Spence, doggedly. ‘Is it for the likes of a man like the Judge for to sit on the bench an’ as good as say that we’re no betier than a pack of fools, bekase we can’t agree?” Eee — I, | |
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80 Gentleman George. EEE eee ’ “I think that you are putting it too strongly, sir,” Jones said, mildly. ‘‘Iam sure I do not consider that the Judge used any reprehensible language. He simply said that it was our duty to find a verdict, and that the case appeared to him to be perfectly plain and clear. And, for my part, I fully agree with the Judge there. I do not understand how any one could listen to the evidence and not be perfectly satisfied that this man Dominick not only killed the officer, but in- tended to do 80; or, at least, to put the affair in its mildest form-—intended to disable him.” ** You 'belave that dirty informer!” cried Spence, shaking his fist wildly in excitement. “ Most decidedly I do.” “Well, I don’t!” exclaimed Spence; ‘‘an’ I’m not going = hang any man on the word of such a rapparee as this hea,” “Ah; but my dear sir, you are not obliged to hang him, u know,” Murray, the oily, bald-headed broker, interposed. *I myself have grave doubts, but L. should be willing to bring in a verdict that would send this man up to the State prison for a term of. years. It is clearly our duty to protect society from the assaults of these ruffians,” and then Mr, Murray Tubbed his hands together, softly, and smiled beamingly upon ‘his fellow-jaryinen. “Oh, yes!” retorted Spenceyscornfully; “it’s a ruffian he fs bekuse he’s poor. If he wor a rich chap, living in wan of the brown-stone fronts we Fifth avenue, maybe you would- pt be so aisy about it. it’s twinty years le’ll get now if we bring in @ verdict ag’in’ him.” , “Gents, to speak classically, there’s a good deal of chin music ia this crowd, but it takes money to buy whisky,” said Delap (painter), one of the jury who had not previously spoken. PDs. peculiar remark eaused the rest of the jurymen to open their eyes, with the exception of the German, Blake, re had quietly seated himseif in the comer, and seemed to be half-asleep. ap had'a good deal of what is usually called the “ Bowery- Boy” style about him im person; be was a thick-set, mus- cular young fellow with an honest, intelligent-looking face, * As IL have said, gents, there’s bin a good deal of talk,” he continued, in the easy and measured way so common to the born and bred New Yorker. ‘Now for my part, [’ll allow that I’m kinder sick of ,an’ L move that we settle this business right = As far as I kin see in. election, there’s of us solid for murder in the first degree, and four that ‘that way, so I jest think that we eight ought to knock under to the other four s0 that we can find a verdict.” “What!” cried Hamersiey, in astonishment. “No, no, no!’ exclaimed the old coach-maker, rising in excitement. “T'll be hanged if Ido!” said the carman, bluntly. ** Oh, ain’ that all O. K.?” asked the painter, pretending ‘to be very much astonished. “ Hadn’t eight out to knuckle to four? No?—vwell, p’raps it ought to be the other way; the four ought to yield to the eight,” A murmur of assent went up from the eight at this, but the four mentioned did not seem to relish the i “The four are not solid,’ Haight, the saddler, said. ‘ There are two for avquittal and two for conviction.” “ Dat ish not so,” the junk-man said... ‘‘ I agrees mit mine friend here,” and Nitchie bowed to Spencer. ‘1 change mine vote,” “Aha!” cried Spence, exultingly; ‘‘there’s another man that isn’t going to be walked over by this scut of a Judge.” “Three for aequittal, eight: for murder in the first degree, and one for manslaughter,” Hamersley said. ‘ That is cor- rect, I believe?” % ,” Murray, the broker, observed slowly, “I believe that I must change my vote,” “ Oho!” exclaimed Spence, “it’s four to eight we are! Oh, l all:come to the four after a while!” ‘*No, sir!’ exclaimed Murray, drawing himself up, and weg Bag ar yom “T do not change in that way, sir. From what the Judge said I perceive clearly that I was wroug in thinking that a verdict of manslaughter could be found accord- tothe evidence in this case. The deed was not committed ‘without. premeditation, and there was no sudden excitement. No, sir, | am for a verdict of murder in the first degree.” Then Murray, who had risen at the first of his speech, sat down perfectly satisfied ; at last he had created a sensation. “ Nine to three, then,” Hamersley remarked. ‘*Gentlemen, I think that yon ought to come round to our views upon this subject,” Kemble said, mildly. He was the watchmaker and had not spoken before. “Suppose we compromise upon a verdi¢tiof murder in the second degree,” Ramsay (clerk) suggested. “He probably would be sentenced to imprisonment for life; and really, — the man deserves it, I think that L should prefer not to ng him.” “And your opinion, sir?’ Ramsay addressed the junk- man. “ Dis shentlemans speaks for me,” replied Nitchie. “ As there doesn’t seem to be any prospect of our agreeing upon a verdict, | suppose that we will have to remain here = the Judye’s patience is worn out,’ Hamersley exclaimed jisgust. “ We’re booked for the night, then!” Egbert: (carman) ex- eiaimed. “1 hope that youre satisfied—you fellow in tne corner there, This is all your doing. You ought to be locked up fora week, and fed on:bread and water.” ‘*Ob, don't say any thing about eating!’ Delap, the painter, eried. “The Judge 1s riled, and if we don’t fetch in a verdict we'll get no square meal until we're discharged to-morrow, and it’s all your fault, young feller!” Blake never heeded their angry words or looks, but gazed at them stolidly. P . “T hope you'll be half-starved before morning!” growled ones. Then a dim sort of smile crept slowly over the face of the obstinate juror. | “Tl not go hungry,” he said, and then deliberately drew “| huge Bologna sausage from his pocket, and held it up to the view of the rest. “Oh!” yelled the astonished jurymen in a sort of chorue. Blake replaced the sausage in his pocket, and surveyed. his fellow-jurors placidly. “Gents!” cried Delap (the painter), springing excitedly to his feet, “if we're locked up ‘here until morning all on/aceount of this slab-sided guloot, and he attempts to chew that com- pound of boiled dorg while 1: have to go hungry, fll t mount onto my hind legs and comb his wool for him if they send me up to the Island fur a month fur it!” A dim look of alarm came over Blake’s dull features at the angry words of the excited Bowery Boy, aud seerethy he began to wish he had kept the sausage in his pocket. Time wore on; the gas was lighted, yet the jury were no nearer an agreement than before. Arguments were wasted upon the three obaijngte jurors, who stood out so sturdily for the prisoner’s inno¢ence of the ¢harge brought against him. At last Hamersley, perceiving that there was no possible ee of the jury agreeing, sent word to the Judge to that effect. His Honor was savage; he had missed bis regular dinner hour, and for no purpose. wt CHAPTER XKXVII. BLAKE'S REASON. Pe 0: D and worn out the jurymen looked as they filed into e OX, The court-room was lit up, and all the spectators stared anxiously upon the twelve men who held the fate of: Gentle- man George in their hands. The Judge alone knew how unsatisfacters the reecit of the ~~. deliberation had been. nd then, when the foreman, Hamersley, rose in answer to the question, and announced that the jury had been unable to agree, a little murmur of astonishment followed. Sternly the Judge ran his,eyes over the faces of the jurymen as he put the question to the foreman: did he think that they could agree upon a verdict if they were allowed more time to deliberate upon the matter? Hamersley instantly replied that in his judgment there was no possible chance of their agree- ing upon a verdict, and the faces of the rest of the jurymen plainly indicated that they agreed fully with the opinion of their spokesman. Then, with a few biting, sarcastic words, the Judge dis- ‘missed the jury, and the trial of Gentleman George was ended. Great was the disgust of the District Attorney—a feeling that was shared by Judge Bruyn, who had really done nearly all of the hard work of the trial, and who confidently expected that the prisoner would be convicted of murder in the first degree. Of the prisoner’s guilt he had no doubt In some mysterious way, not warranted by the evidence, he found that his judgment had been influenced against the society brigand. As « general thing he regarded a law trial as a game of chess wherein he might exhibit his skill, and when the contest was over he cared nothing as to the fate of thechessmen, But, in this affair, aumost before he was aware of it, he found himself regarding the prisoner in the light of a personal enemy—one whom he had sworn to hunt down into his grave. _And when after the trial was ended, the Judg@ sat in his library at midnight—he had escorted Miss vesmona home that evening in company with Medham—and thought over the events of the trial and the respite of the prisoner, he caught himself muttering that it was not for long, and that sooner or later he would have Gentleman George by the hip, and either east him into the snaky gripe of the hangman's hempen noose, or into the State prison for life And then the question came up in the Judge’s mind why he wished evil to Gentleman George. The wily, subtle Jawyer and slippery politician juggled with himself; accustomed to hoodwink the world, he tried to;de- ceive even himself. ‘* He’s a rascal, and deserves to be hung!” he exclaimed aloud, and then to the mind of Bruyn came thought of the strange resemblance that the prisoners bere to some one tha. ” he had once known. “ } must have been very familiar with the person, whoever it is, or else the resemblance would not strike me so strougly. Twenty times to-day at least have 1 ht myself looking at that man and wondering who on earth it was that he looked like. It is very strange indeed, I'll have to hang him though for all that.” And with this reflection the Judge went to bed. Naturally, the nove ee of the day after the trial of Gentleman George had e , contained a full account of the oceedings, and not only that, but the industrious reporters had suoceeded in.“ interviewing’’ most of the jury, and soe
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fall repyrt of nearly all that had taken place in the jury-room was given freely to the public. And the journals, too, hed commented in very plain terms upon the course pursued by the three obstinate jurymen. Spence was in a fever of passion about the terms applied. to himself and the other two who had stood out for the prisoner’s innocence, and openly proclaimed that if he could only kill a newspaper-man he should die happy. The comments of the outspoken journals did not trouble Blake or Nitchie much, for they never took the trouble to _ read the newspapers at all And the prying reporters, too, had found hard nuts to crack when they attempted to extract information from either of the two foreigners. Nitchie was polite but reserved; Blake was dull and said nothing at all. Gentleman George was sent back to his cell, and he slept better that night than he had done since he had entered the gloomy portals of the Tombs, The next morning the eminent Three-Decker called. upon him. He found George perusing the morning papers. The lawyer was in excellent spirits. 3 Heating an account of the trial, eh ?” the counselor said, ‘ es,” - phys fellow Blake stood out like a Trojan, didn’t he?” By the way, George, between you and me and the. bed- post,” said the lawyer, sinking his voice confidentially, ‘‘ how mreh did it cost you to fix him ?” ‘Nothing at all!” exclaimed George in astonishment; ‘‘why, did yo5 think that I had tampered with him?” “ Weil, Thad an idea that way,” replied the lawyer, who was considerably mystified. ‘‘ He refused to reason upon the subject at all. The Sun comes right out and declares the jury were tampered with, of course not giving names, and the Times hints pretty strongly that it thinks so too.” “Yes, I have read the article in the Times; but now, how are we?” “ Well, George, the prospects are that we can push your case off for a year or 80, and perhaps get you released on bail Haye to wait, you know, unt the interest in the affair dies out and the newspapers get howling after some one else, Ah! George, in the good old time we had a ring through the noses of nearly all these newspaper fellows, and we used to make ‘em sing a different tune. Keep your spirits, up, though; the old Judge won’t have you in his clutches next time, I hope, and we'll get a fairer show for our money. By-by,” and the ponderous counselor withdrew. Hardly had he gone when Hero, George’s wife, came in. Hero had changed a great deal; she had grown thinner and ler, and it was plain to be seen that the trial of Gentleman eorge was killing the gentle, loving woman, the partner of his sorrows. “Good-morning, my dear!” exclaimed George, rising and kissing her. “ You see that I am not done for yet, no journey up the river or chance to dance upon nothing for a good six months yet, and the counselor thinks that in time, he may be able to get me out on bail. Have you read an account of how the ury stood * “The obstinacy of that dull-looking fellow saved me; the chances are that the other two would have agreed upon mur- der in the first degree if they had had the whole ten solid against them.” “ It was cheap at fifty dollars, wasn’t it?” Hero asked. ** What was cheap?” George exclaimed, in astonishment, “ Why, that man’s obstinacy.” “ What has fifty dollars to do with it?” “Simply that he understood that if the jury disagreed, if te were acquitted, it would be fifty dollars in his pocket!” a — sib ‘**Oho!” George cried, adm ly; “* managed to reach the Gio then and ‘ square’ bins? ae a “ es,” “‘ How did you do it? He seemed a stupid sort of donkey to get at.” “Through his sweetheart. As soon as he saves up money enough to open a grocery store he is to be married. [ discoy- ered the girl, a shrewd, grasping German, She jumped at the offer at once ; fifty dollars was a large sum. What did either she or her lover care about justice as long as they were not troubled? I gave the girl twenty-five dollars, and agreed to give her the other twenty-five at the end of the trial, if you were not found guilty,” rg y Jove! you are a jewel of a woman!” cried George, put- ting his arms around her exultingly. “ And yet, you have ceased to love me,” she said, reproach- fully, but submitting to his caress, “ You love this actress Miss Desmond; I know all about it now; and you havea rival too—Judge Bruyn, the man who did his best to have you pune because he wants this golden-haired doll for himself. oe ove came near destroying you, while mine was your sal- on, CHAPTER XXXVIII, THY | ANSWER. Tm actress, leaning on the back of the chair, unconsciously assuming an attitude that was grace itself, looked with a frowning face upon the determined man. She did not answer Gentleman George. 81 the question that he had put, though ; but silence was.as frult- Jess as her earnest protest that she was not.the woman that Neil Jemmison sought. “ Come, madam, answer my. question,” Jemmison said, sternly. ‘“ What has become,of my child?” ne , The eyes of the actress flashed fire, and with an imperious bearing, she drew.her little form up to. its full hight. ‘*It is useless, I perceive, to attempt to reason with a mad- aman !”’ she exclaimed, angrily. ‘ For the last time I tell you! that lam not the person whom you seek. .My name is not and never was Lina Aton. I never saw zon before in all m life, and I sincerely trust, now that I have seen you, I shall never be obliged to suffer the pain of a second interview with ou.” . Jemmison, paying no heed to the angry and scornful words of the woman, advanced toward her. ‘*My child!’ he cried, sternly, and with an angry menace visible.in both his voice and manner, “ tell me where she is, if she is living; or, if dead, where her bones rest. Tell me, or it may be the worse for you. You are a bold, heartless wom- an, and now that you are upon the top round of the ladder of fame, that, the cup of. triumph is at your lips, it would be s righteous act for any hand to dash the eee the lips and to shake, the. ladder until you fall again into the mire from whence you came.” “Leave my, room, you. insolent ,ruffian!” exclaimed the actress, shutting her little white teeth closely together, and pointing defiantly toward the deor. “ I will no longersubmit to your impertinence. If you do not instantly depart I will send for the pollens possibly a few hours’ detention in a sta- tion-house will bring you to your genges.” ‘‘That is an excellent idea,’ Jemmison said, dryly, and with the words, he helped himself to a chair and sat down. Miss Desmond surveyed him in anger and amazement blended. The conduct of the man mans, her. “Proceed, madam,” he continued; “ send for the police, or, if you desire it, i myself will give the order to your ser- vant.’ Just a single gleam of fire came from the eyes of the woman ; it.was in her heart to kill the man. who faced her so ealmly and so stubbornly. “Bir, will you be satisfied with my denial and leave my apartment? Ido not. desire to be obliged to press.a charge against you before a police magistrate |” ‘‘And I, for my part, am quite willing that the officers of justice should come,” Jemmison replied. “ And as to an- swering any charge made by you, I fancy that it will trouble you a great deal more to answer to the accusation that I shall bring against you when once we are before the bar of jus- tice.’ Just a light shade of anxiety passed rapidly across the charming face of the actress, but then in a moment it was suc- ceeded by a grimace of contempt. ; TT? oF Conne you will repeat the absurd statement Pap have just made to me,” she said, contemptuously; “ you will declare that I am your runaway wife; that twenty or forty years ago —one is as likely asthe other—I absconded from you and took our child with me. And even supposing it is all true—that am the Woman you say I am, I think I Eadw enough of the law to be assured that I cannot be troubled for any acts like those I have just spoken of.” ‘* Now I am quite sure that you are Lina Aton!” Jemmison exclaimed. ‘'A woman who had never run away from her husband would not be so fully informed in regard to the law bearing upon her offense.” Miss Desmond's lip curled, but she did not speak. ‘* You think that legally I cannot trouble you ?” “T have nothing to do with you at all in any way, sir,” the actress replied disdainfully ; “ but to answer the question you have just put, I do not think it requires a great deal of legal knowledge to guess that no woman can betroubled much for leaving her husband whom she dislikes.” __ : “* Quite aptly put,” Jemmison said, reflectively ; ‘‘ it ¢¢ rather odd, when you come to consider it, that a wife can leave the man who supports her, and who, to a certain extent, is re- sponsible for her debts, and who cannot dispose of a single bit of property without her signature, although she may never have contributed to earning said property, and that the bas- band is perfectly helpless to restrain his wife or to compel her to return to him.” : The actress listened impatiently to this reflection upon the laws of “Our Country,” and apparently did not feel at all interested in the subject. “ Now, sir, will you go away, and not subject me to any more annoyance ?” she exclaimed, fretfully. _ “T haven’t got through with the legal question yet,” he re- plied, placidly. Miss Desmond gave just a little start of surprise, and again her face grew dark with rage. Her unwelcome visitor was not disposed of yet. : “ Your legal knowledge is so very extensive upon this sub- ject of husband versus wife, that really I hesitate to inform you there is a »way in which a husband may detain an ab- sconding wife, and, for a time, at least, put her in a very un- pleasant position,’ Jemmison said, coldly, but with a latent touch of sarcasm in his voice. The actress cast a searching glance upon her unwelcome visitor. It was evident that she was puzzled. “The law is a very curious affair,” Jemmison continued, in his cold, unimpassible way. ‘‘I once heard a very able legal gentleman say that he defied human brains to frame # la he could not find a way to evade. To illustrate, I = —
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Be Gentleman George. 0 eea———————_— will take Gur own case. I, before’ a ‘magistrate, accuse you. First, you are my wife who fled from me years ago, beeriie my child with you; that amounts to nothing in the eyes o the law; second, I accuse you of larceny, stealing valuable articles not onl belonging to me, but to others, and on that charge I can hold you.’ Just for a moment the little white teeth of the actress clenched tightly together. She felt that she was no match for the man who sat before her. Wildly and desperately she sought for some way to break the net which Jemmison's skillful hand had cast around her, but wit and artifice alike failed her. ** Well, what is it to be?” Jemmison asked, after ome silence ; “ will you call the police or answer the question asked ?” * You have me at 8 disadvantage, sir,” Miss Desmond ex- claimed, angrily § “you fully understand how such a charge as you would bring against me would hurt my professional reputation. Again and again I deny that I am the woman you seek.” “Tet that point go} answer me as to the child.” ‘*] can only answer that I have no child living; will thas content you?” the actress asked, desperately. Jemmison rose from his seat ‘and advancing to the actress looked her full in the eye. “You swear that you speak the truth?” the “ Doctor” de- manded, impressively. “As' L hope for ‘mercy hereafter!” Miss Desmond replied, earnestly. Jemmison’s lip curled as he turned away. A woman who had not hesitated to commit the worst of crimes in this life was not likely'to be troubled much about the life to come. Jemmivson’s hand was on the door when the actress spoke. ‘* Am I to understand that you are satisfied, and that I will not be troubled by you again ?” she asked. “That depends,” replied Jemmison, evasively. ” n what?” we Whether you have spoken the truth or not.” “T have, so help me Heaven. Ellen Desmond—or ‘Lina Aton, ‘if you will—has ‘no’ child living on earth that bears a single drop of your blood in its veins !” she exclaimed. “I hope ‘so. And with the simple sentence, Jemmison quitted the room. CHAPTER XXXIX. MEDHAM’S INFORMATION. Just six months from the day that the jury came into their box and their foreman announced that they could not agree upon a verdict in:the case of the People vs. George Dominick, that now noted individual was released on bail. Quite a strong pressure had been exerted in certain quar- ters in behalf of Gentleman George, or, as a sensation morn- ing daily termed him, the “‘ New York Modoc.” The health of” the prisoner, too, had been seriously affected by his pro- tracted stay in the grim edifice built over the ‘‘ filled-in” Collect Pond, commonly:styled the Tombs, and: a half-score of doctors had duly visited and examined the “said George Dominick,” and certified that, in their opinion, the life of the prisoner would be seriously endangered by a long stay in his prison-cell; then they pocketed their liberal fee and retired, fully satisfied that they had done their duty to society by aid- ing to set free a red-handed murderer. A wonderful metal is gold, or the bank-note its representa- tive, for it buys both brains and honesty. A Jarge and powerful body of men backed the cause of the criminal. The dangerous classes—not unaptly termed the Modocs ot New York—sided Gentleman George. From the genteel bank-robber down ‘to the veriest burglar who “ realized ” his “stake” from the drunken wanderer by aid of the slung-shot or bludgeon, all understood that to hang a man for killing a —— in the exercise of his duty would be setting a most ngerous precedent. So money was freely used, and, what was still more power- ful—to the shame of New York justice must it be said—po- litical influence was brought to bear, and all to set Gentleman George free. Six months’ work and the end was attained; a bajl-bond of five thousand dollars was given and George Dominick walk- ed forth a free man. True, the consequences resulting from his oe act still hung over him, but in this case ’twas no Single strand of hair that restrained the avenging fall of the sword of justice; on the contrary, the steel blade of the blind goddess was tied up by legal quibbles, fine as silk in texture, yet strong as chains of steel—cobwebs to the eye, but as malleable iron in strength. No fiction this plain detail of how a criminal may escape from the clutches of our New York law if he has wealth and political influence to aid bim and there is a shadow of doubt as to his guilt. The records of New York tell how policeman Anderson was foully murdered, a few years ago, and the Italian assassin escaped all punishment except a lengthened detention dur- ing his trial. Interest in the case died away, and possibly not one in a hundred who noted the crime and the attempt © convict the criminal, know at this day how the affair ter- minated. Comment {s useless,except perhaps to chronicle the report that the assassin is now said to be holding a high rank in the army of Italy. . : George, free, returned at once to his old haunt in Market street, and there he began to look around him with intent “ serie’ some easy way to help himself to somebody else’s unds. : Dominick, though thin and pale from his prison life,’ was worth a'dozen dead men yet. _- ee It was the wife of the criminal, not the criminal himself who was near to the grave. Patient, suffering Hero had not many months of life left. She loved her husband) cold, heartless villain though be was, and the discovery she had made that the actréss, Ellen Des- mond, was her rival, was a death-stroke to her.” ak Night and day she brooded over the wrong, and though she did not give vent to her feelings in’ words, yet keen-sighted George quickly discovered her trouble’ and was not long’in essing the cause of it. It troubled him but little, though’; is creed was Self, and as long as he was not attacked, he was content. os During the six months Miss Desmond had finished her en- gagement in New York, and departed ‘to win fresh. laurels in other cities. é - Neil Jemmison had calmly pursued the even tenor of his way. He was fully satisfied that the actress had spokén the truth in regard’ to the déath of his child, and he troubled him- self no more in’ regard ‘to her. It would have taken a keen and careful observer to have detected in the self-possessed ward of wealthy Neil Jemmison, the poor waif who had been turned into the streét by the wretched denizens of the Water stréet slams. And the “ Doctor,” in attending to Moliy’s edu- cation, and watching the almost daily advancement that she made, found enough to do to prevent the time from hanging heavy on:his hands. | About a week after the day upon which the cold gray walls of the Tombs had given Gentleman George back again to the world, Jemmison, passing down Broadway, encountered Medham, Miss Desmond’s business manager, standing in front of the Grand Central Hotel. °° or Medham recognized Jemmison at once. His countenance brightened up, for tlie sagacious theatrical speculator was very much in the dumps as Jemmison came along. . ** How d’-y’-do?” Medham said, extending his hand. “ Quite well, I thank you; how are you?’ “Oh, only middling,” Medham replied, with quite a sor rowful air. : ae ‘* What’s the matter?” And as Jemmison put the question he had a presentiment that he was to hear something in regard to the woman who had been so intimately connected with his early life, and, ih truth, he had halted to speak to the jolly business-manager for the purpose of learning how the actress got along. vane “ The best Yet that I ever got into it has bu’sted all to thunder,” Medham said, in a tone that betrayed deep and settled melancholy. “Ah, Miss Desmond, I suppose.” “You bet!” replied Medham, tersely. “ What is the trouble ?” ' “ Just like all females!” exclaimed the business-manager. “ Just as soon as you get ’em started right and commence to make money, then they get up und dust.” Jemmison understood what Medham meant, although the sense of the language might be considered a little obscure. .. “Got another manager, I suppose?’’ Jemmison suggested. “Yes, he knocked me higher than a kite on, terms.’ “ Couldn’t you afford to make a more liberal offer?” “Oh, she doesn’t act any more now.” ** Indeed!” Jemmison was rather astonished at this intelli nce. ' ; mer she’s going to.be married,’ “Married! Is it possible?” Medham, occupied by his own thoughts, did not notice Jem- mison’s amazement. “Yes, go a regular star engagement, too; it’s a ten-strike, I tell yer!” Medham exclaimed, emphatically. “I saw how the cat was jumping when she was playing here in New York, I knew it was no use to interfere, You can’t hold a_profes- sional to an engagement, if they choose to break it, if you have forty contracts. The old man acted fair, too—gave me a thousand dollars to release her. That’s all clean cash, of course, but I stood to make five times that amount bet weer now and next season with her.” “ Who is she going to marry?” Jemmison felt quite curious. “Judge Bruyn. You probably know him; he’s an old New- Yorker.” “Yes, I know him,” Jemmison observed; his mind was in amaze. He knew the Judge very well by report and sight although not personally acquainted with him. “ He got after her when she was playing here at Niblo’s, It’s a big thing for her, for they say he’s worth a million, J egged it on all I could myself, for I didn’t want to stand i her way; and besides, I saw that I wouldn’t be able to hold her much longer. I was-the~ladder- that had boosted her up, and, now that she had got a fair hold, I knew the odds were ten to one she’d shake me.” : ‘* When does thé marriage take place ?” ‘*Some time this week, I believe. I haven’t seen her for about ten days, when I gave her up her contract,” 7 “Tam quite astonished,” and with the remark Jemmison walked on, strangely undecided in his mind, Ss
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Gentleman lee CHAPTER XL. AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. WALKING slowly along, Jemmison debated as to what course of action he should pursue in regard to the woman who called herself Ellen Desmond, but whom twenty years before he had wedded under the name of Lina Aton. Should he let her go on and consummate the marriage with Judge Bruyn, or should he visit that gentleman and make known to him the true history of the dashing and handsome actress ? It was repugnant to Jemmison’s better nature that his run- away wife should flaunt it thus boldly before the world. “She is utterly reckless and unprincipled,” he muttered, communing with himself as he paced along down crowded Broadway, for the time totally unconscious of the people who elbowed him. “She cares nothing for the past; she will wed this man with a lie on her lips, perhaps ruin all his life, and from what I have heard of the Judge he is a pretty good sort ofaman. If I thought she would lead a better life in the future than she has in the past, I would not open my lips to stay her triumph; but if, as I fear, the wealth that she will receive will only seem1o her as the natural reward of her schemes and reckless disregard of goodness and honesty, then justice demands that I should speak—that I should tear away the garb of lies she wears and expose her to the man she is about to deceive in all her native deformity. What shall I do?” And then, as if his words had power like the magic spells of the wizards in the fables of old, to conjure forms from the misty deep, up Broadway, sitting by Judge Bruyn in an ele- gant carriage came the woman whose fate Jemmison thought he held in his hands. Jemmison stopped abruptly. he actress, robed in silks and laces, and bearing the wealth of a kingdom, almost, in the jewels that adorned her apap: caught sight of the dark, stern face of the man stand- ng motionless as a statue upon the pavement. f Ellen Desmond—or Lina Aton, whichever was her true naine—had known that the bolt of death would have followed the action a moment after, she could not have resisted the desire to smile, mockingly, in the face of the man—the only being in all the wide world who had ever caused a thrill of fear to shake her heart And smile she did in triumph and mockery, It was as a de- fiance to Neil Jemmison to do his worst. Jemmison, knowing the nature of the woman so well, un- derstood the meaning of the scornful glance. The carriage rolled on, but Jemmison remained motionless, following the vehicle with his eyes. Before it had gone a dozen yards up Broadway, his mind was fully made up as to the course that he should take. “Pll see Bruyn to-night and reveal to hima little of the past life of this smiling fiend!” Jemmison ejaculated, with a deter- mined air. And, acting at once upon the impulse, he retraced his way up the street, and entering the first drug-store that he came to, procured a directory in order to learn the residence of Nicholas Bruyn, lawyer. The information was soon obtained, and at eight o’clock that evening, Neil Jemmison, ascending the steps of the ex- Judge’s mansion, sent in his card, coupled with a request that an interview be granted him. The card was delivered to the Judge in the presence of the actress. Bruyn was seated in an easy-chair in his library, glancing over the evening paper, while the actress, dressed in a most exquisite wrapper, which became her wondrously, was seated on an ottoman by his side, an illustrated book open upon her lap, but she was paying far more attention to the J udge’s face than to the volume upon her knees. It was a very pretty picture indeed, the solid, middle-aged, pees Se of the world and the delicate, childlike woman; another Eden as it were, waiting but for the appearance of the Father of Evil to breed discord and dismay, and for the nonce it was probable that the dark-faced, resolute doctor would assume the role of tue Evil One. “Ah, Mdon’t know him,” the Judge murmured, as he looked at the name inscribed upon the little square of pasteboard the servant had handed him. ‘* Did he mention anything regard- ing his business?” The Judge had a suspicion that it was some needy politician come to “strike” him for a loan, “No, sir; he only said that he wished to see you on very [enibegred personal business, and begged that you would be ind enough to grant him a private interview.” ‘ “ Not one of the usual rounders, I hope,” the Judge said, suspiciously. “Oh, no, sir; he’s quite a gentleman.” The servant had been a considerable length of time in the Judge’s service and had become pretty well used to the irrepressible “‘ bummers” who haunt the portals of prominent politicians. “IT suppose that I will have to see him; show him into the parlor, and, by the by, just keep your eyes upon him until I come down; these gentiemen sometimes walk off with the portable articles handy.” ‘I don’t think that he’s that kind of a man, sir,” the ser- i replied; ‘but I'll look out for him.” Then he with- ew. “You must excuse me for a few minutes, my dear,” the Judge said, rising and tossing his newspaper and the card of the visitor upon the table together. _ “ And do you have to receive every unknown visitor who George. 33 chooses to call upon you ?” the actress asked, in astonishment. ‘* Well, yes,” the Judge replied, slowly; ‘‘a man in public life is expected to receive his adherents—in fact, he must get out of polities if he wishes to become a hermit or to deny him- self to all but intimate friends and business acquaintances. A vote’s a vote whether cast by a gentleman in broadcloth or a vagabond in rags; it won’t do to offend either. If a man wants a favor that is either beyond my power to grant or that I am unwilling to bestow upon him I must get rid of the mat- ter politely. After a man’s elected, though, he makes up for the trouble that it costs him,” the Judge added, with a grim sort of humor. “ Will you be detained long?” tee : : *“T guess not, although I can’t possibly imagine what this m:n wants; it may bea reporter, though, for some of the newspapers come to ‘interview’ me in regard to my opinion upon some public matter. I did not think of that before, that is the probable explanation, but the card does not give the name of any journal.” “Get rid of him us soon as you can, 1 am so lonely without ou,” the woman said, throwing a world of expression into oth face and voice. “Yes, my dear,” the Judge replied, and then he departed. As he closed the door behind him, and descended the stairs, there was a peculiar expression upon his face. The Judge had seen'a good deal of womankind in his career through life, und it was just possible that the actress had rather overdone her part, in giving utterance to the affectionate remark at arting. i ic After the Judge’s departure, the woman sunk down again upon her low seat by the table. ‘Oh, how hard it is,” she murmured. “I have played many a part in my time, but none as difficult as this. A single incantious word might betray me. If I can but carry it out to the end—” and then she paused suddenly, a thought occur- ring to her. “ But, what will be the end, and when will it come? Ah! that is a very difficult question; one that I can not answer although I have asked it. Well, 1 am content to go on as Iam, and wait for time to reveal the future. For the present I triumph, and that is quite enough for me.” And with the boastful vaunt upon her lips, her eyes, wander- ing vacantly over the table, caught sight of the little square of pasteboard that the servant had brought. toa Carelessly, without a motive, not even curiosity, she took it up and glanced at the name imprinted upon the spotless sur- face. A single glance she gave at the name of Neil Jemmison, and then for a moment the room swam round her; the very life- blood in her veins seemed chilled, even as with the icy fingers of grim death. it f ; “Neil Jemmmison!” shecried, rising with an unsteady motion to her feet; ‘‘and with the Judge here, beneath this roof Oh! I am stifling!” and with trembling steps she hastened to the door, but halted there, her hand upon the knob. CHAPTER XLII. JEMMISON SPEAKS, Tue Judge entered the parlor and cast an inquiring glance at the gentleman who, at such an unusual hour, had requested an interview. The servant, obedient to orders, had left the parlor-doo: open, and liad remained in the entry, so that if the stranger be- longed to the class of rogues denominated “ entry thieves,” he would not be able to escape with any plunder. The Judge, at the first glance, saw that the servant had proved himself to be a man of discernment, and that the un- known was indeed a gentleman. Jemmison rose at the Judge’s entrance. “Mr. Bruyn, I believe ?” ‘** Yes, sir,” the Judge replied. ; “ Will you have the kindness to grant me a private inter- view ?” Jemmison asked. p test ‘* Business of importance?’ the Judge said, in a tone of question. BO “ Very important, sir, and it intimately concerns you.” The Judge looked a little astonished, more at the manner of the speaker though than at his words, but he instantly closed the parlor-door, motioned Jemmison to a@ chair and took one himself. “ Now, sir, we are alone; if you will have the kindness to proceed,” the Judge said. Jemmison hesitated for a moment; it was a delicate and awkward task that he had taken upon himself, and he knew not exactly how to begin, but after a moment’s thought he spoke: Pe Mr, Bruyn, although I have never had the pleasure of your acqunintance, still,as a prominent New orker, you are no stranger to me. Iam about to make a disclosure to you that must inevitably wound you deeply, and I trast that you will believe me, when I say that the words I forced to speak will probably pain me almost as much as they will afflict you. It is not malice or revenge that prompts my tonyzue; it is but simple justice.” The Judge looked decidedly astonished at this strange be- ginning, but he contented himself a simply nodding as if w encourage the other to continue in his speech,
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34 Gentleman George. ** At first [have no doubt that you will consider you are listening to the words of either a rogue or a madman,” Jem- mison said, “ but | am prepared to prove that every word I speak is true; all I claim from you is a careful considera- tion of what Iam about to say. You are a lawyer and will soon see the weak points in my statement if there be any, lam about to touch upon a very delicate matter, but it can- not be avoided. Listen to, and cousider my words, with pa tience.” The Judge was silent for a few moments. First he looked at the floor and caressed the ends of his long mustache; then he fixed a penetrating look upon the face of his visitor, but Jemmison never shrunk from the glance. “ Go on, sir,” the Judge said, at last. “I will hear what you have to say, and give it due consideration.” “ You are acquainted with a lady named Ellen Desmond, an actress by profession ?” The Judge started. This was a surprise indeed. He had not thought of the actress while puzzling his brain to guess the purport of the disclosure that was to be made to him. “ Yes, sir,” the Judge rejoined. ‘‘Some few months since 1 made the acquaintance of an actress named Ellen Des- mond.” oa was informed to-day that you designed to marry this y.”? ‘*Ah!l” The Judge prolonged the simple exclamation, and regarded Jemmison with a very peculiar expression upon nis face. “ T suppose that report is true ?” ‘* Excuse my looking at this matter in a legal light,” Bruyn remarked, blandly; ‘‘but that is what we lawyers call a nee question. What is the object of the aforesaid ques- tion?” **T will explain,” Jemmison replied. “If the report is not true, and you do not intend to marry the woman, then I have nothing mure to say; but if I am correct in thinking that you do intend to marry her, I can give you some information in regard to her.” he Judge sat silent, his eyes bent on the floor, and he ondered over Jemmison’s words for quite a little time. e was evidently deeply perplexed, for his face wore an earnest, anxious expression, and there was almust a sad look upon it, something rare for stolid Nicholas Bruyn. “ T suppose you require me to answer your question before you can go on,” Bruyn said, slowly. “No, Ido not require you to answer it,” Jemmison re- plied, with emphasis. ‘‘ You have doubtless guessed my re- port of this woman will not be to her advantage. I impart Fever I know to you, because I do not think it right that she should deceive you as to the past, but if you are not to enter into an intimate relationship with her, you have no right to hear, and I no right to say aught against her.” “Quite correctly put, sir,” observed Bruyn, impressed by both Jemmison’s words and manner. “I will be frank with you, sir. There is no person in the world who should know more of Miss Ellen Desmond than myself. Need I say any thing more to the point ?” “ Ro sir; and I will tell you all that I know of her. I will only relate facts, and leave you to draw your own inferences from them.” Jemmison’s voice and face both fully revealed how much in earnest lie was. “*T trust that what you have to say is of your own knowledge,” Bruyn said, taking advantage of Jemmison’s pause. ‘‘I suppose you are fully aware that there is al- ways more or less scandal about women who follow the stage for a living ; and sometimes, as I know by personal cogniz- ance, there is really no foundation of truth at the bottom of the matter.” “ Be satisfied before I begin that I speak entirely of my own knowledge,” Jemmisun said, “ and that what I am about to say no other person in the world, except the woman her- self, could repeat.” ‘*T am all attention, sir,” the Judge remarked, leaning back _— easy-chair, and fixing his eyes full upon the face of his visitor. “In the year eighteen hundred and fifty-three, just twenty years ago, in a milliner’s shop on Division street, in this city, there worked a young girl of twenty-two or three, named Lina Aton. She was small in stature, petite in feature, and ap- peared more like a girl of fifieen or sixteen than one over twenty. This girl, in the month of April, in the year that I have mentioned, married a young medical student named Neil Jemmison.” “ Yourself, I presume,” interrupted the Judge, who remem- bered the name that had been inscribed on the card. “Yes; achild was born to the young couple, and when it was about six months old, the mother fled, bearing the child with her,” > And the motive for the flight?” inquired the Judge, anxi- ously. ‘Phe husband discovered that the mere child, apparently, whom he had married, was nothing more nor less than a des- perate and daring adventuress; that she was not sixteen, as she had said, but twenty-two; that in every particular re- garding herself, she had willfully and deliberately lied, and that there was a very strong probability that sh2 had had two or three husbands before, and bad not taken the trouble to obtain a divorce from any of them.” “Ah!” ‘The Judge began to have an idea now of what the information was. ‘* Naturally after this discovery the woman had but one re- source, to fly from the man she had deceived. It had only re a very few months to cure the infatuation on both sides,” “T should have thought that you would have been glad to get rid of her,” the Judge remarked, sagely. “ Yes, but she carried the child with her, and for one rea- son only—to revenge herself upon me, for the natural love otf the mother for its offspring she never felt.” ‘* You pursued her ?” ‘* Yes, but fruitlessly. Nineteen years, nearly, passed away before 1 again saw her, and then it was by accident; and in the interval she had greatly changed her ie enon “Has this story any connection with Miss Desmond ?”’ Bruyn asked, and as he put the question he fully understood what the answer would be. “ The actress Ellen Desmond is Lina Aton.” CHAPTER XLII. THE STARTLING PROOF. “An,oh!” The Judge caressed his chin with his hand thoughttully for a few moments. : Tan make this statement boldly,” Bruyn observed, after quite a long pause. “ When a man is prepared to back up his statement, how else should he make it?” “ Quite true—quite true,” the Judge murmured, absently. ‘I happened to stroll into the theater where she was play- ing, some six months ago,’ Jemmison continued; “it was when she was performing in New York here, Of course, I had as little idea of seeing my wife, that was—who had de- serted me years before—as of seeing a tenant of the tomb rise bodily from the grave. But the moment Miss Ellen Desmond came on the stage, 1 recognized her, despite the disguise she wore. Then I took measures to have an interview with her.” “ And you succeeded?” the Judge inquired, his curiosity ex- cited. “ Yes, although I had to almost force my way into her apartment, as she denied herself to me, and gave orders to her servant not to admit me.” ‘* Well, did she acknowledge that she was Lina Aton?” The Judge felt decidedly interested. “No; I did not care for that point; I sought her that | might learn the fate of my child.” ** And she told you?” “ Yes; although of course denying that she was the woman that I took her to be, or that she had ever seen me before, She found that I would not go unless I was satisfied as to the fate of the child; threats and entreaties alike were vain, and so, at last, she said that she had no child living who had my bleod in its veins.” “ She threatened you?” the Judge said, musingly. “ Yea.” “In what way ?—you must excuse my cross-examination ; but of course you fully understand how important it is that I should know all that relates to this person,” Bruyn said, in explanation. “Question freely, sir,” Jemmison replied. “ She threatened to call the police, and have me arrested.” “ A natural proceeding if you were incorrect as to her iden- tity.’ ** And I on my part defied her to call in the officers, as I, too, could bring an accusation against her. She instantly-re- plied that if she was Lina Aton—or Jemmison, rather—that the law was powerless to harm her for the offense of running away from me.” “A logical conclusion, by Jove!” exclaimed Bruyn, his brows contracting and his mouth tightening. “It seems, then, that Miss Desmond was posted as to the law's power over run- away wives ?” “So I remarked ; and then I explained to her that if I could not hold her on that charge, I could for larceny, as in her flight she had carried away all the portable property she could get her hands on.” “ Quite a shrewd legal trick,” Bruyn remarked, dryly. “Then she adopted a different tone, and gave me the infor mation that 1 wished, protesting, though, to the last, that she was not the person that I said she was.” ‘* Did you see her after that interview ?” ‘‘No; Lhad learned all that I wished to know. That was six or eight months ago. I cared nothing what became of the woman; but by an accident I learned to-day that you were about to marry her—” The Judge made a wry face and Jemmison stopped ; he im- agined that the Judge wished to say something. ‘*Qo on, sir,” Bruyn said, hastily. ‘*[ thought if the report were true, that it was my duty as a man that you should know what the past life of this woman has been. If she has acted fairly with you, you should already have heard al. that I have just told from her own lips. Per- ne to her ees her conduct may not appear quite so black as I have painted it. She may have good and sufficient rea- sons for ali that she has done.” Yes, yes, probably,” the Judge murmured. **T have told you all that I know, sir,” Jemmison observed ; “perhaps you would like proof as to certain points ?” The identity of your wite, Lina Aton, that was; that is the
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Gentleman most important thing. How could you prove that, in a court of justice?” Bruyn asked. ‘First by my oath as to her identity, although she has changed the color of her hair, and destroyed certain marks upon her body which might have led to her identification.” “Tf all this you say be truth, this woman has not only play- ed a bold but a skillful game!” the Judge exclaimed, in am- azement, “Yes; and so skillfully has she covered up the traces, that it would really be a very difficult matter for me to prove in open court that she ane is the person I know her to be,” Jemmison said, slowly. “ You are probably aware, Mr. Bruyn that there are marks on the human body, sometimes relied upon in law-cases to establish a person’s identity that can easily be removed by the chemist’s art?” “Indeed, I was really not aware of that,” the Judge con- fessed; ““no such case has ever come under my observation. To what marks do you refer?” ‘*Moles; of course you are aware that a mole is but an ex- crescence, and does not penetrate into the flesh.” “ Certainly—of course.” “By means of a thread and a caustic preparation, a mole can be entirely removed, and without leaving any trace that there has ever been any such mark upon the person.” “That is quite reasonable,” said the Judge, reflectively ; and then all of « sudden the thought flashed upon him that he had relied upon finding a certain woman by means of moles curi- ously placed upon ber body, a description of which he had furnished to a detective officer; and mentaliy he asked himsest if one woman knew how to destroy such tell-tale marks, might not another of the sisterhood avail herself of a like means? “And this Miss Desmond does not have the moles upon her person that the Lina Aton, the milliner’s girl, had?” the Judge questioned. “No; she has removed them.” “ At that one point she has beaten you then?” “Yes; she has also changed the color of her hair, Once it was dark-brown, now she has bleached it to yellow.” ‘You have attempted a difficult task, 1 fear,” the Judge remarked, shaking his head, gravely. ‘“No; for I have one strong proof.” “What is ic?” all the lawyer instincts of the Judge had been roused into action. “A picture of her taken just a month after we were mar- ried,” Jemmison replied. “It is one of the old-fashioned daguerreotypes.” “That would be pretty strong proof if Miss Desmond looks like the picture, and you could take your oath that it was taken twenty years ago from your wife’s tace,” the Judge said, . weighing the point over deliberately as he spoke. “That I could do,” Jemmison replied; “and, as for the likeness, you shall judge as to that.” And as he spoke he drew the picture from his pocket. “There is only one difference between Miss Desmond and this picture of Lina Aton,” Jemmison observed, as he opened the case; “a mole on the left cheek is shown in the picture, but Miss Desmond’s cheek does not bear any such mark.” “A mole on the left cheek!” exclaimed Bruyn, with strange abruptness, and sitting bolt upright in his chair as he spoke. ‘* Has she moles anywhere else ? **Miss Desmond, no; Lina Aton, two on the right wrist!” Jemmison answered, wondering at his sudden excitement. “Great heavens!” cried Bruyn, nervously ; “let me look at the picture!” and, as he spoke, he almost snatched it from Jemmison’s hands. A single glance the Judge gave at the fair young face, and then, with a gasp, sunk back in his chair. Jemmison, alarmed, sprung to his assistance, but Bruyn with a great effort rallied himself. “ Don’t be alarmed, sir!” he exclaimed. ‘Oh! I have been olind not to have seen it before !” Jemmison wondered at the words. “Tam much obliged to you, sir,’ Bruyn continued; “and if you will leave your address I will communicate with you at some future time.” Jemmison understood from this that the interview was over, and penciling his address on a card, left the house. CHAPTER XLIII, BRUYN’S DECISION. Tue Judge accompanied Jemmison to the door, bowed him out, and then closed the massive barrier after him. Bruyn’s usually florid face was deathly pale, and there was a nervous, restless twitching of the lips altogether foreign to the nature of the man. From the front door Bruyn proceeded up-stairs to his bed- chamber, a front room on the same floor as the library. So slowly did the Judge—a heavy, solid-built. man—pro- ceed up-stairs that his footsteps produced no sound. In his room, the Judge went to a closet in one corner, took down a bottle of brandy and fiiled a tumbler brim- ming full. A moment he held it up to the light and watched the sparkle of the most potent product of the vine, and then, with a heavy sigh, swallowed the liquor at a single draught, Was the stern, iron-willed man secking false courage, and Gid he fear the interview which he had resolved to seek ? The brandy swallowed, the Judge straightened himself up aud proceeded at once to the library. He found the lady eorge. 35 sitting in the same position that she had occupied when he had left the room. . . A quick, sharp glance the woman cast in his face, and there she read that the blow had fallen; but, with the resolu- tion of despair, she concealed her anxiety and received him with asmile. The Judge’s face grew graver still as he noticed the look, but his iron will never faltered. Bruyn seated himself in his easy-chair, and, as he did so, his glance fell upon the card, lying upon the floor just where it had fallen from the nerveless hand of the woman when she had read Neil Jemmison’s ominous name. The Judge understood at once that she knew who had called upon him. The little circumstance gave him the open- ing he sought. “T see, madam, that you know who my visitor was, and you can probably guess what his errand was to this Qouse, although he had little idea that at present you were an inmate of it.” The woman had noticed the Judge’s glance at the tiny bit of pasteboard, and understood how useless it was to attempt to deny that she had read the name inscribed upon it; the single term ‘‘ madam,” too, told her that her chance was but a desperate one, but it was a lion heart the woman bore with- sn her breast, and she still smiled sweetly, although the blood was at fever heat within ber veins. “ Yes, Ihave seen the person once,” she said, with just a little curl of the lip, “and from the short conversation that I had with him, I should judge that he bad escaped from some lunatic asylum.” . “ Well, to me there appeared to be a great deal of method in his madness!” the Judge exclaimed, bluntly. Just for a moment the smiled faded from the face of the woman and a lurid light shone in her eyes, but then she re- membered how difficult a game she had to play, and how desperate her chances were, and, with a powerful effort, she curbed the rising anger that swelled within her heart. “ Possibly his story may appear plausible to you,” she said, with great calmness; “I suppose that he repeated to you the same ridiculous story he told me when he forced himself into my presence,” “T presume so,” the Judge answered, coldly; ‘‘and in or- der that the matter be fully understood, I will repeat his statement. In the first place, he states that when he first met you, some twenty years ago, you were called Lina Aton; that under that name he married you and—” “Tt is needless to repeat hisravings!” the woman exclaimed, contemptuously, interrupting the ~~: “Tt is necessary that a criminal should know the facts alleged against her,” said the Judge, sternly. ‘* By heavens!” cried the actress, rising to her feet and cast- ing a withering glance upon the stolid, stern-faced man, “‘is it possible that I am looked upon in the light of a criminal, and solely upon the unsupported word of this paltry fellow? If you had loved me with one little hundredth part of the pas- sion which you pretended to feel for me, you would have stricken this wretch to the floor the moment he éared to asperse the character of the woman who has a right to your protection.” “ Sit down, madam, and let us have no more of your thea- trical nonsense !” exclaimed the Judge, sternly. ‘* You are not now acting a ‘part in a play.” “ No, I am on trial—a criminal, 1 presume, from yeur tone,” the actress replied, with biting sarcasm, sinking in the nearest chair. “ Not on trial, for you are already tried, judged and found guilty,” Bruyn said, coldly and calmly. The actress raised her eyebrows in pretended astonishment. ‘* Oh, indeed, and in your court do you convict upon the evidence of the complaining party ? does the accused haveno chance to answer—no opportunity to prove her innocence and show what a black-hearted liar the man is who seeks such a cowardly revenge?” The blood of the actress was up; it swelled in every vein; anger flashed from her eyes, and her little white hands were clenched until the pink nails cut into the waxen-like flesh. ‘Madam, it is useless to bandy words,” the Judge said, impatiently. “I am perfectly satisfied that Mr. Jemmison has spoken the truth. I feel convinced that you are the Lina Aton who married and deserted him, years ago; and, more- over, [know that Lina Aton is not the only name nm have been known by; and now, in conclusion, will you ot lige me by putting on your hat and cloak and quitting this house, Your trunks shall be sent to-morrow to any place that you may designate.” The actress indulged in a little scornful laugh, and regarded the Judge with a look of defiance. ‘You forget yourself, Judge Bruyn,” sbe said, in a tone of contempt; “ you can not order me out of this house; lam your legal wife, and whatever my past life may have been, at present I hold only that position.” “My wife, eh?” the Judge said, a peculiar look upon his stolid face. ‘‘ Mr. Jemmison may have something to say about that. I doubt if you have ever taken the trouble to legally end your contract with him.” “ He will have to prove thatlam the woman he says 1 am!” she exclaimed, defiantly. ‘* And you, madam, will have to prove that I was ever mar- ried to you, and I fancy that that task will not be as easy as you think,” the Judge retorted. Te actress started, and a feeling of horror crept over her. Eagerly in her mind she thought over the details of her mar- riage the day before but all seemed clear.
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36 Gentleman George. “I can do that!” she replied, trfumphantly ; “we were married by the Reverend Mr. Hattrick, pastor of the 10th Ger- man Reformed Church; I saw it on the door-plate !” “ Ah, indeed? Recall how the affair happened,” he said, blandly, ‘‘ We were to be married in a week, but, driving through a street, in the upper part of the city, I noticed the pame of the minister on the door and suggested that we should go in and be married at once; you jumped at the idea and married we were. Now, then, find me the minister who married us, his wife and servant who witnessed the marriage, or any such thing, either in New York or elsewhere, as a 10th German Reformed Church.” ‘The actress ground her teeth together and her breath came thick and hard. “Oh, you are a fiend!” she cried. “Yes, to the harpies who try to make me their prey,” he answered, sternly. ‘‘ I had a doubt of you, and so I arranged the Reverend Mr. Hattrick for your especial benefit. Ifyou had proven to be a good and honest woman, my introducing you to the world as my wife, would have been a legal mar- riage according to the laws of the State; but now, you are nothing to me. Leave th’s house at once, and it will be well for you, if you are wise enough to accept your defeat without a struggle.’ The woman rose slowly to her feet. “T cannot curse you, for. words and human wills seem poyreriase against you. Youarenotamanbuta fiend. Twice have failed, but the third time”—and she hesitated and ground her teeth together. “The third time!” cried Bruyn, rising to his feet, white with passion; “if you ever cross my path again, I’ll kill you if it cost me all I have in the world to get out of it.” Ten minutes later, the actress, homeless, stood in the street. CHAPTER XLIV, A DESPERATE SCHEME, Tue night air was chill and it cut the woman to the bone despite the warm wrappings that she wore, Just a little minute she stood and gazed at the house, the door of which had closed behind her forever; then, with a bitter, scornful laugh she turned away and walked slowly down the street. “The time may come,” she muttered; “patience, patience.” As she approached the street light at the corner, she exam- ined her watch. The hands wanted ten minutes to eleven. She halted irresolutely, uncertain where to go, and while deliberating upon the matter, a man roughly clad, with his coat-collar drawn up and his bat drawn down, came up to her. aN thought that I could not be mistaken in that figure,” he said. The woman started; she recognized the voice in an instant ; it was Gentleman George. “ Why, George, how strangely you are dressed,” she said. “Yes, 1am on a little business trip to-night,” he replied, with a light cough. “ A business trip ?” she asked. ** Yes, but you mus’n’t ask questions. alone in the street at this late hour?” Fora moment the woman gazed intently in Dominick’s face; a wild, visionary idea had flashed across her brain; an idea that would give her, if realized, the vengeance that she thy a: upon the man who had turned her so abruptly from his house. ‘* You are engaged in some unlawful act ?” she asked. “You mus’n’t question me,” he repeated. ** Tf you are in search of plunder, I can tell where you can make ten thousand dollars and without any risk,” she said. “The deuce you can |” George exclaimed, in utter astonish- ment, “ Yes, and you can aiso pay off a debt you owe.” “ Explain.’ ‘* You are here for some object then?” ‘* Yes, but only to oblige a couple of friends, I am to keep watch outside a certain place to give warning if the police ap- ar.” “Let that go and enter apon my plan!” she exclaimed, eugerly. ‘‘ You remember the lawyer who assisted the District Attorney at your trial, and who labored so hard to convict you?’ “Yes, Judge Bruyn, curse him!” replied George; ‘I swore that when I got out of that infernal prison den t would be even with him.” “ And now I give you the chance,” she said. ‘‘ The Judge’s ‘house is in the middle of the block. In his safe, which is in tle library, he keeps ten thousand dollars worth of govern- ment bonds.” “ How do you know that he does?” demanded George, sus- _ piciously. “ Because I saw him cut off the coupons to-day.” ** And what were you doing in his house?” George asked in astonishment. * Yesterday I was married to Judge Bruyn.” ‘* Eh?” George was bewildered. “Yes, and to-night he turned me from his door because a man who hates me came and revealed some of my past life to him ” the woman said, bitterly, What are you doing ‘* But, if you are his wife, why did you not refuse to go?” “ Because his wits are keener than mine, and he so arranged it that I cap not possibly prove the marriage. Now will you accept | my offer; will you avenge both your wrongs and mine ? “How avenge them?” asked George, and with a covert glance at the woman’s face. ‘‘ There is only one way; this man seeks your life; take his,” the actress hissed in George’s ear. A cloud came over the handsome face of the ‘* Modoc,” and he hesitated a moment before replying. “ But there may be a difficulty about that.” “ None at all,” she replied, fiercely. ‘‘ It will be either your life or his, for he has sworn to hang you.” “Why?” ‘¢ Because he hates you. In some way—how, I know not— he discovered that you and I were intimate; that was the be- ginning of it, now his professional reputation is at stake.” “ But how can I get into the house?” The “ Modoc” was yielding to the tempter. “] have alatch-key which he gave me yesterday and which he did not think to take from me. I know the interior of the house. The Judge’s room is the front one on the second floor, the library is right back of it. From the street we can see when he turns down the light in his chamber, then we can en- ter the house, secure the bonds, and after that, with a single blow, satisfy our vengeance and remove from your path the only man who has the power to work you harm.” “T’]] do it!” exclaimed George with sudden resolution. ‘1 hate this man and I want the money.” “Here is the latch-key!” cried the woman, with feverish haste, pressing it into his hand. ‘All right; I must see the friends I spoke of and tell them that I can not assist them.” ‘* How long will that take?” “Only a half-hour; I’m to meet them at the corner beyond, at half-past eleven.” “Tt must be near that now.” “Yes; as soon as I get through, I'll come back and meet you in front of the door,” “Tt is the one with the gas-light in front.” ‘‘Yes, ’'l) not be long.” George hastened along up the street, leaving the woman a prey to the wildest emotions. Revenge seemed almost within her grasp. Slowly she crossed to the opposite side of the street so that she could obtain a better view of the house. And as she stood upon the corner she saw the light grow dim in the Judge’s bedroom—proof that he had retired to rest. A fierce gusp of joy came from the lips of the woman. “ Soon he will sleep, and from that sleep wake to meet ever- lasting fires!” she muttered. And as the actress stood upon the corner, gloating over the vengeance that seemed so near, a dark-robed woman came with swift and noiseless steps from the darkness and touched her on the shoulder. The actress, absorbed in her eer thoughts, had not noticed the approach of the second person, until she felt her light touch upon her shoulder. ; Turning, she looked with astonishment into the pale face before her. “You do not know me?” the strange woman questioned, her eyes blazing with almost supernatural light, and a hectic flush burning in a little pink spot in each cheek. “ No,” replied the actress, coldly, withdrawing a step from the questioner, whom she imagined to be either under the in- fluence of liquor, or else bereft of reason. “TI know you, though, to my sorrow,” the new-comer said, mournfully. “My name is Hero; I am the wife of George Dominick, and you are the bold, bad woman who has taken my husband from me,” “ Tt is false!” exclaimed the actress, scornfully, ‘* Were you married to George Dominick three years ago ?” “ No,” replied Hero, wondering at the question. “ Well, I was,” said the actress, defiantly ; ‘‘and no sooner were we fairly married than the officers burst into the room, arrested and carried him off, and from that time until I came to New York, about seven months ago, I neither saw nor heard of him. Then by accident he happened to meet me, and has used his knowledge of our empty marriage vows to na money from me. I neither seek your husband nor want m. “But you have: made Judge Bruyn persecute him,” said Hero, who was astounded at what she had heard, “and Heaven help you, guilty woman that you are, George Domin- ick is the son of Nicholas Bruyn !” 7 “The son of Judge Bruyn ?” exclaimed the actress, in won- er. “ Yes; George’s father told me the secret of his birth on his death-bed. George was then away, aud I kept the knowledge from him; for I feared that he woula despise me if he found out that he was the son of arich man. George’s reputed father, Dominick, was once a servant in the Bruyn family. The mother brought George and gave him to the care of the man who had deserted her; and he, eruel and heartless, per- mitted the child to be sent to the police-station, utterly deny- ing that it was his. Dominick adopted the child himself; the mother’s name was Celine Seaton.” **Oh, Heaven !” Like the death-wail of a lost soul, the despairing cry rung out on the night air; then followed a stifled gasp, and the actress, clutching at her throat-as though she were suffocating, sunk writhing and convulsed tw the payement o—
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5 * Gentleman George. Hero moved not a single step to assist her; motionless as a statue she stood, and glared out of her unnaturally bright eyes upon the form of the prostrate woman. ‘Tt is but justice that she should suffer!” she exclaimed ; and then she turned and walked rapidly away; but Hero little gucssed how terrible a wound she had given. CHAPTER XLV. TOO LATE. Beconps lengthened into minutes, and they, too, flew rap- by. ll in a tangled mass lay the beautiful woman, the shapely limbs twisted, and the bewitching face pressed to the cold stone pavement like a lowly earth-worm; no steps woke the echoes of the night, ringing along the pavement. Slowly, little by little, the senses of the woman returned. The dust of the pavement was pressed upon her white lips, that so often had given and received the pledge of love; the chill of death was upon the heart of the beautiful creature, who had oar born for an angel, but had fallen far from that high estate. Wildly she pressed her hand upon her forehead; the damps of death already were there. She glared around, striving to recall her scattered senses. “Tt can not be reality; it is a horrid dream!” she murmured; but then, all of a sudden, the truth flashed upon her brain: “No, no; it is truth!” she exclaimed; “ but it is not too late! —I can stop the fearful tragedy !” With trembling limbs she arose to her feet, and hastened at once to Bruyn’s house. Not a light was visible there; all was dark and silent us the tomb. The actress looked up and down the street. “Surely it is time he was here,” she murmured. “How long did I lay in my faint, I wonder ?” Almost er oY a she pulled out the little jeweled time- piece and opened it. It lacked but a minute of twelve. “Oh, merciful Heaven! if he should have come, and not finding me here, have entered the house!” she moaned in wild- estagony. “I cannot bear the suspense longer. I'll rouse the house. Bruyn shall know all. Smiling, skillful fiend that he is, ere this last terrible knowledge may touch even his soul of ice!” With reason tottering on its throne, the woman rushed madly up the steps, and pulled the bell. The answering peal rung loud and shrill within the mansion. A few seconds she waited, but heard no sign of life within, Three desperate tugs she gave the bell, and at the last the wire snapped. Three times the bell pealed within, and then the sharp crack of a revolver-shot rung out clear on the still night air. “Oh, Heaven!” she cried, with a wild shriek of agony, “1 have awakened Bruyn, and he has discovered and shot him, or else George has killed his father! Oh, let me in! open the door—oh, you dreadful wood—break and let me in! help— murder !—help!” and with her tender, delicate hands she beat the door and strove with her nails to tear away the wood. The woman was crazed with anguish. Suddenly the door opened; a servant, half-dressed, pale and frighted, stood in the entrance-way, the sleep still in his e e Tine woman bounded past him, and rushed up-stairs; fear lent her wings. The door of the library was open, and the gas turned up. Across the tuble, wer in his blood, lay Gentleman Geerge—the bonds upon the floor where they had fallen from his nerveless hand. Judge Bruyn, in his bare feet, attired only in his panta- loons and undershirt, stood just by the door. Aroused by the sound of the bell, he had discovered that his keys had ee been taken from his pocket; suspecting robbery, he had seized his revolver and hastened to the library. George at- tempting to escape had been shot to death without an instant’s warning. The ‘‘Modoc” had waited at the appointed place and finding that the woman did not come, he entered the house without her. With a cry of anguish, the actress rushed into the room and threw herself upon the warm but lifeless body. “ He is dead, and you have killed him!” she cried, wildly, finding that the heart had ceased to beat. “ Nicholas Bruyn, you have murdered your own son !” “My son!” exclaimed the lawyer, doubtfully. ‘Yes, your child and mine. J am Celine Seaton, the wo- man that you married years ago and then deserted for a richer wife, because you knew that I could not prove our marriage; the same trick you played upon me only yester- day. Thisis the child that] sent asa present to your new wife on your wedding-night, and whom your father consign- ed to the care of the police. The servant, Dominick, brought him up as hisown. I sent him here to kill you to-night, not knowing the awful crime that I intended. I learned the truth, and then heaven, as a punishment for my sins, struck me down in a faint, and allowed the dreadful work to go on. Oh, heaven—oh, heaven!” Passionately the woman kissed the lips once so red and now paling so rapidly. “She is mad!” Bruyn exclaimed, turning to; the group of horror-stricken servants, who, half-clad, had gathered timidly together in the entry-way. Bruyn was pale as a ghost, and his hand shivered like a leaf in the wind, and, as he turned, by some chance the hammer of the revolver, which the Judge had recocked, fell, and the ball, sped with a deadly aim, struck the woman full in the breast. Up went her arms with a wild scream, and then with a low moan, she sunk down, supine upon the floor at the feet of the dead man. “Oh, what a terrible accident!” exclaimed the Judge, evi- dently greatly shocked, for he trembled like a man in an ague- fit. “ Poor woman, she was evidently crazy.” When the inquest was held, the servants, naturally, testified as to the ‘‘ accident,” and their belief that the woman was in- sine. No blame was attached to the Judge. So carefully had Bruyn arranged his affairs that but a sin- gle servant in the house had seen the actress received there, and he was too well instructed to tell tales out of school. Jemmison alone held the key which might have solved the mystery, and he did not care to have aught to do with the affair. , The woman who had cast a blight over his early life aa dead, and now he was free to act his own pleasure. Molly Bawn, the waif of the streets, who had looked upon him in the light of a father, at last convinced that he did not bear that relationship to her, was only too glad to love him as a husband. Hero did not long survive the tragic death of Gentleman George, and soon she found the rest that death alone can give to the broken-hearted. Arty, her sister, in due time married the “ fish-man,” Billy West, much against her father’s wishes, who would have pre- ferred “a hard-handed workin’-man ”—like himself. After the tragic death of the “ Modoc” by his band, Judge Bruyn never seemed like the same man. He mixed more in politics than he had done for years, and also speculated heavily in stocks. His former luck seemed to have deserted him, for he was defeated iu his political aspirations, and lost heavily in the stock-market. New York was ‘astonished one morning by the news that Judge Nicholas Bruyn had been found dead in his bed. An over-dose of opium, the doctors said; suicide, his creditors declared, when they came to wind up the Judge’s affairs and found that his assets would not half pay his debts. Perhaps, after all, Nicholas Bruyn’s career was not a suc cessful one, TH t END.
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Comprising the best works only of the most popular living writers in the field of American romance, Each issue a complete novel, with illuminated cover, rivaling in effect the popular chromo. 1, Hawkeye Harry. 78. The Skeleton Scout, 2. Dead Shot. 74, Little Rifle. 4. Blue Dick, 75. The Wood Witch. 5. Nat Wolfe. 76. Old Ruff, the Trapper. 6. The White Tracker. 77. The Scarlet Shoulders 7. The Outlaw’s Wife. 78. The Border Rifleman. 8. The Tall Trapper. 79. Outlaw Jack. 9. htning Jo. 80. Tiger Tail, the Semi- 10. The Island Pirate. nole. 11. The Boy Ranger, 81. Death Dealer, the 12. Bess, the Trapper. Shawnee Scourge. 13. The French py: 82. Kenton, the r. 14. Long Shot. 83. The Specter Horse- 15. Gunmaker of Border. man. 16. Red Hand. 84. The Three Eranpers. 17. Ben, the Trapper. 85. Kaleolah, the itch 18. Wild Raven, r een. b 19. The Specter Chie 86. The Hunter Hercules, 20, The B’ar-Killer. 87. Phil Hunter, the Bog 21. Wild Nat. Slayer. 22. Indian Jo, the Guide. | 88. The Indian Scout. 28. Old Kent, the Ranger. | 89. The Girl Avenger. 24, The One-Eyed Trap- | 90. The Red Hermitess. per. 91. Star-Face, the Slayer. 25. Godbold, the Spy. 92. The Antelope Boy. 26. The Black Ship. 983. The Phantom Hunter 27. Single ae 94, Tom Pintle, the Pilot. 28. Indian Jim. 95. The Red Wizard. 29. The Scout. 96. The Rival Trappers. 30. Eagle Eye. 97. The Squaw Spy. 31. The Mystic Canoe. 98. Du ick. 82. The Golden Harpoon, | 99. Colonel Crockett. 33, The Scalp King. 100. Old Bear Paw. 34, Old Lute. 101. Redlaw. 85, Rainbolt, the 102. Wild Rube. 36, The Boy Pioneer. 108. The Indian Hunters. 87. Carson, the Guide. 104. Scarred Eagle. 38. The Heart-Eater. 105. Nick on 39, Wetzel, the Scout. 106. The Indian Spy. 40. The Huge Hunter, 107. Job Dean. 41. Wild Nat, the Trapper | 108. The Wood King. - 42. bon 109. The Scalped Hunter, 43. The White Outlaw. 110. Nick, the Scont. 44, The Dog Trailer. 111. The Texas Tiger, 45. The Elk — 112. The Crossed ves. 46, Adrian, the Pilot. 113, Tiger Heart, Tracker 47. The Man-hunter. 114. The Masked Avenger 49. Moccasin Bill. 115. The Pear! Pirates, 50. The Wolf Queen. 116. Black Panther. 51. Tom Hawk, the Trail- | 117. Abdiel, the Avenger er. 118. Cato, the Creeper. 52, The Mad Chief. 119. Two-Handed Mat. 53. The Black Wolf, 120. Mad Trail Hunter. 54. Arkansas Jack. 121. Black Nick, 55. Blackbeard. 122, Kit Bird. 56. The River Rifles. 123. The Specter Riders. 57. Hunter Ham. 124, Giant Pete. 58. Cloudwood. 125. The Girl Captain. 59. The Texas Hawks. 126. Yankee Eph. 60. Merciless Mat. 127. Silverspur. 61. Mad Anthony’s Scouts | 128. Squatter Dick. 62, The Luckless Trapper | 129. The Child Spy. 68, The Florida Scout. =; 180, Mink Coat, 64. The Island Trapper. | 131. Red Plume. 65. Hee Roomy 182. Clyde, the Trailer. 66. Rattling Dick. 188, The Lost Cache. 67. 8 e. 134. The Cannibal Chiet. 68. Iron-Hand. 135. Karaibo. 69. The Yellow Hunter. 136. Scarlet Moccasin. 70. The Phantom Rider, | 187. ce 71. Delaware Tom, 188, The d of the 72, Silver Rifle. Mountain, SONG BOOKS. Brap.e’s Die Sona Booxs, Nos. 1 tof containing the onl popwer collection of copyrig¥ songs to be found in market. MISCELLANEOUS DIME BOOKS. Jim Crow J_ke Book. Paddy Whack Joke Beek. Robinson Cruses. Pocket Joke Book. ¥
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1 Deadwood Dick, THz Prinom or rar Roan. By Edward L. Wheeler. Yellowstone Jack: or, THz TRAPPER OF THE ENCHANTED GRouND. By J. E. Badger, Jr. 3 Kansas Kin ngs or, THe Rep RIGuT Hanp. By Bu ‘alo Bill’ (Hon. Wm. F, Cody). The Wild-Horse Hunters. By Capt. Mayne Reid and Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 5 Vagabond Joe; THE Youne Wanpzr- ING Jew. By Oli Coomes, 6 Bill Biddon, Tran THe Nortuwest. By The Flyin § Seth er: or, Lirn wm ward 8S. Ellis, Yankee; or, Tox Ocuan y Col. Prentiss Ingraham. Jones; or, THe CAPTIVES OF THE Ovrcast. Frontrer. By Edward &. Ellis. p The Adventures of Baron Mun- usen. 10 Nat 1 Todds or, THe Fare or THE aptive. By Edward 8. Ellis, ] 1 The > sane Detectives; or, TH Fortunes or 4 Bowgry Gran. "AW. Aiken. 12 Gulliver's Travels. A Voyage to Lilliput, anda Voyage to Brobdingnag. The Dumb - By Oll Coo 13 author of Se +A Joe," ete. rat 14 Aladdins or, THE WoNDERFUL 1 5 The a ane or Witch or Daniex. By Capt. Grodan Whittaker. 16 Robinson Crusoe. His Life and Surprising Adventures, (27 illustrations.) 1 7 Ralph Roy, The Boy Bucca- neer. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 1 & Sindbad the Sailor. His seven voy- ages. From the Arabian Nights. 19 The Phantom Spy; or, THe Prior oF THE Prararm. By Buffalo Bill 20 The Double Daggers; or, Dzap- woop Dick's Dgrtance. By B, L. Wheeler, 21 Frontier Angel. A Romunce of Kentucky Rangers’ Life. By E. 8. Ellis. +) The Sea Serpent: or, THz Boy yy) 4 RoBrnson Onmbe- B y Col. Juan Lewis. 23 Nick o’ the oy 4 or, THE Bor Spy or 76. By T. Harbaugh. Diamond Dirk: or, THz Mystery or THe YeELLOwsTone. By Col. Ingraham. 2 The Boy Captain: or, THe Pratx’s DavGnarer. Roger Starbuck. 26 Cloven Hoof, the Demon. By Edward L. Wheeler. 27 ae on Abe, the Boy Guide. Coome.s QR Bethe Ben; or, Deapwoop Dick m Discuisz. By Edward L. Wheeler. 29 The Dumb Page; or, Tix Doer’s Daveatrr. By pt. F. Whittaker. 30 Roaring Ralph Rockwood, ThE Recxiess Ranetr. By Harry St. George, 31 Kee1-Knife, THe PRINCE OF THE Pratmirs, By Oll Coomes, 2+} Bob Woolf, the Border Ruffian: e? ~ or, Tar Girt Deap-Suor. E. L. Wheeler. ‘>>? The Ocean Bloodhound; or, THE € 2 Rep Pirates oF THE CARIBBEES, 8.'W. Pierce. Sol; or, Nick Wurrr_zs’ oe Oretn By Capt, J. F. C. Adams. _ Iam = Wild Ivan, THE Boy CLaupE Douvat; By Edward L. Wheeler. > Boy Clown; or, THE QUEEN oF 5 + VD — rind: By Frank 8. Finn. Zz ™ The Hidden Lodge; or, Tre Litre . Hunter or THE ADIRONDACKS. Harbaugh. 253 Ned Wylde, Tux Bor Scour. By ‘Tevas Jack BEADLE’S HALF-3IME LIBRARY. Every one of them ‘* Live” Stories by ** Live” Autmors. gach numbeF a Complete Novel, at the extraordinary price of a HALF-DIME. aly Or | 39 Death-Face, the Detective. Edward L. Wheeler. 40 Roving Ben. A story of a Young American. By John J. Marshall, Al Lasso Jack, THx Younc Musrane- ER. By Oli Coomes. 42 The Phantom Miner: or, Drap- woop Dicx’s Bonanza. By Ed, L. Wheeler. 4. Dick Darling, the Pony Express | Rider. By Capt. F. Whittaker. Rattling Rube: Tue Nicut- HAWKES ay keeroce’, By Harry St. George. 4. 5 Old Avalanche, the Great An- nihilator. By Edward L. Wheeler. 46 Glass Eye, the Great Shot of the nom By Capt. J. F. C. Adams. 4% N e mea" OR, — FOREST ae By T. ©. Harbaug Black John, the Road foe 48 By Jos. E. Badger, J: 49 Omaha Oll; or, beasenas om In Danezr. By Edward L. Wheeler. 50 Burt Bunker, Txt Tearven. A Tale “a the Northwest. By C. E. Lasalle. 51 T™ Rifles, or, a t Unprr- eer By Archie ©. Iron. 52 The White Buffalo. A Tale of Strange Adventure. Charles KE. Lasalle. 5 3 Jim Bludsoe, Jdr., THz Boy PHENIX; or, THROUGH To THE DEATH. E. L. Wheeler. 5 4. Ned Hazel, Tox Boy Trappsr; or, THE Puantom Prixcess. By J. F. C, Adams. 5 5 Deadly-Eye, Tux Unxxown Scout; By Buffalo Bill. 586 Nick Whiffies’ Pet, or, In THE Vauixy or DeaTs. Capt. J. h, OC. Adams. 57 Deadwood Dick’s Eagles; - Tae Parps or FiLoop Bar. E. L. Wh 58 The Border King; or, Tux aint For. By Oll Coomes, 59 Old Hickory, or, Panpy E..s’s Scatp. By Harry St. George. 60 The White Indian; or, Tax Scour OF THE YELLOWSTONE. ’ By J. F. C. Adams. 6i Buckhopn Bill, or, Taz Rep Ririz Txam. By Edward L. Wheeler. 6 The Shadow Sbi ip. or, THE RIVAL LizuTeNants. By Col Prentiss Ingraham. 63 The Red Brotherhood, or, Tur TweLve Avexcers. By W. J. Hamilton. G4 Pome Sanson Teas.’ By. © Harbaugh. G Hurricane Bill, or, Mustane Samu axp His “‘Parp."’ By Jos, E, Badger, Jr. 66 Single Hand, = A Live For A Live. Be W. J. Hamil G7 Oi: cham wen or, OLD Rat- TLESNAKE, THE CHARMER. By P.S.Warne. 68 The Border Robin Hood; Sj or, Tes Prarrr Rover. By Buffalo Bill 69 Gold Rifle: or, Tam Boy Derectivz oF THE BLACK Rancw, By E. L. Wheeler. - O Old Zip’s Cabin; or, THe GrEeEn- HORN IN THE Woops. By J. F.C. Adams. q1 Delaware Dick; Trz Youne Ran- eer Spy. By Oll Coomes. 72 Mad Tom Western, Tor Trxan Rancer, By W. J. Hamilton. 73 Deadwood Bapwers on Deck. By Edward L. Wh aeyner sh THz Youne 74 TeisvEr Radian. By Oll Coomes. 7 The Boy Duelist ; — = CRUISE or mat x4 WotF. By Col. P. Ingraham. Abe Colt, the Crow-Kilen By Albert W. Aiken. r | — Corduroy Charlie; or, THz Last Act or Dzapwoop Dick. By B. L. Wheeler. i toy Blue Dick; or, THe YELLow Cnmr’s VENGEANCE. By Captain Mayne Reid. Q Sol sae yr? sy THE Giant TRAPPER. By ii Rosebud hobs or, Nuecrt NEp, THE Exicst OF THE GULOM. By E. L, Wheeler. i Sy Lightning Jo, THE TERROR OF THE y Captain J. F. C. Adams, &Pe Kit Harefoot, raz Woop-Hawk; or, Otp Powprr-Face. By T. O. Harbaugh. 83 Rollo, the Boy 3 or, THE Hermess oF THE GOLDEN Horn. Oll Coomes. 4 Idyl, the Gis Girl Miner; or, Roszsup By Edward L. Wheeler. te 5 Buck Dacheibions : oR, Bess, THE F'x- MALE Trarpzr. By Capt. J. F.C. Adama. 6 se: Rock, THEr-Man-FRoM-TEX- as. G. Waldo Browne. & 7 The Land Pirates: or, THE LEAGUE or Drviu’s IsLanp. fiat aaa && Photograph oR, Rosesup Ron's Scecaaee By Ed. L. Wheeler. 89 Island Jim: or, THE PET oF THE Faminy. By author of “Jack Harkaway.“ 90 The Dread Rider: or, THE TEXAN Durst. By George W. Browne. 91 The Captain of the Club. By Braceb: Hemyng, (Jack Harkaway.) 92 Canada Chet; or, Op Anaconpa In Sirtine Bui’s Camp. By E. L. Wheeler. 9 3 The a an Op ENCHANTED 9 4 Midnight Jack, Tus Roap-Agenr. By T. C. Harbaugh. 9 5 The Rival Rovers. By Lieutenant Col. Hazeltine, Gg Watch - Eye, tHe Derrecrrvz. By Edward L. eeler. The Outlaw Brothers: or, Tus Captive oF THE Harpss. By J. J. Marshall. 98 Rebin Hood, THE OuTLAWED Earn By Prof. Stewart Gildersleeve. Q The r of Taos. By George Waldo Browne. 100 Ne ae in Leadville. 1 O 1 J oy Harkaway in New York. 10 ree et5 Me i a we 103 The Lion of the Sea. By Col 104 Pesdnre Dice Device. By 105 a hase rang, Ray ooa » rina 106 -— tye the Guide. By 107 OneEyed Bt Sims; or. mE ABAN- pond Forest Home. J. L. Rowen. Daring D. Tur Youne B 108 KIER. oy ae St. coon a 109 Deadwood Dick as Detective. By Edward L. Wheeler. 110 The Black Steed of the Prai ries. By James L. Bowen. : 11 1 The gn SE e, = Mrpsair- man’s LEGACY. P. Ingraham. 1 1 2 The - Banter: or, THE Cave ATH. u Saxe. 6 Ready September 16th. 1 1 3 Jack Pegie, THE YounG SpPrcu- LATOR. Edward L. Wheeler. Ready September Sad. A new issue every week. a Library p83 og all vi rept et sents ach. BEADLE ae on Pub “, e William Street, New Yor 97 ras
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82 Large Three-Column Pages. 1.A Hard Crowd: or, GENTLEMAN Sam’s Sister. By Philip 8S. Warne. 2. The Dare-Devil: or, THE WINGED WircH or THE Sea. By Col. Prentiss Ingrahain. 3. Kit Carson, Jr., Tue Crack SHorT 0: THE West. By Buckskin Sam. 4. The Kidnapper: or, THE Grea” SHANGHAI OF THE NorTHWeEST. By Philip 8. Worn 5. The Fire-Fiends: or, HERcULEs, 71 HouncuBack. By A. P. Morris. 6. Wildcat Bob, Tue Boss Bruism: or, THs BorpeR BLoopHounps. By Edward L. Whe ler, author of ‘‘ Deadwood Dick,” ** Double Daggers. 7. Death-Notch, THz DESTROYER: «i. Tae Spirit Lake Avencers.. By Oll Coomes. 8. The Headless Horseman. A strany story of Texas, By Capt. Mayne Reid. 9. Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover. 10. Vidocq, THz Frencn Po.ice Spy. Written by himself. 11. Midshipman Easy. ryat. | 12. The Death-Shot: or, TRACKED To | Deatu. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 13. Pathaway: or, Nick WHIFFLES, THE O.p Trapper oF THE NorTHWEsT. By Dr. J. H. Rob- n. 14, Thay endanegea, THE ScoURGE ; or, THE WAR-EAGLE of THE MonAwkKs. By Ned Bunt- ine, author of ‘‘ The White Wizard.” 15. The Tiger-Slayer: or, EAGuz- Heap Tro THE Rescur. By Gustave Aimard, 16. The White Wizard: or, THz GREAT PROPHET OF THE SEMINOLES. By Ned Buntline. 17. Nightshade, Tux Ropper PRINCE or Hounstow Heats. By Dr. J, H. Robinson, 18. The Sea Bandit: or, THs QurEEN ay THE IstE. By Ned Buntline. 19. Red Cedar, Tue Prarrim OUTLAW. By Gustave Aimard. 20. The Bandit at Bay: on, THE Pt- RATES OF THE Prarries. By Gustave Aimard, 21. The Trapper’s Daughter: or, Tue Ovr.Aw’s Fare. By Gustave Aimard, 22. Whitelaw: or, NaTTr@ or THE LAKE SxHore. By Dr. J. H. Robinson, 23. The Red Warrior: oR, STELLA Detormn’s ComaAncHE Lover. By Ned Buntline, 24. Prairie Flower. By Gustave Ai- mard, author of “ Tiger-Slayer,” etc. 25. The Gold-Guide: or, Steet Ary, THE ReauLtatTor. By Francis Johnson. 26. The Death-Track: or, THE OvrT- LAWS OF THE Mountain. By Francis Johnson, 27. The po pay gt bt chee or, THE Griris or New Yors. By Albert W. Aiken. 28. Three-Fingered Jack, THe Roap- AGENT oF THE Rockies; or, THe Boy Miner. or Harp Luck. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 29. Tiger Dick, Tux Faro Kina; or, Tue CasHier’s Crom. By Philip 8. Warne, author of “A Hard Crowd,” etc. 30. Gospel George; or, Fiery FRep, By Capt. Mar- | Tue Ovrtaw. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 31. The New York ‘Sharp;’ or, THE Fuass or Lientnine. By Albert W. Aiken, 32. B’hoys of Yale; or, THE ScrapEs or A Harp Ser or Cotueaians. By John D. Vose. 33. Overland Kit. By Albert W. Aiken. 34. Rocky Mountain Rob. By Al- bert W. Aiken. 35. Kentuck, the Sport. By Albert W. Aiken. 36. Injun Diek, By Albert W. Aiken. KIT CARSON, JR.—No. 3, 37. Hirl, the Hunchback; or, THE SWoRDMAKER OF THE SANTEE. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 38. Velvet Hand; or, Tux [Ron Grip or Ingun Dick. By Albert W. Aiken. 39. The Russian Spy? on, THE Brotu- ERS OF THE STARRY Cross. By erick Whittaker. 40. The Long Tue Tarrars of THE Piarns. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 41. Gold Dan: or, THe Wuirr SavaGs | By Albert W. Aiken. | oF THE Great SAuT LAKE, 42. The California Detective: or, Tae Witcues or New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 43. Dakota Dan, Tue RecKiess RANGER; or, Tae Brn-Hunters Excursion. By Oll Coomes, 44. Old Dan Rackback, THe Great EXTARMINATOR; or, THE TRIANGLE’S Last TRAIL. By Oll Coomes, 45. Old Bull’s Eye, Tur LiGutTnine Ssor or THE Puarns. By Joseph E. Badger, JR., 46. Bowie-Knife Ben, Tue LITTLE HuntTER or THE Nor’-west. By Oll Coomes. 47. Pacific Pete, Tok PRINCE oF THE Revotver. By Jos. E. Badger. 48. Idaho Tom, THE Youna OvTLAWw OF SILVERLAND. By Oll Coomes, MIDSHIPMAN EASY,—No, 11. Haired ‘ Pards;’ or, | | Scouts; or, Life and Love in a Frontier Fort. Each Number Complete, Price 10 cts. 49. The Wolf Demon, or, Tat Qrexn o» THY KaNAwHA. By Albert W. Aiken, 50. Jack Rabbit, Toe Prarrm Seourr. or, THE CHILDREN OF THE LLANO Estacapo. By Jos E. Badger, Jr. ’ 61. Red Rob, Tue Boy Roap-Acer’ | By Oll Coomes. 52. Death Trailer, THe Cnrmr o» B Hon. Wm. F. Cody, (Buffalo Bill.) P 53. Silver Sam; or, THe Mystery oF Deadwoop Crry, By Col. Delle Sara. 54, Always on Hand; or, THE Sportrvn Sport or tHE Foot Huis. By Phillip 8. Warne author of ‘‘A Hard Crowd,” ‘Patent Leather Joe ” 55. The Scalp Hunters. A Romance or THE Piatns. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 56. The {ndian Maseppa; or, TH Map MAN or THE Puatns. By rt W. Aiken, 57. The Silent Hunter; or, THE Scow: Hatyt Mystery. By Percy B, St. John. 58. Silver Knife: or, WickLirrn, THF Rooxy Mountarn Raneur. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 59. The Man From Texas; or, Tur OvurLaw or ARKANSAS. By Albert W. Aiken. 60. Wide Awake; or, Tue IprioTr or THE Buack Hits. By Frank Dumont, 61. Captain Seawaif, THE PRIVATEER. By Ned Buntline, 62. Loyal Heart; or, THz TRAPPERS OF | ARKANSAS. By Gustave Aimard. 63. The Winged Whale. By Albert | W. Aiken, 64. Double- Sight, the Death Shot. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 65. The Red Rajah: or, Tok ScourGE oF THE InpIESs. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 66. The Specter Barque. A Taz or THE Paciric. By Captain Mayne Reid. 67. The Boy Jockey: or, Honesty VERSUS CROOKEDNESS. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 68. The Fighting Trapper: or, Kit CARSON TO THE Rescur. By Capt. J. F. C, Adams. 69. The Irish Captain: A Tar or Fontenoy. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 70. Hydrabad, THE STRANGLER; or, ALETHE, THE CHILD OF THE CorD. By Dr. J. H. | Robinson. | 71. Captain Cool-Blade, or, Taz Man- SHARK OF THE MississiprI. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 72. The Phantom Hand, A Srory or we! York HeartHs AND Homes. By Albert W. en. 73. The Knight of the Red Cross: or, THe Magician oF GranapA. A Tale of the Al- hambra. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 74. Captain ofthe Rifles. A Romance oF THE Mexican VALiey. By Captain Mayne Reid 75. Gentleman George, or, Parion, Prison, StaGE AND STREET, By Albert W. Aiken. 76. The Queen’s Musketeer, © | THIsBE, THE Princess Paumist. By George Albo: y. 77. The Fresh of Frisco, or, 7 43 Herress OF BUENAVENTURA. By Albert W. Aiken, 78. The Mysterious Spy: or, Gorn s FEATHER, THE BUCCANEER’S DAUGHTER, By A. ! Grainger. Ready October 8th. 79. Joe Phenix, THE Pouicr Spy. Albert W. Aiken. Ready October 22d. ry A new issue every two weeks, Beadle’s Dime Library is for sale by #1) Newsdealers, ten cents per copy, or sent by mail or receipt of twelve cents each, BEADLE & ADAMS Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.