Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 03 30)
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ie rs \: = SS6: aed a) os il i 0.20. VoL I. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS, March 30, 1880. PRICE, 5 CENTS. Vl Cate Zi ld retactrineate LTA NG SS Orphan Nell, the Orange trl; or, The Lost Heir BY AGILE PENNE. CHAPTER I. THE WILL OF ANSON LIVINGSTONE. In the parlor of one of the brown-stone gee on Fifth avenue, New York, sat two men, both young, yet totally unlike in appearance. The reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, his hands playing nervously with his massive watch-chain, was a young man, perhaps vwenty-three “ OH, MR. GORDEN,” SHE CRIED, SHAKING HER FINGER ARCHLY AT ME, “THEN YOU ARE TOO PROUD TO ACCEPT A PRESENT FROM THE POOR ORANGE GIRL.” | years of age. He was dressed in the hight of fashion; all about him was rich, costly and becoming; evidently he was a favored son of for- tune. His features were regular, his eyes a peculiar blue—the flash of which reminded one of the glint of light from steel. A long, silken mustache, of yellow hue, the same as his hair, shaded his lip. The whole face was handsome, yet there was a cold, evil expression upon it at times—the look of one whose idol was self, and self ak00e, The second man was a complete contrast to the first. His hair, which was cropped close to his head, was black as night; his eyes the same color; his face pale as death—an unnatural whiteness. He-was dressed ina rusty suit of black, worn threadbare here and there. He wore no beard, but his chin looked as if it sadly needed the keen edge of the razor. His whole appearance seemed to say: ‘‘I am down; don’t strike me!” — | |
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. - the thoughts that burned in my hea since Richard = bag aha the heir who had just come into a $100,000 by his father’s death—for he was the one I have previously de- scribed—and I sat together in the parlor of ele- gant mansion on Fifth avenue, New York. What then had I, the hanger-on, the poor cuee of a Private Detective’s office, in common with the wealthy Livingstone? You shall learn. But first, fo%"a few words to introduce myself. I am called Alexander Gorden. My father was one of the first lawyérs in New York. In my youth I re- ceived all the instruction that money could procure, was sent to Yale College—Livingstone and I being in the same class. There I graduated, with the highest honors. I had studied for the law, and, on sey bree to New York, was admitted to the bar. Then my father died cape and all his fortune, which proved to be much smaller,than the world pi 9 pie cametome. Iwas what was called a “ good fellow,’ fond. of a social glass, or a night’s enjoyment with a arty of friends. Need I tell the result? Wine and he smiles of false beauties were my ruin. Step by step, I went down the ladder of social degradation until one morning I awoke to find myself penniless and friendless—my health broken, my reputation gone, .. My former friends—‘‘heaven save the mark!”’— had suddenly become near-sighted, and passed me without notice, or else crossed over on the other side of the street when they saw me coming, and thus avoided me. These things cut me tothe heart. I would have committed suicide, but I frankly own I did not have the courage. Starvation stared me in the face; what to do [knew not. I could not hold a position, even the lowest, for I was not to be depended upon. T could not resist the temptation to drink. At the eleventh hour, when I had not tasted food for two ‘days, fate, chance, luck, call it what you will, sent a friend to my aid. That friend was John Peters, the Detective, of No, 608 Broadway. . Peters had been venenle by my father in a great many ticklish jobs, which came within the peculiar province of the detective. He caught me by the hand and shook it warmly. Tn a few moments he, with a few well-put ques- tions, learned my situation. He thought for a mo- ment, and then said: ' “T want aclerk; come to my office!” I accepted his offer, and, after I entered the office strove to reform. In part I succeeded; but, a times, the old vice would come upon me and I could not withstand temptation. One day, after I had been with Peters some three months, emesiene called to see Peters upon usiness. That business was to trace a certain person —to find if the person was alive or dead; and, if nee. where. : ers was very busy; the task was simple, and the detective asked meif Iwould undertake it. I aecepted the chance at once. I es aie to be in the office when Li one called, and I saw that he had forgotten me. No wonder, for the change in my penne had been great, and I shunned re- e on. set about my duties at once. I had very little difficulty and soon procured the desired information —not only the information desired, but some that Lenin ivingstone would have been better pleased ° ave not to known, There was, as I discovered, a dark secret connected with the Li tone family—a secret that, once known, would make Richard Liv- ee or as myself. Hewas in my power. 1 felt it, ea Laloried in it. ‘‘Why?” perhaps some = ask. I will tell, although the memory is tter. Olive Livingstone, Richard’s sister, three years ounger than he—a, alah bright-eyed beauty, ovely as a painter’s dream, cold as an iceberg, with the steel-blue eyes, the mark of the iron-hearted Livingstones—had been my betrothed bride. LIloved her—oh! how I loved her!—but, when my father died, and I came in possession of his. fortune, which proved so much less than report had given out, I no- ticed a growing coldness on the part of my promised bride and her.brother. This, of course, produced the usual result. I drank deeper and harder than ever. Then, in one mad hour, while flushed with i , L visited Olive, and the blow fell upon me. lips that I had kissed so often, with all the joy- sion of a man’s first love, told me that we Bitter was my ed I spoke . I told her that she was false, and that I regretted the hour when I had first looked upon her face. Well, I knew the reason of my rejection. I was a that was my crime. Drunkenness could have forgiven, covered by a golden mask; but, to be —that was a crime that admitted of no excuse. I said but little, and left the house. But_now, the hour of my triumph was approaching. I resolved that Richard Livingstone should give me half his fortune and his sister’s hand in marriage, or the se- cret I had discovered I would une to the world. Behold me now, seated in Livingstone’ s parlor, about to commence the interview which would end in 5 triumph. al “Well, sir,” said Livingstone, a slight shade of poe eng showing itself upon his face; “‘ you have procured the information I desired?” “ Yes,” T answered, “‘I have,” and then waited for another question. : His embarrassment increased; he evidently felt that.it was a-delicate subject. Had he known that I Imew all the particulars of the ‘‘case"’ he had de- sired John Peters to ‘‘ work up,’’ Ido not doubt he would have been much more agitated. i Ti ous 1aust part forever. : | no Nn dah ring 2 a etilin 2 Pier ie a Ee en ee a a a ee eee a es ¥ quite a pause. ** Yes, sir,’’ I answered. : “Why did not Mr, Peters attend to my business in rson?’’ he asked. ‘*No time—other engagements,”’ I said, with Spar- tan brevity. For perhaps five minutes Livin: apparently engaged in deep thou, his head. I saw by his manner mined t know all. ss ee have procured the information I wished?” “ es 9” “Well, does the child live?” ‘* Before we proceed any further, Mr. Livingstone, let us understand each other.” “Sr!” he said, with a puzzled look. ‘You wish to know the whereabouts of a child named—” “What! you have discovered the name?” he ex- claimed, the glitter of his eyes betraying strong ex- citement. ‘*T believe, when you applied at our office, you did not give the name of the child; Wg only gave the soa send of the people at Little Falls, who reared the infant.” Livingstone leaned back in his chair again, and from his half-closed eyes shot a peculiar glance at me—a glance seemingly of recognition, ell, I did not care; in the space of ten or fifteen minutes, I should announce myself. So I continued, first, how- ever, drawing a memorandum-book from my pocket = which Livingstone’s instructions had been noted own. **Case No. 40; to find the whereabouts of a child born at Little Falls, Herkimer county, State of New York, in the year 1844; the mother’s name, Salome Percy; the father’s name unknown. Said child brought up at the farm-house of George W. Wilson, uncle to Salome Perey,” This lread from the mem- orandum-book. ‘‘That is correct, sir, is it not?’ I asked. “Quite,” he answered, pulling the ends of his — mustache and favoring me with a peculiar ook, . ““Well, sir, the child is living, and is a girl.”’ “A girl!’ he started. “Yes, named Salome, after the mother, and—her last name is the same as her father’s!” ‘Ah! you know it?” the question caine quick from his nervous lips. “Ye,” I said, cold as ice. “Then you have discovered possibly more than I cared for you to know,” and his voice was as_ cold and passionless as mine. This surprised me. But I thought to myself that he had determined to play a bold game; but, knowing what I did, I knew nad him ‘* foul.” ; ‘Perhaps!’ I answered, laconically. “You say the child is known by the name of the father?’ “ Yes. ” ““T am somewhat surprised at that. I should have thought that the mother would have been anxious to conceal hershame and not to publish it to the world by giving her child the name of her betrayer,”’ and he bent a keen glance on me as he spoke. ““You are speaking in riddles, Mr. Livingstone,” I answered, coolly, for I saw now that his “little ame’? was to hoodwink me. “I don’t see why a awful wife shouldn’t call her child by its father’s name. ‘““You mean to say then, that this girl Salome is the child of a legal marriage?’ he questioned, a dark frown gathering on his forehead and the wicked light shining from his eyes. “Exactly!” I came down on him, sharp as a needle, “T think you would find it difficult to prove that in a court of justice,” he said, with a snecr. “Tecould prove it, if need be, in sixteen couris! The minister is still living in Buffalo, who married Salome Perey to—”’ “Hush!” he said, nervously. ‘Enough, that we know the name, without speaking it, This child you say is still living?” ‘ Yes y? ‘* Where?” “Here in New York city!” “Ts it possible?” “Yes; Lean Rt my handson her at a moment’s notice.”” Here I lied, because I couldn’t do anything of the kind; still, he didn’t know that. The facts were, I had discovered that the 1 was in New York, and I had a tolerably good idea where she was to be found. ‘“You can do this, Alexander Gorden?”’ he asked. As Thad acy hepa he remembered me, despite the change that liquor had made in my face and appear- ance, ‘* Yes,” I answered, without evincing any astonish- ment at being saluted by my name. “You see [ know you.” He was evidently aston- ished that his recognition had not affected me, “Yes; I expected that you would know me.” Down on him again, needle-like, Icame. ‘ Now, as I said before, let us understand each other. Only a few months ago I was coolly told_that I_was too poor to be a match for your sister Olive. Now, I tell you, I have proofs in my possession, which will strip you and your sister of every dollar you have in the | wee that will drive both of you beggars into the street.” | Livingstone never changed color, or moved a mus- cle at my threat. Isaw at once that my blow had 1: failed; why or how { knew not. tone sat silent. t; then he raised at he had deter- ) “You are speaking rashly,” he said,in a quiet | tone; a tone that, coming from a man like him, | aoe danger, ‘‘What are these proofs you speak Aa, “The marriage-certificate of the mother and the record of the baptism of the child,’ I answered, coolly, throwing each word at him as though they were daggers aimed at his heart. , . You have these proofs?” “Ah!” and for a moment he was silent. I could see that mentally he was preparing for an attack. The eyeate was about to commence. I glanced over my plan of battle, figuratively speaking. There was no weak point—no loop-hole for escape. The proofs were in my hands—proofs that could not be disputed; and, in my own mind, I ee that he should pull me up, or I would pull him down. “You intend to use this knowledge against me?’’ he said, with a searching glance into my face. “Yes!” I answered, in a tone that must have shown him that I had hoisted the black flag, and that he could expect but little mercy at my hands. . ‘** Alex—I will call you as I used to in the old time, when we were chums at college together,” he ex- claimed, in a smooth voice—‘‘it is better for us to be friends than foes. Forget the nae which you have more to lay to your own folly than to any other cause. You are poor. I am rich. these proofs you speak of. I will pay well for them.” “That is all that can be asked,’ I said. Now came my turn, “Give me fifty thousand dollars and the hand of your sister Olive, and the documents are yours.” ‘*Tmpossible!”’ he cried. ‘‘ Olive will never marry op of | her own free will, and I cannot force her to 0 So,’ “Yes, but beggary may!” My voice was harsh; I would not show mercy. ‘“You can not beggar us. I acknowledge that all you have said regarding the birth of the child and the marriage of the parents to be true; but that truth, even if published to the world, would not ruin Olive or myself.” His boa son manner staggered me. It was plain that my dards were not so good asI had thought. But, how could he escape me? “'Phis girl, Salome, is the heiress to all your father’s fortune!” I cried. “No, she is not,” he said, quietly, “‘ for my father, Anson Te pastone, made a will.” “A will!” I exclaimed, for I well knew that no dm document ever had seen the light of a Probate lourt. “Yes, here is a draft of it, in my father’s own handwriting.” He took a paper from his pocket and handed it to me. I opened it. As he had said, it was in the handwriting of Anson Livingstone. I read it through carefully. One item of it alone con- cerned me. To his two children, Richard and Olive, he left twenty-five thousand dollars apiece; the bulk of his property went to—but of that anon. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘‘you can not ruin us. I found this draft among my father’s papers after his ” Sell me death. The will itself is deposited in the hands of — a certain party, who will produce it when it is re- quired by me. Now, you see how I stand. Make pe the proofs Bp ave obtained, you take from live and myself fifty thousand dollars, but we shall thousand left; for then I shall at once make the will public. Besides, before I produce the will, I shall of course fight your proofs; you may have the right, but 1 have the money—and ‘green- backs’ are a very powerful argument In some of our New York courts.’ Isaw he had beaten me. My weak point was that T hadn’t the girl yet, and I might not be able to find her. I resolved to compromise for the present, I knew very well the influence of money upon some of our “upright judges.” ‘What will ga give me for these papers?” “JT must first see them,” he said. : “All right; come to ay house, No. 42 Baxter street, to-night, and T’'ll show them to ycu. You won't have any difficulty to find my room, because there’s only two in the building and I occupy teth.”’ He took down the direction. “Very well,” he said, ‘‘ I will come about nine,” _ Trose and left the house. Once outside I laughed in my sleeve, Cunning as Livingstone was, I had tricked him, for I had no more the marriage-certifi- eate and record of baptism than he had. It was a rusé on my part, and it had succeeded. Isaw that those articles did exist, and he knew it, though I didn’t, but had only made a shrewd guess, To-night then we would have another interview—another encounter of wits—not this time, though, in his brown-stone pase on Fifth avenue, but in my house, the O] Rookery in Baxter street, right in the. heart of the ‘‘ bloody Sixth Ward.” CHAPTER II. THE ORANGE GIRL. Frve o’clock found me located in my little apart- ments in Baxter street. The building in which the were situated was a small wooden house, built probably sixty years at least before the time at which I write. The first. floor had been used as a sort of half grocery, balf liquor store, but that was. now closed. Two small rooms over the store com- pleted the house. Access to the rcoms was had by a tumble-down sort of staircase at the side of the building. : The rent of the room being but a trifle, suited my humble means; and then, too, I had a companion— a man of Irish descent, by name Pat McCarthy, by rofession a lawyer; one cf the class popularly ermed ‘* Tombs shysters.”’ Pat had befriended me, at a time, too, when friends were scarce. He was a large-hearted tellow—a man still have on of but little education, but with a deal of naturat shrewdness, ‘ ER | te - } f \ ts ‘ ' *
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~ ll a lt Bet. el > ORPHAN. NELL, THE.ORANGE GIRL, Our apartments were not luxuriously furnished. ‘The outer room contained a little table, two chairs and asmall stove; the inner one, a cot-bedstead, a single chair, a wash-stand—the drawer of which an- swered as a safe for the keeping of our papers— a tin wash-basin and @ small tin pail; two battered tin cups and a large white pitcher completed our fur- niture and household utensils, Pat sat opposite to me, smoking a short black pipe. In person he was a little fellow, with keen gray eyes, a short turn-up_ nose, and coarse black hair, which stuck out from his head like bristles. I needed Pat's aid, so I related to him the particu- lars of my interview with Livingstone. ‘‘Whist!”’ said he, in the full rich brogue peculiar to the South-of-Ireland men; ‘‘ye want a marriage- certificate an’ a record of baptism. The first wan is aisy, but the second, ’twould bother the divil, be- gorra!’ ‘* Tow so?’’ I asked. “Sorra a wan o’ me knows what a record of bap- tism is,” “Well, Pat,’ I said, ‘‘ I don’t know exactly in what form it should be drawn out, myself. Stay, though !”’ I cried, as a sudden thought flashed upon me; ‘a simple statement by the minister who officiated at the ceremony will be sufficient,” “Tt’s a big head ye have on yer Shoulders!” ex- claimed Pat, in admiration. ‘‘ By the piper that played before Moses, if I had edication like you've got, barrin’ the likin’ ye have for whisky, I wouldn’t call a queen my uncle.” . “That will do very well for the record of baptism; but the ma: e-certificate?” I asked. “ Aisy enough. I’ve got wan of a cousin of mine, now dead an’ gone—rest her soul in peace! It’s ould an’ worn. I'll take out the names an’ the date wid acid, an’ put in the wans you want. Isn’t it a _ beautiful idea? Begorra! I’ve the makin’ of a judge in me, if I wasn’t such an honest man!” “That will do excellently,’ I said. ‘‘ Here are the names of the minister who performed the ceremony, and the ies married; also the other particulars.’ Than him the paper which was the result: of my expedition to Buffalo and Little Falls. “The next thing is to find. the girl. She’s about twenty-three rears of age now; and a year i she was living with a cousin of George Wilson, of Little Falls—the mwanin whose family she was brought up—at No. 1/8 Eldridge street. To-morrow Vil sce if I can find her; and if I am successful, I'll start off for Buffalo again and hunt the minister up.” “T's a big brain ye have, Mr. Alex. By the Powers! ye’ll worry Mr. Livingstone afore ye git through wid him.” bh be to, Pat. Now, mind, the paper for the record of stism must be ‘doctored’ to give it the _ appearance of age.” ; “ Aisy now!’’ cried Pat, with a cunning wink. ‘* Leave it tome, Tl fix it so his own grandmother would take her oath on a stack of Bibles that she wrote it herself, by raison of the oldness of the paper.” _ A timid knock sounded on the door. “ Come in!” Tsaid. The door opened, and a young girl, with a basket of oranges and apples on her arm, entered the room. She was a pretty little thing, possibly sixteen or seventeen years old, with a peculiar blue eye—the shade of that color that a poet would call steel-blue; her hair, which was almost hidden from view by a hood, was of that strange hue, not yellow nor yet golden, but a shade between both. She was dressed bas greed but neatly. Nell, the Orange Girl—as she was aptly termed— was well known by all the Tombs lawyers, as it was in the vicinity of that gloomy pile that she followed her avocation and gained her daily bread. Nell was a strange girl, not forward and bold, like nearly all her class, but retiring and timid. There was & modesty and gentleness about her seldom to be seen in those reared to the street life of the mod- ern Sodom, New York city. Thad taken quite a fancy to Nell andshe to me; that was because one day I defended her from the advances of a drunken “rough,’’ who had an idea that she was to be insulted with impynity. A well- directed blow between the eyes, which knocked him into the muddy gutter, convinced him of his mistalze. From that moment Nell looked upon me in the light of a protector. “Ah! Nell, darlint! is it there ye are?” cried Pat, who, by his merry, jo way, had also made him- self a favorite with the nge Girl. ‘‘ Will ye trust me for an orange?” “Why, Mr. acarthy, you owe me fifty cents al- ready,” replied the gic, in a low, sweet voice—one _ of those peculiar voices which can only be compared music, =f The devil I do!” returned Pat, in a tone of comic despair. ‘Fifty cents! Oh, musha! an’ can’t you credit me more than that? Is not the word an’ ene ane Patrick | Macarthy, Esquire, worth more than fifty cents?’ Nell laughed, and for reply took one of the largest peomgee out of her basket and held it out to the awyer. ; ‘An’ is it for me?’ sail Pat, in astonishment. “Yes,”’ the girl replied. : “Do ye mind this, Alex? See what it is to be a man possessed of credit!” Pat rose in & pompous way, and bowing in an extravagant manner, took the or: iy ‘* Whist!”’ cried he, Precip shail I give ye my note of hand for the debt? ybe it might be of use to you; sorra use is it to me!” and he laughed heartily at his own joke. ag “No, thank gs Mr. Macarthy,” said Nell, smil- , 1] trust to your honor. ing Til t to hi a ~ . " An’ divi! a better security could ye have, than | A the word cf an Irish gintleman, an’ that’s myself.” Pat drew himself up prouc!y, a3 though the blood of all the ancient kings or Ireland flowed in his veins. “ By the way, Pat, you had better get to work on those papers. He’ll be here at nine, and it’s be- ginning to get dark now,” I said. Pat gave a low whistle looked at me and then Nell, and winked significantly. “All right; I'll git out. A wink’s as good as a nod to a blind horse. Oh! ye divil ye! Nell, kape yer eye on him; he’s a divil!” and with this advice and another series of winks, Pat went into the other room. I laughed and glanced at Nell; she was blushin as red as a rose, and I mentally said to myself, wha a pretty girl she is. “You mustn’t mind Mr. Macarthy’s nonsense, Nell,’’ I said. “Oh, I don't, sir!’ she replied, recovering. a little from her confusion. ‘‘I know he is good-hearted and don’t mean evil by what he says. Won’t you have an orange, Mr. Gorden?” ‘*No, thank you, Neill.. The fact is, ve no money now to pay for it.” ; “Oh, that don’t make any difference. Won’t you let me give you one?’ she answered, quickly. ‘‘ Re- member that you have been very kind to me, and I do so want to show my gratitude in some way.” ‘*Oh, nonsense! Forget that little service; it isn’t worth talking about. Now, if I were like Mr. Macarthy, I shouldn’t have the least hesitation about running in debt. I might, a adopt the enaconace he made the other day and pay you—in busses.” “Why, Mr. Gorden!” and again she blushed up to her temples; but, strange to say, she did not seem to be annoyed at the idea, as she had been two or three days previous, when Pat had advanced it. . “Don’t be alarmed, Nell; I shouldn’t try that mode of squaring accounts unless I were sure you were willing. And, I’ve no doubt that you prefer ready money; it’s much more valuable.”’ “Do you think so, Mr, Gorden?’ This was a strange question, and there was a strange tone in her voice as she spoke. ‘* Certainly,’’ answered; ‘“‘can you compare kisses to money, for a single moment?”’ ‘“ Why not?” and her voice was deep and earnest. ‘*T should think that sometimes, a single kiss would be of more value toa girl’s heart than all the money in the world.” These words coming in such an earnest may from her lips surprised moe. “T do not quite understand you,” and as I spoke, I looked full into her eyes—those darl-blue eyes—now so mild in their soft beauty; but which, if e ed, I should fancy would flash forth like a lambent e, scorching in its fire. Strange, too; somewhere be- fore had I seen eyes like’ hers, but when or where I could not remember. I searched my memory over; the cffort was useless; but, as I gazed’ upon her face, I saw that, not only were the eyes familiar to me, but other features also, and yet. I could not tell whom the face resembled. “Do you not?” she said, in reply to my words. “Suppose, now, that a poor girl loved a gentleman —a man poor too, perhaps, but still by birth and education a gentleman. Suppose that, in tine, he came to love her, would not the first: kisS that his ine pressed upon here—the kiss that told her that she was loved—be worth more to her than all the money in the world?” “ Yes,’ I replied. ‘In such a case, I do not doubt that it would.”’ Strange were her words, strange was her manner. Could it be possible that this poor Orange Girl loved some one? and that some one far above her in social station? It might beso. Mys- terious are the workings of the human heart. Love can not be ruled; it springeth up alike in the heart of the prince or the peasant. “Nell, tell me about your life,” I spoke, impelled by a sudden curiosity. > “Do you really want to know?’? She asked the —— with an eagerness that I could not under- Ss i ‘“Of course I do, or I should not have asked you. I really feel interested. It’s a terrible life for a young girl like youto lead, You must be exposed toa many insults, toa great many dangers.” es, Iam,” she answered, simply and and earn- estly; ‘‘and from one of the dangers you saved me,” “Now, Nell, don’t say any more about that, if oy love me!” 1 spoke ina careless, joking tone, ut my words had a strange effect upon the girl, for again her face was flooded with the warm blood, and a peculiar gleam eppeared in the steel-blue eyes. ‘‘ Now, don’t blush so, Nell, Iwas only joking,” T continued; ‘but, sit down and tell me the story of your life.” She complied with my wish. ‘“*T cannot tell you ali my life,’’ she said, ‘“‘ because I promised my mother on her deathbed, that I would never tell all except to two persons—one my hus- band, the other an old friend of my father’s.” “ A strange request,” I said, wonderingly. “Tt was her dying wish.” ‘Did she die here in New York?” “No, she died in the little country village, where I was born.” “And that was—” “You forget,” she said, with a sweet smile; ‘TI cannot tell you all.” d as eto mother did not come with you then to New ork?’ ‘*No, my mother died ten years ago, and immedi- ately after her death 1 came to New York with a rela- tion—a cousin of my mother. She wasemployed in a tailor shop on Fulton street. I learned her trade, burg not foilow it long, for my health suffered by ; ee vs - +f choly, and when you look sad, you don’t look near as well . *: \ al iti * the constant confinemen*, sol determined to turn Orange Girl and gain my bread that way.” $$ rave resolve,’’ I exclaimed. “Do youthink so?” she said, looking at me with in- quiring pay “Yes, I do indeed. Few girls would have the courage to attempt it.” “Buti did. I said to myself, lean but try. I did try and'I succeeded. At first it was very-hard, for I was timid and almost afraid to ask any one to buy: but then, as I kept on, day by day I grew bolder and : did better. Of course there were a great many per- : : sons—I can’t call them gentlemen—who said rude things tome. Ineveranswered, but [looked at them in such a way that they never dared to say them twice to me!” « Her —_ flashed, and her pouting little red lips, rich and luscious in their dewy fullness, curled in su- perb scorn as she spoke. Poor child! hardened man of the world as I was— pte ag and drunkard as I had been, still my heart led for her. Mentally I compared her fortune with that of the proud and haughty Olive Livingstone. The one reared in the midst of wealth and luxury, nota caprice ungratified, born to wealth; the other, born to—what? My reflections had led me too far. How could I say what she was born to? I could only say what she was; fate plays strange antics somie- timesin this world; and from the mystery that sur- rounded the Orange Girl, one might safely think that she, too, was born to occupy a far higher sta- tion than that she now filled. Her langu was ample evidence that her early education had not been neglected. “Nell,” I said, “do you know that I have a high opinion of you!’ . % mete peielh eo an quick from her ps; and a joyful light beamed in her eyes. 4 Yes, I have indeed.” 3 ee “Do you know, Mr. Gorden, that I value your opinion more than I do that of any one else in the whole wide world?” She meant what/she said; her “ eyes showed that, and the eyes. seldom deceive I~ was pleased, of course. Iwas beginning to take a strong interest in the little blue-eyed girl, who, with such innocence confessed her liking for me. - “T am glad to hear you say that, Nell, for at pres- ent you are probably the only womazf in the world who thinks of me.” “The only one?” she said, with a look of wonder, ‘‘ Yes, the only one. Perhaps, though, I have ony my own folly to thank for it.” » ‘But, don’t think about it, Mr. Gorden!’’ she eried, quickly, “for it makes you look so melan- f as you do when you smile, But, you haven't said whether you will accept my orange or not?” and then she held one of the oranges out to me, with a bright, quick look and a littie pert toss of her fair, shapely head that reminded me at once of a canary-bird. But, I tell you, Nell, I can’t pay for it!” I said, laughing almost in spite of myself at the arch look of those gleaming blue eyes. : “Why, yes you can; besides, 1 said that if you ecouldn’t, 1 would make you a present of it,”’ ** But, I would rather pay for it.”’ ““Oh, Mr. Gorden,” she cried, rising and shaking her finger archly at me, ‘‘then you are too proud to accept a present from the poor Orange Girly” ‘No! no! Iam not!’ I exclaimed, hastily. “Well, then, I’m too prond to ask you to accept a present from me,” she said, with mock gravity, rahe her lips close together in a vain endeavor to ook serious, an endeavor that was defeated by the laughing eyes. “But, Nell!’ I cried in remonstrance, rising and- approaching her. “Yes, Iam, indeed; but youshall have the oran;re, and you shall pay for it, too.” She handed it to me and I took it. * 2 oo as I said, I haven’t any money; will ycu | “No!” came from the tightly-shut lips—the li that looked so dignified while the eyes leached, * : sh how can I pay you?” I advanced a step = stood by her side. Her eyes looked full into. . ; e. “Mr. Macarthy thought of a way. What I would | not accept from him, perhaps I would from you.” | A burning blush spread over her face; I was not i blind, and the light that shone from her eyes gave hs me both courage and consent. The full, red lips, not now compressed, but parting like a half-blown 4 rose-bud, showing the white, pearl-like teeth, were ' upraised to mine. A moment I held her in my arms, our lips met in a long-lingering kiss—a kiss such as my life ne’er before had known—and then, = light asa bird, with a joyful smile upon her face, a she stole softly and gently from my arms and was _ gone. For a moment I stood motionless; then’ the thought of what she had but a little while befi:e said—of the kiss that was worth more than mone;— flashed es me. Her words were true. No gold in the world could have bought from me the kiss I had just received. I confessed to myself that I felt a 4 deep interest_in the girl who had just left me—an , interest that I could not well explain. ‘ It was rapidly growing dark, I lit a candle and — it_upon the little table. In a few hours ichard Livingstone would come for the proofs. te Suddenly a thought flashed into my brain, Nell,the . Orange Girl, was like enough to Richard Livingstone ‘ to be his sister! This was the resemblance that at aie first I could not trace. It was remarkable, to say ‘, the least. 4 I looked out of the window; it threatened to be a dark night. I shuddered, A dark night ina great “a city conceals many a scarlet crime, : een *
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4 ¥. = ee i ‘ - —_ ™ Se ° a oe - .* ! - EF »~ @ are ei <* % take A ORPHAN NELL, THE ORANGE GIRL. CHAPTER III. » A DARK NIGHT AND A DARK DEED. I sat down by the window and looked out through the dirty, discolored panes into the inky blackness of the night. As I sat there a thought came into my head regarding the likeness between Nell, the Orange Girl, and the wealthy Fifth avenue blood, Richard Livingstone; it was, indeed, wonderful. Could not that resemblance be used to aid my plans? This girl, twenty-three years of age, reared at Little Falls, New York, and whom I desired to find, might be dead, or gone to some distant part of the Union. Thad no proof that she was in New York; that she was living in the city a year ago was no evidence that she was here now. Why should I search for her? Why not produce Nell, the O e Girl, for her? The striking resemblance to the ing gr family would be half the battle, and, backed the “doctored” marriage-certificate and record of bap- tism, I could possibly force Richard Livingstone to pay mé a good round sum, say twenty thousand, to eep his secret. It was worth trying. There was but one obstacle in the way—the age of the girl. Nell did not seem to be more than seventeen, while the real Salome would be, at this time, twenty-three; but then, looks are deceptive. Nell might be older than she appeared; at any rate, I did not consider the point strong enough for Livingstone to make a successful struggle upon. “Good,” I cried to myself, after thinking the mat- ter over thoroughly, ‘p. will try it!” I went into the inner room, where I found Pat hard at work upon the papers—the papers which, if I played my cards rightly, would bring fortune to m e. “Well, Pat, how do you get on?” I asked. -.* Beautiful! the acid has eat the ould ink com- pletely, an’ see how nately I’ve put the new names! Jo ye mind the three different styles of writing, the ininister’s an’ the two witnesses’? The hand of the rninister is round, nate and flowin’, wid jist the slightest bit of runnin’ together bethune the letters, like a man who writes a dale, and sometimes in a hurry, do ye mind? The hand is large, bekase he’s got used to writin’ that hand in his sermons, so he can rade *’em aisy on Sunday when he pr’aches to his flock,’ Pat called my attention to this fact with an air of triumph. “That is excellent!’ I said. Macarthy was, in- deed, a splendid penman, one of those gifted ones in chat line who could write a half-dozen hands and all of them different. “Of course itis! Begorra! I didn’t learn tomake pot-hooks for nothing! Now jist look at the hand of the first witmess—do ye mind? It’s a cramped, ugly hand, like a man who didn’t hold a pen bethune his fingers more dan onc’t in a year; then the second witness is signed in a famale hand, Bridget O'Neil. Jist look at that illigant hand! a spider had dip his legs into an ink-bottle and crawled across the paper a straight line, an’ it’s not straight aither, when you look at it. Do ye see my idea now? These two went to’ the minister's _ house to be married—it was a secret marriage; of course they didn’t have any friends wid them, and the witnesses were the servants in the house; there’s logic in that now.” t ‘Very true; Ido not think that Livingstone will for a moment doubt the correctness of the docu- ments. If he does, I have ancther plan to worry him. Ill produce the girl.” “Vis!” returned Pat, with a wink, ‘‘the rael gurl Musha! it looks like - whitish spots left by the action of the acid—then he | There’s no doubt of it, whatever; that is, if I held it up for my inspection. It was perfect. ** Good!’ ‘‘ I cried; that will do.” “Do!” he exclaimed. ‘‘Musha! I think it will. Now, Alex, Pm going to take a snooze bekase I'm tired. Tl put the papers in the wash-stand draw- “Allright! Dll receive our honored guest in the outer room.” edgy. Ti say, Alex, make him come down wid the shekels, bad ’cess to him! Why the divil should he kape all the money, whin there’s two handsome bbe men like you an’I that could make a good use of it?” ‘*Never fear! Ill bleed him like a leech, or my name isn’t Alex Gorden.” Pat, with a grunt of satisfaction, stretched him- self upon the bed, and I went back to the outer room. Isat down by the window and looked out again upon the darkness of the night. Not a star was vis- ible; the sky was black as ink. I thought over the interview about to come. Thereis an old saying that every family has a skeleton in its closet; the Livingstones were not an exception. I had opened their closet and held its secret in my grasp! Again the thought of the resemblance that Nell bore to Richard Livingstone came to my mind. For- tune seemed to favor me here. If Livingstone was obstinate and not disposed to compromise, I would produce Nell as the child of Salome Percy; one glance at that face—that face in which were set the blue eyes of his father—the steel-blue eye, the mark of the Livingstones handed down from their ances- tors—and I felt sure he would yield, and accede to my demands. Strange, too, the feelings that filled my heart in regard to the Orange Girl. Her face, since we par- ted, had been ever before me; the blue eyes seemed always gazing into mine. There was no disguising the fact; I was beginning to care more for her, than I had ever done for any other woman, not even excepting the a, Olive. Was I ess gers to love her? Love! a Pe such as I to think of; folly even to dream of! at hadI to do with love? Ia slave to liquor! I had not drank for six hours, and now my throat was parched with thirst and craved the liquid fire, which quenched the thirst but des- troyed alike both body and soul. I knew that drink was killing me, and yet I drank—drank to drown Ae robo remove the remembrance of the past. But on against the longing. ‘““No whisky to-night!” ITcried. ‘‘I need a clear head and all my senses; no devil’s draught shall fire my brain and make me a child in strength, a fool in reason.’ I knew well enough I needed all my wit—all my cunning in the coming interview. Richard Living- stone was no child, but a determined, unscrupulous man of the world; pees: too, of an abundance of money—money! that great lever which moves half the world. The bell of the City Hall rung out nine sharply on the night air. Hardly had. the last sounds died away in the distance, ere I heard a footstep creaking upon ras rotten staircase, then came a knock at the oor. ** Aha!” cried I; “that’s my man!” — as I went to the door, opened it, and Richard Living- stone entered. f “Good-evening, Alex,’’ he said, in a friendly way; “vou see I am punc 44 e was habited in one of the large cape overcoats, keep on in the way Lam going now. I don’t drink as much as I used to, cr I am trying to cure myself, but it’s a hard task—no man cam tell how hard until he has been a slave to liquor, and then attempts to free himself from the power of the tyrant.” ; ‘**Do you think you will succeed?” ‘“*T don’t know,” I answered. “‘I used to get drunk every day—that is, if I could possibly beg or borrow the money to pay for the liquor; but now, I have forced myself to be content with three glasses of whisky, one in the morning, one at noon and one at night. In this wayI have kept off the ‘man with the ker,’ who generally visits the reformin drunkard. It’sa hard thing to restrict myself, gad every now and then I break over the bounds and am lost to sense and reason for three or four days.”’ “Well, Alex, I wouldn’t lead your life for a mil- lion,” said Livingstone, with a half-shudder. _“T don’t doubt it; but Iam something of a be- liever in the Moslem idea. We each have our path in life allotted to us; tread it we must, whether we will or no.”’ ‘*Perhaps it is so,’ he replied, with a careless shrug of his shoulders; ‘but let us to business. You have the papers that you spoke of to-day?” “Yes, I answered; ‘they are in the next room. Mr. Macarthy has them—”’ f Pr ge gg he said,.with an air of astonish- ment. ‘““ Yes, my room-mate.” “Oh! but don’t be in a hurry. We've plenty of time before us. By the way, I often think of the good old times we used to have at college together, and happening to think about them as I passed by the Metropolitan Hotel coming down, I sto in and got a bottle of champagne. I thought it would e dry talking, and it would remind us of old times.’ “Yes,” I replied, absently. I was thinking. I knew Richard Livingstone well, and this movement of his surprised me. I knew him too well to think for a single moment that any thoughts of the old college days had prompted him to bring this wine. No! no! he had a purpose in it. Was the wine drugged? Did he think he could “‘shanghae ” me, and then rob me of the papers? Perhaps that was his object—for that he had some concealed motive I was sure, ‘“*Got a cork-screw?”’ he asked. ““No, we don’t have luxuries here, hardly the necessaries of life; but, I’ve a jack-knife in the next room, I'll take the neck off the bottle with it—clean as a whistle.” “That will do; get it,” he said, producing the bottle of champagne from his coat-pocket. The ‘green seal”? denoted the brand; it was a long time since I had tasted the sparkling nectar. The crav- ing for drink was strong upon me; but I resolved that he should not drug me; he must drink as well as I. I went into the other room and got the knife. Pat was sleeping soundly. I returned to the other apart- ment, placed the two tin cups upon the table, and with a clean upward-cut of the knife took the neck off the bottle. Up bubbled the foaming te) with its rich and rare bouquet—grateful incense to the | enial soul who loves the life and spirit of the vine. filled the cups. Livingstone drained his at a draught; the wine was not drugged then; so, with- out a fear, I tossed the sparkling liquor down my parched throat. How grateful it was to my seared if ye ean; orif ye can’t, another 1 will do quite y style. I did not wonder at this, for though | palate! Inow guessed Livingstone’s purpose; the ey It’s a fond ye have got on yee shoulders. ery fon booty the night had already begun to grow | wine was merely to pave the way—to put me in good ch humor so that I would not drive too hard a bargain. Ye ought to go in mig wid me in the law; an’, sp’akin’ of the law, what do ye s’pose that divil- “You are on time,’ I said; ‘the clock has just Well, I felt no malice: he should have the papers ish old fool, Judge Kenine—I spake respectfully of | struck nine. Be seated.” cheap—twenty thousand dollars. him bekase he’s a judge—did to-day?” “Thank you,” he a taking the offered chair. | My visitor filled up the cups, and again the bub- “T can’t guess; hat was it?” T noticed that he looked around the little room | bling fluid oiled my throat. Oh! it was glorious! “Ye see, I was counsel for the defindantina’sault | with an inquiring glance. Again we drank, and then we talked of old college and batthery case, an’ my client’s case didn’t have a “You are a my apartments, eh, Richard? | days, and dran — The liquid put me in good jog to stand on—for he did batther the t’other feller | I’m not quite so well situated as I was the last time | humor, and, when the last a was poured into like the divil—so, as the only: aay. to git out of it, I app’aled the case an’ offered bail; it was only a trifle -—a hundred dollars, but begorra! it might as well have been a thousand, for divil a cint did my client have, so I offered old Moses, the Jew ‘fence’ in an iNegant black suit of clothes, for the bail, an’ the stupid old fool of a judge wouldn’t take him, an’ he knows, too, he’s the most respectable-looking straw- bail there’sin the district.” ee So your client went to the ‘Island’ to rusticate, eh? “Divil a bit! Councilman Kerry kim in an’ bailed him like a gintleman as he is, wnin my client an’ I an’ Mr. Councilman Kerry all went and took a drink together, while the poor divil who was ’saulted and yon called upon me; I had rooms then, I believe, on enty-third street—one hundred per month. I pay five now; some difference.’ I spoke with a careless air, and with something of a sneer, and the thought went through my mind that his money would place me again in decent society. J “T must confess, Alex, that you do not live ina palace,” he said, with a light laugh. “ Beggars, Livingstone, should not be choosers. I have nothing; I-live on nothing.” “A light diet, Alex. It may agree with you; but, for my part, if prefer Delmonico’s, But, jokin prion ms n’t you find it hard to get used to this sor oO. t + iz bd “Nol”? I — bitterly; “you forget how I got the cups, I heaved a deep sigh. Livingstone laughed and drew another bottle from his pocket—a bottle of French brandy, a vintage fit for a king, pure as oil, strong as fire. If the champagne was good, this was glorious. Before I knew what had happened I was drunk—drunk throughout, except my head. could not speak; my legs refused to support me; arms hung idly at m side, but my brain was not all obscured; I still could understand. Livingstone looked at me with a smile of triumph. “The papers are mine!’ he hissed through his clenched teeth. Fool that I was! He had made me drunk, while the strong liquor had had no more wae upon his clear, iron-like head than so much water. batthered was locked up as a witness, bekase he | used to it. man steeped in liquor cares but little He rose from his seat, and, cautiously opening the couldn’t give baii!”’ where he lies; he can sleep almost anywhere. The | door of the other room, entered. I could hear the * Your client didn’t have any money, you say?” police of this city have picked me out of the gutter | heavy esa A Pat, fast ri “Divil a rap!” many a night, or rather morning, covered with mud Maddened with rage T attempted to reach the door “Then how did you get your pay?” “ Aisy enough. My client is the fightin’ feller called * Curly Joe;’ he controls tin votes in this ward and = sold the votes to me, an’ that’s the way I got my fees, ‘I say, Pat,” exclaimed I, ‘you Tombs lawyers ueer fees sometimes.” : “Vis, begorra! I take whatI kin git, an’ mighty little itis, too, sometimes.” “By the way, Pat,” said 1, ccemene i the mar- riage-certificate, “the acid has changed the color of the eae a little—has made it lighter.” Yia2” replied he, ‘I noticed that. Wait till a lit- tle while an’ I’ll ‘doctor ’ it for yees.” From his pocket he took some chewing tobacco, laid it in the palm of his hand and moistened it with a little water; then, with the mixture, using the end of his finger as a brush, he proceeded ‘to stain the é a . eo eee) = ee er - St. a from head to foot. ‘By Jove, Alex!” he cried, in astonishment, “you've led a devil of a lifes It’s a wonder to me that you haven’t killed yourself, long before now. “T don’t doubt that I should have done so, had my money lasted. I dropped gradually from getting drunk on champagne at five dollars a bottle to tan- gle-foot whisky at five cents a drink.” “Five cents a glass! Wretched stuff it must be!’ “Oh, no! It’s got the fire—the sting—that’s all a drunkard wants. Champagne is flat and insipid; it doesn’t burn like whisky. Zhut fires the brain and destroys the reason; a man ee his past life. | There’s no lethe like that produced by w j ety a sad hour I’ve avoided by flying to the bottle. | “You'll kill yourself in time!” et Wes Oi ory. 7 -_ fo ee te . a ae ne which Livingstone had closed behind him. The mo- ment [left the chair I tumbled helpless upon the floor, but my brain was still clear; so I managed to roll myself to the door—I knew T could not walk. By the side of the door there was a small hole in the wall, from which the pone had fallen; through the hole I could see into the other room. | Pat had left his candle burning, so that the room was light. Livingstone had opened the drawer of the wash- stand, and stood with the precious papers in his hands! Heexamined them; a smile of triumph lit up his face; then he turned to leave the room, The skirt of heavy coat, as he turned, brushed ainst the water-pitcher on the stand, and it fell to the floor with a loud erash. Pat awoke from his | shimbers, saw Livingstone, and, evidently suspect- ! ing his object, seized him, Richard drew -@ emall a Pov ye es sid: capa J lke oust
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ot ie dagger, struck Macarthy in the breast, and hurled him, mortally wounded, to the floor. I sunk down as if in a drunken sleep. Livingstone rushed through the room and down the staircase. In vain I attempted to rise; my limbs would not support me, and yet I seemed to be growing strong- er; the horrible deed that Ihad just witnessed had somewhat sobered me. Then a terrible thought struck me: suppose any one should discover me drunk in one room, Macar- thy murdered in the other? Might I not be suspect- ed of oo crime? What chance was there for me to escape CHAPTER IV. A CAGE OF FIRE. I uEearD Livingstone close the street door; the jar sounded through the house. I lay on the floor a drunken fool, incapable of moving. My limbs were paralyzed by the potent power of the strong liquor Ihad_ drank. was almost as helpless as an infant. I managed, how- ever, to crawl into the other room. Macarthy lay on his back on the floor. Was he dead? No; for, as I crawled to his side, I saw that he breathed faintly. Perhaps the wound was not fatal? Oh! how I cursed the liquor I had drank! But for that I could give the alarm and save, perhaps, the life of my friend. But now, in my drunken and helpless condition, a child of five years would be of more assistance than I. something must be done, or Macarthy would die before my eyes. Could I but bandage up the wound he might live—live for vengeance on the guilty villain who had attempted his murder. Again I tried torise. Thank Heaven, the liquor fumes were ene oa away. Isucceeded, with the aid of a chair, in gain- ing my feet; but I could not stand alone. Support- ing myself by the chair and moving it along the floor with me, I tottered to the wash-stand. With an unsteady hand I seized a cup of water that stood there, and the towel; then again, with drunken steps, I approached Macarthy. As I attempted to kneel by s side, I lost my balance and fell upon him; the water from the cup dashed full upon his face. With a deep groan, he opened his eyes. “Oh! my God! what is this?” he cried, as he gazed around with bewildered eyes. “ Livingstone!’ I stammered, with a thickened ee * Yis, I know now; bad ’cess to the divil! He’s kilt me! “Nol! no! you'll live,’ I m to say. My pore of ech was coming ; the liquor was osing its influence. s e’s got the papers?”’ ee Yes ! “Oh! the baste! If he’d only givin’ me a fair show for a fight; but the dirty b , to strike me widout warning. I'll not die contint till I’m aven wid him,” “Don’t talk of dying, old fellow! Tl try and bandage your wound.”’ This was a long speech for my thick tongue to make. reir my hand, “I’m he divil struck me in a ‘ Alex!’ he said, faintly, dying; my time is come. nasty place. Oh! musha! Alex, if you don’t re- venge me, I’ll never forgive yees.”” . ' “Tl doit, Pat, so help me Heaven!” I was get- ting a little stronger, and now knelt by his side, “ But the proof, Alex; ye want the proof that he kilt me; fetch me the writin’ things. I'll write a death-bed declaration, begorra! this is a poor place for a dacent Christian to die; just like a baste, on the bare floor. Oh, Holy Mother, save my soul. Katy, darlint, ’ll come back to the ould sod afore I Pol al ew the Pi —’’ then his eyes suddenly became fixed; before, they had been rolling wil around the room. CWhist! yer honor, do yees refuse a da- cent man like that for bail? Jist look at the black suit on him; he’s a timber-merchand, my lord—I mane, yer honor—” then he ab irra voice to a whisper and chuckled to himself. ‘“Jist as if ould Judge Kenine didn’t know old Moses, the Jew ‘fence.’ Oh! what a beautiful thing justice is in New York city. Oh, Katy darlint! Pll come back wid hapes of gold, and I'll make a lady of yees.’ Then he broke into a low, moaning Irish song, that sounded like the chant for the dead, te His mind was wandering. Isaw at once that he had not long to live; the assassin hand of Richard Livingstone had struck surely and deeply. The eer exile rou the Emerald Isle would never again look upon the green hills of Erin, and ‘‘ Katy darlint ’’ would wait in vain for the return of her true lover who had sought freedom and wealth across the sea, in the land guarded by the Eagle’s wings. “ Whist!” he cried, amin. venaing his low song and grasping me nervous eé arm; “paper, pins ana EPS me write that ’'m kilt by that er Livingstone.’ ; eit an tateat step, Ireeled to the table, took a sheet of oe the inkstand and a pen, then re- to Pat, and again knelt by his side. ‘““That’s good!” With a painful effort he turned on his side—a groan escaped him. “Oh, musha! I feel as if I was on fire inside; but I'll soon be put out. Bring the candle so I can see; I sha’n’t need candles long.”’ ig beens the candle and placed it on the floor by s side. “Now, watch me while I write. I want ye to sign your name as a witness.” , With a painful effort, he commenced to write— with a trembling hand he traced the following lines: ‘‘New York, Sept. 29th, 1869. “This is to certify that this evening, between»the hours of nino and tén, I was stabbed in the breast wees *) | J | with a dagger in the hands of Ri.-hard Livingstone. | From that wound lam now dying, and I hereby Ge- | ORPHAN NELL, THE ORANGE GIRL. nounce the said Richard Livingstone as my murder- | er. (Signed) PATRICK MACARTHY, | ‘*Attorney-at-law. ‘Witness, (signed) ALEXANDER GORDEN.”’ “There,” he said, faintly, as he finished writing, and with a low groan, rolled over again on his back; ‘“promise me now that you will avenge my death. Swear that you will have Livingstone’s blood for mine—that you will never rest till ye see the hang- man’s rope around his purty white neck!”’ ‘““Macarthy, Iswear it!” I said, solemnly. A low moan of pain came from his lips—he closed his eyes, and a vacant expression crossed his face. He was sinking fast, it was evident, even to my drunken eyes. “Katy, darlint!”” he murmured; his thoughts evi- dently were wandering to his early home. ‘ Shole, shole agra!” He spoke the words common to his native tongue. é With the water I moistened his lips and forehead, then tore open his vest and shirt, and examined the wound. But little blood came from it—a dangerous sign; itshowed internal bleeding. I placed my hand upon his heart—the pulsation could hardly be felt; he breathed heavily and with difficulty. ““Wather! wather!” he gasped. Again I moistened his lips. It seemed to relieve him a little; he opened his eyes; a faint smile of | | recognition passed across his face; then, with a great effort, the pain of which could be seen from the convulsive workings of the muscles of his face, he took my hand within his and pressed it slightly. ys bless ye, Alex!” he said, in.a faint tone; then his face began to ibd rigid. In accents that could scarce be heard, he murmured: “‘ Holy Mother, re- saive the sowl of a poor sinner—Katy—ave—Marie—”’ His voice became thick and indistinct; a single con- vulsive movement of the lips, and I was alone with the dead. For a few moments his death paralyzed me. I could only remain by his side, stupidly gazing i aie his face—the face of the only friend that I had in the world. He gone, and I left alone—utterly alone —no! I had forgotten Nell, the Orange Girl. I still had a friend left. But now, to escape from this scene of horror. I folded up the paper on which was written the dying declaration of Macarthy, and placed it in my pocket. Then, with one last look at the face of my once-jo- vial friend, I managed to rise to my feet and reel into the outer room. I gave a last glance around the oom which, probably, on the morrow I should quit orever. Ihad determined to go into the street, and and walk off the stupor produced by the liquor; then I would proceed to the nearest station-house, and give the ormation of Li tone’s crime, and thus cause his arrest at once. I would keep my oath to dead Patrick, and hang his murderer, if it were pos- sible to do so. I reached the outer door, turned the handle, and— Sound it fast ! The door had been locked on the outside. Iwas a prisoner—caught like a ratina trap. Ire- membered then that the key had been left on the outside of the door, in the lock. Livingstone, then, must have noticed it when he came in; and, when he ed, stayed a moment to turn the key. But what was his object? Apparently, to his eyes, Twas ina drunken stupor upon the floor—a upor which might last for hours. Why, then should he wish to fasten me in? It was not to avoid pursuit on my part; that was clear. What, then. was his motive? I puzzled my already befo and muddled brain for an explanation of the riddle, but no explanation came. At last I gave up the attempt to comprehend the meaning of this strange movement on the part of Richard Livingstone, in despair. The first thing now for me to do was to free my- self and gain the open air. Had TI been sober, the task would have been easy, for I could have smashed the panels of the door out in a few minutes, but in my present helpless, drunken state, Iwas as weak an an infant. What, then, could I do? I ia alarm the neighbors and bring some of them to my assistance, but that I would rather not do, Besides, the front windows were securely fas- tened by heavy wooden shutters, while those at the back of the house, from which came the light, looked upon a small yard, and that was backed by the side of a tenement-house, and in the side of that | house there were no windows. It was almost impos- sible to give an alarm, even if I could raise the window-sashes, and they were all securely nailed own. There was no disguising the fact; I was caged. A horrible thou; ht—that I must stay alone with the dead all through the live-long night! Not that I was given to superstition, but there is a something about death that is terrible—terrible to think of— terrible to look upon. There is a nameless some- thing in the approach and presence of the “grim King of Terrors,” that ‘mortals shrink from; and I pd spend the night here, alone with the icy tenant of the grave. The ought maddened me. No! I would make a poe git effort to escape. Reeling, I seized a chair and dashed it against the door. Vain hope! my arms were nerveless, all strength was gone, and be shock hurled me backward, prostrate, to the oor. Oh! how T cursed my mad folly for drink! For the sake of the accursed draught—the poisonous alcoholie mixture that dries the blood and saps the life of man—I had destroyed Spee a; ts ‘ ry, } never 5 Had T not been a drunkard, Macarthy would have been living; in my madness—for the love of strong drink is a madness—I had sacrificed his life. Then, in. the bitterness of my soul, I swore that ain should a single drop of spirits pass my lips. Oh! if Heaven would only give me strength to keep my oath! : I tottered to my feet. How could I escape from my present prison? rake gs : 0 way! no way but to wait till morning and soberness came. pets Then I heard a door close. It sounded like the door that led into the street, at the bottom of the stairs. Could it be Livingstone sot ee te It might be so, and his purpose, to complete his work by murdering me; for now 1 could believe him guilty of any crime. And Iwas drunk, helpless and alone— an easy Victim! I felt in my pocket. I had a large knife there, half pocket-knife, half dirk, with a long, sharp blade, and a spring at the back, which, once the blade was opened, held it firm in its place. drew the knife out, and opened the blade with my teeth. Drunk as I was, with this weapon I was not utterly helpless. ‘ I listened. I heard a light footstep upon the stairs, not like a man’s heavy tread. It was not Living- stone. Who could it be? é. The footsteps halted at the door, and a voice cried: ““Mr. Gorden, are you in?” é "Twas the voice of Nell, the Orange Girl. She would free me! “Yes,” I answered, reeling up to the door, ‘“‘but I am fastened in.” ““You are not hurt?” she asked, in an anxious tone. ““No; why do you ask?” I replied. “Because, a little while ago I sawa man come from your door, all wrapped up in a heavy coat. By the light of the gas burning before the door, I saw his face; it was deadly eal he looked up and down the street, as if afraid of being watched. He looked like one who had done something pa I was afraid that perhaps you were in danger, so I thought I would come over and see.” , She did care for me, then, and I felt a thrill of joy at my heart as I heard her words. She had seen Livingstone as he left the house—seen his face, and could identify him—a strong point in the web of proof that I was weaving around him, “Do not fear, Nell; Iam safe; but Iam locked in, Is pet the key in the door?” ‘ o.” ‘He has carried it off with him. Where were you standing when you saw this man’s face?” es Pppote, in the doorway of my house.”’ F ie wee you saw his face distinctly?” “Yes “Could you swear to him, were you to see hira ?” T asked. “Yes!” again she answered. art you pick him out from a crowd of oth- ers?’ “Yes, from a thousand!” came in clear tones from her lips. “He has not a common face; his hair is the same color as min2—his eyes the same dark-blue as mine. He looks like enough to me, to be my brother; but he is a bad man; I know it by his look.” ‘Nell, have you any keys across the way, that you think will unlock this door?” I asked. “Yes, Ihave a skeleton key, that Mr. Macarthy ave me the other day, ina joke. [ll run and get t! And then I heard her et footsteps as she ran down-stairsfand the bang of the door as she closed it behind her. Now, then, once free, once again sober, and Richard Livingstone would have a bloodhound on his track that would drag him down to his death. “No mercy!” I said, between my clinched teeth, “no mercy will I show him!”’ . I had strong proof against him—no loophole for his escape! Ilaughed to myself with glee. So far in the ake between us he had beaten me, but now i held t ferme hand! ; I heard the slam of the outer door, but this time very faint, as though Nell had opened it cautiously. She had been Wyk hardly time to have got across the street, let alone return. I heard no foot- step upon the stairs. Why did she not ascend? I listened. I heard a slight noise in the lower entry; then a heavy step. It was not Nell, but a man! What was he doing there? ’ Again, I heard footsteps—this time in the empty store beneath me. Then I remembered. A little ry side-door led from the entry into the store; the man — evidently had gained access to the room beneath in that way. What could be his object? I could hear him moving about the room. He remained only a few minutes, then passed into the street, shutting the door carefully behind him. Ten or fifteen minutes passed, though it seemed twice as long to me. Nell had not returned, but then, I thought, she lived at the very top of the eo as six stories; to ascend and descend required e. ; I waited. All at once I became conscious that something in the atmosphere was choking me. I glanced around; the room was full of smoke; it was po up in great clouds through the cracks in the floor, I heard a slight crackling noise in the store beneath me. f comprehended it in a glance—the house was on fire ! I saw now met Livingstone had locked j *twas him that I heard a moment ago in thé room beneath me; he had returned and fired the hous» to destroy me and the bleeding evidence of his crime. f Cursed villain, he would win at last! “Oh! if Nell returns in time!” I eried in accents of pea Gis F F a he. § me 1D;
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z 4 __ the first thing in the morning. 4 * “ was weak. ’ had come by appointment. | \ J a, é # ¥ a; ray 6 The smoke came pouring up faster and thicker; then the léng, shooting flames appeared, licking their way upward. , e of fire! I was entrapped in a No escape! I rose and staggered wildly to the door. Ifelt Iwas going mad. The smoke blinded and suffocated me; my senses reeled—my brain seemed on fire. Wildly I called on Heaven to save me. Heaven answered my prayer; the door was burst open; I was saved, and fell fainting into the arms of my preserver. CHAPTER V. WHO WON THE STAKES! My preserver was Nell, the Orange Girl. With almost superhuman strength she dragged me down the stairs, through the dense ‘smoke and hissing flames, into the street. myself again. On the opposite sidewalk I stood with Nell, and gazed upon my former home, now being fast en- folded in the warm embraces of the Fire King. The house was old, and burnt like tinder. The street was filled. by a motley crowd attracted | / The engines came dashing up, but their | by the fire. efforts were fruitless; and in a short time nothing | Some friendly hand dasked | a pitcher of water into my face and brought me to | in the ORPHAN NELL, TH | ie Ss. “Tn his own room, sir,” answered the servant, to whom I was uo stranger, as he had let me in on my f . previous Visits. | “All right,’ I said, as I walked past him and ascended the NGE | I reached the door of Livingstone’s room, turned : “i door-knob and entered. ivi end of the room. He started in amazement at my entrance, and his face grew white as he looked upon mine. ‘* Alive!’’ he gasped. “Yes!” said I, with a courtly bow. ‘* Not dead?” ** Not to my knowledge.” He bit his lip ae: vantage. I saw this and I en I had him at a disad- joyed the triumph. ' “T—I saw the details of the burning of your house | aper; and, as you were drunk when I left ; you, I thought perhaps that—” he paused in his not. | | over-lucid explanation. “That out and t a sneer. ‘What are you saying?” he cried, nervously. ‘Exactly what I mean,’ I answered, sternly. “You came to my house last night with the in- tg your intentions had been carried at I had been burnt to death,” said 1, with remained of my old rooms but a heap of smoking | tention of getting me drunk and then of robbing ashes. Macarthy had found a grave where he had lived. It was near eleven.. Thecrowd séilllingered about the ruins. Those who composed the throng were night-birds all -the denizens of the worst and poorest ward in all the great city of New York. Inow had become quite sober. { determined to go to one of the cheap hotels and take a bed for the rest of the night, and have the murderer arrested & parted with Nell, and told her that T would meet | her at the Tombs at ten o clock the following morn- ing. And as I parted with her, in the dim entry- | | me— way of the tenement-house, I again held her in my arms and again kissed her sweet lips. i oh went to the Frankfort House and paid for a bed | r the night. : Once in my room, I bethought myself that I had | laced Macarthy’s accusation carelessly in the reast-pocket of my coat; that paper of so much value; that paper that held a human life within its folds; 1 resolved to place it within my wallet, as | being a mich safer place. I put my hand in my pocket; the paper was gone! Thad lost-it! : This was aterrible blow! Useless labor; it was gone! Then I racked my brains to try and discover where Thad lost it. It must have passed from my possas- sion during the time when I was almost suffocated by the smoke. I had an indistinct remembrance j that in my madness I had taken it from my pocket | and then—what-had I done with it? Possibly, when I fell fainting into the arms of Nell, I might have | dropped it; if so, it was, of course, destroyed bythe flames that consumed the house. The strong proof, then, upon which I relied to convict Richard Living- stone, was gone. True, I could swear to the murder, and produce Nell as a witness that Livingstone had been in the house. But, as I bn hag § studied it over in my mind, I became conscious that my case ‘he strong point was the dying declara- tion of Macarthy, and that was lost, perhaps de* bie be in the burning house. aft hat, then, was to be done? Livingstone had money on his siie to back him, and mey is a terrible power in this world to fight against. Could I prove him guilty of the murder of Ma- earthy, to the minds of a jury, by the evidence of Nell and myself? I confess there was a doubt. I resolved to go to bed; in the morning my head would be clearer; then I would think the matter over calmly and decide what todo. I went to bed. ; Morning came atlast. My rest all night had been broken by fearful dreams. Macarthy had appear- ed to me calling aloud for vengeance, followed by the child, or rather woman, that I'had been ia search of—Salome, who seemed to have the face of Nell, the Orange Girl. ‘With tears in her eyes, she cried to me tosearcna for and give her the inheri- I searched every pocket. tance that had been left to her by old Anson Living- | stone. Then appeared the face of Richard Living- stone, proud in its beauty, haughty in its pride; the face mocked me; a jeering smile was upen his lips; words rung in my ears, seemingly from bim: “Tam your fate and will crush you!” Of course I was not sorry when I awoke. I thought over the situation. counted the cost of | | | could understand.” | here.” He spoke quickly, as though | willingly have seen me depart. | you mone an attack upon Livingstone. It was not to be | thought of fora moment—should it fail, he would | triumpb. No, I must imitate the panther, recoil for | a time to make my spring more certain. I would see Livingstone. I read of the destruction, of my late cy elinep es in the morning paper—would think me dead. My sudden and unexpected cag gira would perha; throw him off his guard; he might be uced compromise; to pay me a sum of moni man’s noose. around his neck, Could I e hi vengeance with a vengeance! succeed, ast. . I got breakfast at one of the cheap eating-houses on Chatham street, and then took a car up-town. Sre at Li tone’s house, I rung at the door, and when the servant opened it I walked in at ice ee Is Mr. Livingstone in the library or in his own. room?” Isaid, with an off-hand manner, as though I * i ~ at very mon 7 p r } os 1 4 Thai Ww oul j but | it would be a sweet consolation for all the | He, of course, would | bh) “You are drunk now, to say this!’ he exclaimed his face growing, if possible, still whiter than it had | been before, “Am 1?” cried I, fiercely, advancing toward him. |. ‘Look in my face and see if I am drunk.” He shook like.an aspen-leaf at my approach. “Richard Livingstone, you carried out your in- tention last night; you did get me drunk, and then you robbed me of two papers—”’ “You have been dreaming!” came in quick accents from his pale lips. “No, I have not been creating. you that I speak the truth? You Shall I convince thought I was | drunk last night; you were right, 1 was drunk. You Senses were all benumbed by the ut you were wrong. I could not not speak; but I could see, and I thought that m, potent liquor, move; I could He started; his lips twitched nervously; the iron | hand of fright was upon him. our visit e would “Oh! don’t you?” I asked, with a sneer. ‘‘Ina very few moments. then I will explain. I want some money.” oF peo A shouted. ‘For what should I pay “Yor what? I laughed bitterly at the idea. I could afford to laugh now, for the power was in my hands. “Did I not just tell, you, that when I was “T do not understand the object of | drunk last night you took advantage of .my condi- tion and robbed me of two valuable papers? Those papers I incended to sell you, and I had determined to ask you, at the least, twenty thousand dollars for them.’ : “Twenty thousand devils!” he cried, and a ple s bbs which aanitad rising anger, Achinaged in Yas cheek, ‘“‘Just.so; twenty thousand dollars was the sum I intended to ask,’’ 1 said, coolly. ‘You are moderate in your demands!” : He was beginn to show fight; sol determined that, in a very few minutes, I would put the “screws’’ on himand force him to a compliance with my demand, “Yes; I was always a moderate man,” 1 replied. “You expect that I will pay you this money?” ‘* Certainly I do!” ‘ ; ‘“T shall do nothing of the sort,” he said, angrily. ‘* You will do nothing else.” ‘‘ Indeed!" came in a sneer from his lips. “Yes, for I will force you to do it.” ““May I ask how you intend to set about that little operation?” For the first time during our interview, a Pent smile appeared upon his face. “In afew words I will explain!” I spoke coolly. I felt a ferocious pleasure in knowing that this haughty villain was in my power. I settled myself down comfortably in a cushioned arm-chair, that stood near at hand, and then proceeded with m attack, Livingstone watching me the while with curi- ous eyes, “Richard Li tone, were you ever arrested for murder?” He started at my question; the smile faded from his lips, and again he became deadly pale; the shot struck home. a ppt do you ask such a question?” he stam- mered. “Oh, merely for curiosity. What a sensation it would make in the fashionable world if it should wake oP some fine morning and find in the news- paper the announcement that Richard Livingstone, ' of Fifth avenue, New York, the wealthy ‘blood ’— _ | berry street!” | him coolly: . “Richard pacers, LT accuse you of the murder — the living gold mine—had been arrested for murder, Why, if would create a ten days’ sensation, and that’s a long time for this city remember any- “Do you dare to assert that Ican be accused of any such crime?” Though his face was a still an ominous light burned in his eyes; said danger as plainly as words coul what cared I? I was sober now, not drunk, and I would have given something for an excuse to take co ae ngstone was sitting at a table at the further | is villain by the throat and with own hands | aye ‘ With diffic avenge poor ’s death. ulty I kept kb the rising devil within me, and answered of Patrick Macar last night at my house in Mul- +e: | hardly knowing | a loan of twenty-five dollars, I being in a generous * | tl him in the ace. ‘* You have no proof!” he cried hoarsely. “T have; I saw you strike the blow.”” ‘Last night you were drunk!” “But I could see!” I retorted. oe My word is as good as yours. Who will believe you?’ ‘** Do you wish me to try and find out who will be- lieve me?” I cried, with a sneer. “Ah!” a sudden thought seemed to strike him. | “AmIto understand, then, that you will not move in this matter unless I force you to do so?” He asked the question with some py ‘Tt is possible that my words might be construed to mean something of that sort.” “Ah! then there is something which will induce you ee forget anything that you may have seen?” ‘ es. ” ** And that something is money?” * Quite right,”’ I answered. ‘*How much?” “The same sum I asked for the papers—twenty | thousand.” “Twenty thousand dollars?” “Yes; you see, you might as well have paid me in the first place and saved yourself some trouble and your soul a crime.” “You have not forgotten your college logic, I see.”” He was actually sneering at me. Well, I suppose he thought that he was out of danger now, and that he could indulge his mocd. Livingstone touched a silver bell on the table. “Excuse me a moment,”’ he said, when the servant appara? in answer to the cal). Then he went to the door, spoke to the servant in alow tone; apparently gave him some orders; the servant withdrew and Livingstone returned to me. A thought occurred to me. ‘Tie’s sent him for some wine; he wants to try last_night’s ‘little game’ over again; but it won't work now.”’ Livingstone resumed the conversation. “Do you know that this proof that you have against me is very weak? in fact, only your word? and between you and I, Alex, your word is not worth a great deal now.” “What you say is very true,” I answered; “but, Ihave more than my own evidence,”’ ** Ah! ie have?” he said,quickly; ‘and what is it? deal frankly with me; I confess I am wholly in your power.” I did not like this speech. I should have liked a bold defiance a great deal better. When a man of iron, clear-headed, hard-hearted, and totally un- scrupulous—in short, a man of the Livingstone stamp—confesses that he is beaten, look out for him; his weakness is even more dangerous than his strength, for it conceals a hidden power—a er born of desperation. The danger that we can see and understand we can guard against; but, against an unkrown evil we-are powerless. So it was now. In my heart I felt convinced that Richard Living- stone meditated some desperate stroke; but where it would fall, and what its nature would be, I could not guess. I hesitated to answer his question. thought for a moment; the more hitee Icould show — him, the stronger my hold would be upon him; so, at last I spoke. “You were seen coming from the’house, oe ‘a per- son who observed you closely and can identify you necessary. “Ah!” and then he pulled the ends of his long silken mustache with a thougbtful air, After a mo- ment’s pause, he resumed his speech. ‘ And this Me will either speak or be silent at your bidding?” es, ‘* Indeed, a ccnvenient friend in a case like this.” Another sneer; more danger ahead, Like the mar- iner on an unknown Southern sea, I could not tell where beneath the smooth surface of the tide, lurked the reef ‘twas certain death to touch; my only course was straight onward, “Do you know, Alex, that I’ve been a fool?” “ How?” I asked. “Why in this: that a year ago when I refused you the hand of my sister and you commenced the down- ward course that has made you a drunkard and a vagabond, that I did not foresee my refusal to let you have my sister would rankle in your breast and turn you from a friend into an enemy—that I did not take measures—which I could have done then— to place you utterly in my pe to and crush you like a reptile beneath my feet if you should ever dare to turn against me.” The blow was coming. I felt it in my heart--but | how? As yet he spoke in riddles. ‘** How could you have done this?’ I asked. “Oh! it was simple enough. You are aware that in settling up both my father’s estates and your father’s, a great many checks signed by me, passed hrough your hands and were cashed by you; so that my signature was perfectly familiar to you, and i face and indorsement perfectly familiar to my nkers. ‘* Yes, that is true; but I do not see how you could pee? me in your power through these simple cir- cu inces,"’ I said. ‘“Wait!” he answered, the devilish smile ‘curling his/lips and shining in'his eyes; “after you had com- menced to dissipate, and began to Yun short of money, you fre uently came to me to advance you sums, which I always did and always in checks, not cash. One day, I remember it well; it was the 10th of September, you came to me, flushed with liquor, what you were doing, and requested mood, or for some purpose of my own, drew you a ehesk for ahundrat doliers iustend of ase you remember the cirenmstance?” L
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at ee ” ‘the fortune stolen from i = / “a_ the time. The _ after [had al- Ae a
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8 ——_—_____ stream. Luckily the tide was with me. I heard the train stop, and then begin to backup. By the time it had reached the trestle-work, I had got round the little bend in the river, and was hid from their sight. As soon as I thought it safe to do so, I headed the boat for the Jersey shore. The train had again pro- ceeded on its way; and, as its noise died away in the distance, I thanked Heaven for my escape. , Now then, Livingstone, look to yourself, for the bloodhound is om your track! CHAPTER VII. ON THE TRACK AGAIN. P Tue bow of the boat grated on the Jersey shore; the sound was to me the symbol of my freedom. was not pursued, that was evident. They probably = ined me dead in the waters of Spuyten Duyvel eek, t though free, Iwas not yet saf.. I knew Liv- ingstone too well to think for a single moment that he would be satisfied until he received certain proofs of my death. T left the boat on the shore, and climbed the steep hill, until I gained a rocky ledge, fringed from view by a2 heavy growth of trees. ‘The sun shone bright on the rock. I ee off my clothes and wrung them out as dry as I could, and then spread them out in the sun to dry, while I sat patiently on the rock—which, by the way, was exceedingly uncom- fortable—and waited. ; I thought over my situation. What should I do? The sentence still hanging over me, I had escaped, for how long? That was the question. Livingstone would probably read the account of my escape in the morning paper. Nothing, then was to be feared from him until the morrow. If i could elude the vigilance of the police—which, by the way, would probably be more devoted to searching for me in the vicinity of Spuyten Duyvel than in the city of New York itself—I had time to escape to the West. But on the morrow—in fact, the very mo- ment Livingstone heard of my escape—he would set the detectives on my track; so, before another sun, to use a familiar expression, I must ‘ git.” But to fly required "money, andI had none. What ‘was to be done? Peters, the detective! The thought came to me ixe a flash. He was my friend, and would aid me. But if he was still absent? Ah! there was the rub. Possibly, however, by this time he had returned; it s0, my escape was certain. I would go to him at once, and tell him all. 1en I finally had concluded upon my course ‘of action, my clothes were dry enough to put on. Once dressed, I walked down the bank of the river until I came to the Weehawken ferry at_Forty- second street. I crossed to the city; then Itooka ear down-town. I had on quite a decent suit of black, and, on arriving in Chatham street, I stepped into one of the second-hand clothing stores that abound there, and offered to swap off my black suit for acommon one, and a little money to boot, repre- conte a self as being in that peculiarly interest- ng sta danantiy known as “hard up.’ The keen Jew, the master of the shop, had a sharp eye to a bargain, and we soon struck a trade, the ath of w soya ioe a store with . ae ect suit, and ten dollars in my pocket. course Pat ane the worst of the bargain; in fact, got decidedly swindled—but the suit was a disguise, and that was what I wanted. Then I mepnee into a barber-shop and bought a yellow-haire wig: the hair of which curled into Ur tle kinky curls, that I saw exposed for sale in the window. That cost me eight dollars, and thus pretty near used up my funds. My next purchase was a little pair of scissors; then, in another barber-shop, I invested in a little yellow mustache. I wore no beard of any kind my- self. ThenI bought a little mirror and a small pack- age of Chinese vermilion. ts ‘ow for a place to change the expression of my ‘ace. I walked down Chatham street, till I came to the Park, crossed over the Park to Murray street. Then I went into one of the large buildings on Broadway, _ near the corner.of Murray, walked up to the top floor; the lofts there happened to be unoccupied, so that I was not likely to be disturbed by any one coming either up or down. There I made my toilet. First, with the little scis- sors I cut off all the hair of my eyebrows and then eut off the eyelashes. AsI looked at myself in the _ mirror, I wondered at the change that this little op- _ eration had made in my personal gyeniae t was wonderful. Then with my finger I applied the Chinese vermilion to my cheeks and forehead, using it daintily, and just staining the skin as though burnt b: he sun. Then I put on the wig—it fitted me nicely. The kinky little curls stuck out in all di- rections. With thescissors I trimmed the mustache down, until it looked like one that a youth of twenty \ would “cultivate. Then I moistened the mucilage attached to its back and applied it to my oper Hp. When it dried, as it did in a moment, it looked qui i ra ae as I had trimmed it down’ so small, quite I surveyed myself carefully in the little mirror. 7 _ My experiment was a complete success. I had en- tirely altered my pepe ance. In fact, so changed ul was, that I would have-dared to face Richard Liv- ; me himself. * ‘ descended into the street. again, pulling my exchanged my brown slouched hat, that I h natty little cap for, at the Jew’s shop, down over my eyes. fs yy glanced up at the City Hall clock;.it wanted a | few minutes of six. It was getting late. I walked _* rapidly up Broadway. Peters’s office was near BAS, weal! ORPHA ’ | in, as I knew he seldom left the office, unless called | away on business, until about half-past six. : Tt was about ten minutes past six when I arrived | at the corner of Broome street. IT had my eyes about me, and I noticed a seedy-look- ing fellow, sucking a uill toothpick, lounging about the doorway that led to Peters’s room. His face was familiar to me. I searched my memory over, and then recalled the circumstance that I had once seen him in company with Macarthy at the Tombs. | Possibly, then, he was a detective, or a spy of one. | “The thief doth fear each bush an officer,” and, | though not exactly a thief, still, in the peculiar posi- | tion in which, by the force of circumstances, I had been placed, to me an officer and a foe were one and the same. ea | How could I avoid this watcher, and get up-stairs | without being seen by him? I had conficence in my disguise; but still, on the whole, it was just as well not to test it any more than 1 could ag Men speak of a “streak of luck.’’ It was evident to me I had struck that streak. First, my escape from that car; then, the finding of the boat; and , now, just as I was praying to fortune to take the | seedily-dressed man with the quill tooth-pick out of the entry-way, an omnibus horse slipped down right before the door at which the man stood. Of course there was an instant commotion; down jumped the driver from his seat, and Smee to raise the fallen brute; unsuccessful was the attempt. A crowd began to gather round—it doesn’t take much to raise a crowd in New York. Various were the suggestions given—various were the attempts made. The seedy-looking man had left the entry-way, and had advanced slowly to the edge of the sidewalk. Duty evidently struggled with inclination; dut said, ‘‘Stay at your post!” Inclination whispered, “‘Show them how to get the horse up, and astonish the crowd!” To the free-born American, there is nothing more delightful than being the oracle of an admiring crowd. Inclination triumphed, for the ‘‘ spy ’’—such I con- sidered him, and of course call him so—stepped off | the curbstone, and with an air of brisk dignity, walked into the crowd. “ ah kin yer git the hoss up? Jist loosen that strap there, and—”’ I didn’t wait to hear any more, but darted across the street, into the entry-way, and up-stairs. Lucky chance! Fortune, at last, was on my side. I laugh- ed in my sleeve at the idea that, in a few minutes, the “‘spy’’? would return and resume his position and he watch, while his prey would be safely hidden up-stairs. st knocked at the door of Peters’s room; his own voice said—‘* Come in!’’ I opened the door and entered. Peters was read- ing a newspaper by the window. . Peters?’’ I said, determined to try the com- aon of the disguise. He started at my voice; | rop his newspaper, and advanced toward me, surveying me with a puzzled look. | ie name is Peters, sir,” he said. , “I your pardon, but your voice is strangely familiar to me.” | ‘“TIndeed?”? This was a triumph for my disguise— to baffle the keen eyes of John Peters, Esq., the smartest detective in New York city. “By Jove!” he cried, after coming ¢lose to and looking at me for a moment earnestly. puzzled pas a tate * Alex Gorden, or my name’s not fe) ’ He took me by the hand and shook it heartily. “ How did you discover me?” Iasked. “By the eyes and voice. It’s a devilish good get- up. Ginger! if you keep on you'll be an honor to the detective profession.” “You knew my eyes and voice, then?” “Yes,” he replied; ‘‘a man can’t very well change his eyes; and remembering eyes is my strong point. Anotl er thing helped me, too; I expected to see U1. “You did?’’ I cried, in astonishment. “Yes. I’ve got an offer of five hundred dollars for your arrest. Just see how valuable somebody considers you!” “Richard Livingstone !’’ I exclaimed, impulsively. “That’s the very identical individual that made the offer. He loves you, he does—much!”’ and the detective put his tongue in his cheek in a highly sig- | nificant manner. “My ety 63 has been discovered, then—that is, I mean they do not think I have been drowned?” “No. en they backed the train to search for | you, Timps—that’s the name of the officer who had charge of you—hadn't recovered from the effects of | that lick you gave him under the ear, and the other | officer hadn’t a very clear idea of what you looked | like. So they left the train, and came back to the city. Timps went to Livingstone at once, and told him of your escape—the officer evidently had an idea that he was deeply interested in your fate. The whole Park 7A vAneSvONe and the two officers— came piling down here at once. _Livingstone offered me a reward of five hundred if I laid hands on you and sent Lee up to Sing Sing, where, between you and I and the bed-post, 1 think if you went, you’d sing small. ‘““Of course I accepted the offer at once. I knew the best way to keep the detectives off your track was to put myself on it.” : H “You're a friend indeed, Peters!’ I cried, taking him by the hand warmly. “Tn course!” he said, with a grin; ‘but I tell you, | when Timps told me the particulars of soar escape. I nearly died of laughter; and when he described how you gave him a ‘clout’ under the ear, and mashed him against the side of the car, I thought I - should have died—ha! ha! ha!” and the detective | roared at the idea. ‘‘He swears bloody vengeance | 4 ~ |! —a genuine imported article. | back, | Livingstone has an idea that you will come to me; f | could tell that by the way-he talked. He’s a deep | Timps told me all about it.” | ter he had | stairs, and | mines round Pike’s Peak. Who knows? You may smashed his pipe, and it cost him twenty-five dollars He’s raving about it, and swears he'll kill you if he ever gets hold of UL, ? ““T’'m not much afraid!” I answered. “ That’s right!’ he said, with a hearty slap on the ‘**But, joking aside, you are in great danger. *un, but he can’t throw any dust in my eyes. I’ve | seen rogues before I ever laid eyes on him.” ‘“‘ Have you seen the report of my trial?” “No; Ijust got back from the West to-day—but ‘* Well, what do you think of it?” I asked. “Just as I said before,” he answered; ‘this Liv- ingstone is a deep ’un; it was a nice little trap, and you walked into it. In fact, any man would have done the same. By the way, did you notice a man in the entry-way as you came in—a seedy-looking fellow, with a quill tooth-pick?” “Yes, Isaw hm,’ I answered; ‘“‘but he was not in the doorway as I entered; he went into the street to see about a horse that fell down, and in his ab- sence I slipped up.” “That was smart!” he cried; ‘“‘you’ve got a head on your shoulders. Ill back you to win against Richard re fer alee though he has got the start. As you probably sus ected, that fellow’s a spy, put there to watch whether you would come to see me or not. Livingstone has an idea that I’m a friend of yours, and his visit to me was a blind to fool me, but ain’t fooled quite so easy as he thinks for. So, af- gone, I went quietly to the head of the here I saw Mr. Man in the entry.” “ What is to be done?” “Well, you must get out of New York; they'll make it too hot for you here. There’s an emigrant train to-night at eight o’clock, over the Erie road, for the West; you must get off in that; your dis- ta guise will not be discovered by any officer that Ad | thi | happen to be over there. Besides, they won’t that you'll ‘light out’ so quick.” ‘* Where shall I go?’’ I asked. ‘Oh, way out West anywhere—go into the gold strike a ‘lead’ out there worth a fortune, and if you should be lucky, you can come home with your ‘ducats,’ and just make Livingstone ‘sick!’ ** But my ticket?” “ That’s all right—draw on me for what you want; rt ce be 2 | Lain’t a rich man, but I can stand the press, I guess, and some day, why, you can square it off. By the way, I’ve got an idea. Some Buffalo men put acase — | in my hands about a year ago: a fellow absconded with considerable plunder belonging to other par- ties: I turned it over to some Chicago parties, not being able to attend to it myself, and they made a botch of the whole affair—let the fellow sli through their fingers and get off to the mines. en they | wanted so much in advance before they would go on any further, and, as the Buffalo parties wouldn’t pay any thing until the fellow was caught, why, the _ whole thing fell to the ground, and the papers were | returned to me. Now, you might take ‘em, and work the case up. I think there’s some money in it. | You might frighten the rascal into a compromise, | anyway. Kk “ Well, I'll try it!’ I said. Peters took a bundle of Sener from a drawer and pally them tome. I placed them in my pocket. : oer can I get out without this spy seeing me?”’ é asked. “Till go out first, just as if I were going home. which I generally do about this time. of contd Tk see him outside, and Ill get him into conversation,,. and take him off to get a drink; that will fix it. Now, here’s two hundred dollars; I’ve just hauled in five hundred for a little scandal job up in Fifth avenue, and I’m flush. If you want any more, just draw on me,” ey The large-hearted detective forced the money into my hand! I accepted it, because I knew that, some day I could aenay it. By the way,” he cried, suddenly,“ there’s a letter for you here.”” He handed it to me. Isaw by the post-mark that it had been posted on the very day that I had been arrested for the forgery, over two weeks ago. I opened it; it was from Nell, the Orange Girl; she ’ knew of my connection with Peters, and had remem- bered it when she wrote. It read as follows: “DEAR Mr. GorDEN: “T am_ obliged to leave New York very suddenly. Poor girl as I am, I have enemies—powerful ene- mies. It is to avoid them that I fly. I am going to Byffalo, I have friends there, friends of my mo- ther; they will protect me. I should dearly love to see you before I go, but every moment I remain in New York isa moment of danger. Please think of: me sometimes, for I shall think of you a great deal. Oh! how I do wish I could see you! Don’t forget me, please. (Signed) a PE gs “Pp.§. <A letter addressed to N. Orange, Buffalo, I, should be sure to get. Do you know any one who would like to write to me? I know some one that I wish would write, and if I should ever get a letter from him, I would treasure it so much.” A thrill of joy went through my heart as I read the words penned by her dear hand. Write?—of course I would, and gladly. She signed the letter N. L.; what was her last name? IJ had never inquired; but what did it mat- ter to me? So I thought then, but after events proved that it mattered a great deal. Thus it is in ae life—we walk blindly on, unconscious of the uture, _ Broome street. Ihad hopes that I would find him ageinst you; when you knocked him down, the fall | With a farewell press of the hand, Peters went —
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» ORPHAN NELL, THE ORANGE GIRL. 9 down the stairs. In about ten minutes I ventured to “Precisely where you laid down last night,” I | south by west from thar, an’ right into the Injun descend. Peters and the spy had departed. It had | replied. country, though we hadn’t seen nary trail of the red now grown quite dark. L went to the Erie ferry ‘Yes, stranger; but whar the mischief am I?” re- | devils yit. So, arter our ‘big talk,’ we all shouldered at once, bought a ticket for Omaha, and entered the | sponded the unknown, blinking his eyes like an owl, | our shooting-irons and struck out in differentirails _ ears. trying to keep them open. to see ef we couldn’t scare up something fersupper, = In the car, I thought I would examine the papers ‘Well, you are in room No, 40, Central Hotel, | fer our peck, asI said afore, were gittin’ low. Peters had given me. I did so, and, to my utter | Denver city.” : “Wal, I Fe sae I tramped nigh onto five miles, due astonishment, discovered that the fellow who had ‘Look a-here, stranger!” said the unknown, ex- | north, ‘fore [raised hide nor hair, I’d got into a bij fled from Buffalo, and whom I was to hunt up, was | citedly; ‘‘ was I drunk last night?” gulch with a stream tumbling down through it, none other thanithe Rev. Robert Browning, and the “Yes, I think you were,”’ I answered. muddy as blazes, one of the head-waters of the Rey. Robert Browning was the man who, in the year “Jist as I thought!” said the stranger, with an | Platte, I s’posed. Wal, jist as I struck this — 1843, at Buffalo, married Salome Perey to— Ah! | air of deep disgust. ‘‘Drunk ag’in—drunk as a branch or ereek, somethin’ rusiled in the bushes the clew was in my hands. b’iled owl, by hookey! Hullo! how did this piller | ahead. Tha’ rustle was to me like the Richard Livingstone had cause for fear, for I was | come under my head? Did I ‘carbine’ it from you, | smell of a good dinner toa hungry man. I fotched on the track again ! stranger? If I did just *scuse me, ’cos I’ve been | the old gun down from my shoulder quicker’n a isting benzine enough to run a small-sized grist- | wink, an’ then I waited for an instant, , to see ill.” whar to fire. Then thar was another rustle in the a cherie = me “Oh, my friend, you came in here last night a | bushes ahead, an’ I saw a small dark thing amon DEAD MAN'S GULCH. little bewildered, and laid down on the floor—” the leaves that looked like a good-sized bird. I did- In due time I arrived at Omaha, no incident worth ‘* Bewildered! Iwas as drunk as an Injun ata | n’t know what in thunder it was, but, thinks I to mention occurring on the way. “big talk,’ ’’ he interrupted. myself, ‘Ef it’s got fur or feather, I kin eat it,’ for, During the journey I had fully examined the “Exactly; P hehe laid down on the floor, and I put | ’tween you an’ me, stranger, I were h enough | apers relating to the fugitive, Rev. Robert Brown- | the pillow under your head to make you as comfort- | to eat a crow; so Tlet drive. Bang went old shoot- } be Browning, from the description was something | able as possible,’’ I replied. : in’-iron, an’ ’m diggered, stranger, ef out of them ts of a “black sheep;’’ he had managed to get into his “Stranger, you're a hoss, you air! If you ain’t | bushes thar didn’t rise a cussed Injun, holding in his hands some ten thousand dollars belonging to the | I don’t want a cent! You've done me a good turn | hand a piece of his skin leggin’ that I'd sent my ball society over which he had presided, and, one fine | an’ I ain’t the man to forgit it. My name’s Joe | through. Isee’d itina minute. He’d come the old morning, he was missing. From the letters of the | Sparks, sometimes called the ‘ Spider.’ ” _ | Injun dodge on me, and drawed my fire. Like a Chicago detectives, it appeared that the fleet-footed “What! the pugilist?’’ I asked, for I had read in | cussed fool, I had come out with nary other we’pons Robert was a slippery customer. He had been | the ae ge of a pugilist called “ Spider,” the hero of | ’cept my rifle an’ a bowie. t arrested in Chicago, but in being conveyed to the | several desperate battles oe inside the ** magic “The Indian grinned, raised his rifle an’ drew a “ Armory ’—the ‘‘Tombs” of the self-styled ‘* New | circle,” as the magnates of the prize-ring delight | bead on me. I tell you, stranger, I felt just like old York of the West’’—he had managed to elude the | to call it—said battles taking place in Montana. Crockett’s ’coon. “[wa’n’t any use to shoot; I were officers and escape. The Chicago detectives had “I’m the man, but I ain’t no pug; I don’t fight for | ready _tocome down, The Injun—he was a cussed traced him as far as Denver city, but, at that point, | a livin’,”’ he said, modestly. ‘‘ You see how it come. | Piute I knew from his paiot an’ toggery—motioned he had again given them the slip, and the supposi- | When I were up to the diggin’s in Montana, thar | me to throw down my knife. I tell you, it went tion was that he had gone to the mountains to the | were an Englishman thar—a feller that used_to | downlively. Then he p’inted down the creek an’ mines; then the detectives had given up the job and | make fighting his business in the old country. Wal, | nodded his head, as much as to say ‘git,’ an’ I ‘git- returned to Chicago. he was a-blowin’ round *bout bein’ the best man in | ted.’ Thar wa’n’t Bey chance of a fair fight. I After considering these facts I came to the conclu- | the diggin’s. Now, the boys couldn’t stand bein’ | reckoned as how he had a party down the creek, an’ sion that the old-time task of finding a needle in a | crowed over by a cussed Britisher; so they axed me | he were a-goin’ to drive me down to’em. Stranger, bundle of hay was more than matched in this job. to take the starch out o’ him, Wal, I ‘went | I wouldn't have ro an ounce of gold-dust for my Tn one way only could I hope for success, and that | for him,’ an’ I licked him, Then two or three | life jist then. stepped out. tolerably lively, the was to stumble accidentally upon him. Luck then | more went for me, an’ I licked them; but, I tell you, | darned Injun follerin’ ahind, with his gun well up to’ —3 = OT must aid me. So far, fortune had stood my friend; | stranger, I didn’t like the biz’ an’ I shook it. I’m a | give me a shot in caseI tried a run. - should the blind goddess but continue her favors all | little better than a bull-dog; besides, the old woman | " “I thought the matter over in the first fifty steps. would be well. didn’t like it. She lives out East, in New York, | I were goin’ to certain death anyway; might’s well I stopped in Omaha only a few hours, and then | stranger, an’ she felt better when I quit. But, I got | be shot outright as to be tickled to death by their pushed on via the Union Pacific Railroad, and the | the name of the ‘ Spider,’ ’cos they say I looked like | cussed knives, an hour or two later. Ef I made a overland coaches for Denver city, where I arrived in | one of the old English bruisers. bold dash fur it, he’d fire at me; he mought miss, or due time. I felt quite a degree of respect for Mr. Joe Sparks | only wound me slightly. It were worth tryin’, The “ I had been in Denver about three days, deliberat- | after he had defined his position. gulch afore me for a couple of hundred feet was tol- ing which of the mines to try first—debating in ‘What mought your name be, stranger?’ he | erably clear; so, with a big jump, I started. The regard to the respective claims to auriferous wealth | asked. Injun were astonished. He hollered something in pub forth by ‘*Gopher-town,’’ ‘Catfish Bend,” “ Robert James,” T answered, giving him the name | his outlandish gibberish, an’ then crack went his ‘Roaring Guich” and a dozen other embryo cities— | which I had resolved to adopt disguise my iden- gun, whiz kim the bullet an’ it plowed through m: when a little incident occurred which determined my | tity, because there was just the least chance in the | left side. I were hit, but I reckoned not bad. destination, world that my friend Livingstone might set the de- | stopped, an’ wheeled round to meet Mr. Injun, He I went to my room at the hotel one night for the | tectives on my track and attempt to hunt me down, | kim tearin’ on an’ made a lick at me with the butt- | a purpose of retiring, and had just removed my coat, ‘From the Bast, I s‘pose?”’ continued the ‘Spider;’ | end of his gun. I dodged, an’ whack went the stock a when the door—which I had neglected to fasten— | “after gold, likely, eh?” ; ag’in’ a rock, splittin_ off a piece of it, an’ mashin’ opened suddenly, and a stranger came in. I looked “Yes, I am going to the mines,’ I replied. _ the gun like blazes. He dropped back a piece, and at him in astonishment. He was dressed in the “Whar you going to locate? Pitched onto any | drew his knife. I picked up a rock—the piece he rough style common to the Far West—a man_ below | ranch yit?” smashed off with his lick—an’ right thar, right in the medium size, bub what he lacked in hight was “Thaven’t made up my mind,” I said; “perhaps | the excitement of that air free fight, I saw it was amply made up in breadth, Not that he was what | you can tell me of a likely spot to ‘strike oil’ in the | quartz rock an’ streaked with gold! I'd struck a could be called fat, but, to use the old expression, he Biss te of gold?” : *dead sure! Here was: gold, an’ plenty of it. was built from the ground upward. His dark-brown “T kin, ef oe man kin, you bet!’’ returned Mr. | Of course the stream in the gulch, too, were filled hair was cropped tight to his head, which was small | Joe Sparks, with a knowing wink. ‘Jist goto any | withit. EfI got out of this fight a live man—an’ I and bullet-shaped; a pug-nose and square chin, com- | of the mining towns and start a whisky shop; it pays | wouldn’t have bet my pile of rocks on it, cos it. bined with a general expression which said “ fight,” a heap sight better than Seta were shaky—here were the spondulicks fur the ask- | and you have the appearance of the stranger who “Well, that’s a business that I don’t exactly like. , had so unceremoniously walked into my apartment. | Can you tell me of some ranch—’’I adopted the | ° “The Injun kim at me, Sadar like a buffier. I After he had entered, he leaned against the wall | border phrase —‘that’s not overcrowded, and | let drive with the rock an’ knocked the knife out of and surveyed the room with a look of extreme | where there’s a chance for a man to make some-| his hand. That was luck, stranger, Then we . gravity. thing?” clinched; Jack was as good as his master now. We Lapproached fof the purpose of asking his busi- ‘You can bet your bottom dollar I kin, an’ you’d | had it lively fur a time, I tell yer,furtheInjun were ness, when I suddenly became conscious of the fact | rake the pile every time, you bet! Jist you sling | a tough cuss, an‘ he worked me all I knew how. We that the man before me was under the influence of | your traps an’ go to ‘ Dead Man’s Gulch,” had up and down, over an’ under, mashin’ each the celebrated whisky denominated ‘ tanglefoot;” “Dead Man’s Gulch!” I exclaimed, a little sur- | other’s heads ag’in’ the rocks. I got some ugly in other words, he was helplessly drunk. prised at this strange title for a town, though IT had kes, an’I give some ugly ones; but, finally, I got Suddenly his legs gave way and he came gently to | no reason to be surprised at any name, however odd, | him down on the rocks, an’I got one arm f e, an’ the floor; with a grunt of satisfaction he stretched | where “ Shirt-tail Bend” and “Red Dog City” were | then I lathered him. I felt that I were growing himself out, and coolly and calmly went to sleep. evidence of the taste of the inhabitants in bestow- | weak, an’ either I must finish him or he’d finish me. ! Ilet him alone, {had a fellow feeling for him, I ing titles on their local abi -places. At last I got holt of a rock an’ I mashed him once or ; remembered how many nights I had lain in the mud- ‘Jist so! I’m a sucker ef it ain’t! It’s the live- | twice, an had ; | gutter. i . liest town for one only two months old that youever begun to bleed like a pig from the wound in my side. No,” Isaid. “Tl not turn him out, I'll let the did see,” responded the “Spider.” Wal, to finish my story: some of the boys heard 7 me.” poor devil sleep off his drunk here.” Only two months old?” the report of my gun, and then the Injun’s, an’, sy So I took one of the pillows from the bed, and “Thar or tharabouts, stranger, It’s a lively place; | s’pectin’ somethin’ be aad they kim tearing up the g raising his head gently, put it under it. A drunken | got bout nigh onto a thousand people thar now; | gulch, found the Injun dead, an’ me in a dead faint j grunt rewarded my efforts; then I undressed and out fifty saloons, ten_hotels, two the-a-ters, an’ | on top of him. They fotched me to, doctored upmy _ i ] went to bed. they do tell me that the think "bout building a | wound—that were only a flesh wound after all—an’ yy u Sleep did not come for some time. The blue eyes | church next year or so. Oh! it’s a liv lace! Ef | then we went fur the gold. Half the party went and sunny hair of Nell, the Orange Girl, were in my | it tain’t, why you can take the heels t off my | back to ‘Catfish City’ for provisions and tools. | | thoughts, and banished sleep from my eyes. Strange | boots.” Wal, one of the darned fools got h’isting more ben- how much I thought of that girl. It was useless “JT do not doubt your word, my friend, in the | zine than he could carry, an’ blabbed out *bout our 7 deny the truth—I loved her! [knew it; I felt it in | least,” Ireplied; “but why in the name of Heaven | big strike; so, in course, in less than a month, ‘ Cat- every thrill that passed through my heart whenever | didn’t they call it something else than ‘Dead Man’s | fish City’ kim pilin’ in pe us; but we had madea I thought of her. I had not been fully sensible of | Gulch?” ; big strike afore that. My share were about three - the truth until the caprices of fate separated us;,|_ _‘ Wal, now, stranger, you’ve hit on the very iden- | thousand dollars. I sent a thousand home to the old but now, Iimewit. Wasit possible though, that we | tical hoss that can ou all about it, ’cos, you see, |; woman in the Hast—” f ‘should ever come together? Would it ever be inmy | I was the fust man to diskiver the ranch.” “And the rest?” I inquired. ' power to make her my wife? My wife/ Oh, whata “You?” I responded, with some little astonish- “Lost every blessed cent here in Denver, gamb- _ wo.ld of happiness was in that word, coupled with | ment, ” responded the ‘* Spider,” sheepishly. : 4 her dear mane , “Fact! Ef it ain’t, you can cut off my ears, Ine inat was bad.” pits 77 But first, my Pe gee Macarthy’s death must | grease my head, and swallow me whole,” said the | “It were bad—bad!” exclaimed Joe, emphatical- Ke be avenged upon his assassin, Livingstone. That | redoubtable ‘Spider,’ with a heer ly. “I were a fool; they got me drunk, an’ went fur once accomplished, then for Nell and love eternal; ‘*T should like to hear all about it. Sit down and | me, But, I’m going Taine to ‘Dead "s Gulch’ and then I went to sleep. give me the story,” I said, offering Mr. Joe Sparks a | right away. You see, they called the town that, ’cos The morning sun shining in through the window | chair, which he accepted. they found me and the dead Injun thar; an’if you’d — full upon my face awakened me. My first thought “Wal, you see, just about three months ago, there | like to go partners with me I’m your man, an’ ain’t was of Nell; my second one of my drunken friend. | were a y of six on_us out prospecting for gold | a bad cuss to travel with, ’cos, without blo\ : ae There he was, still sound asleep upon the floor. on a south fork of the Platte river; we had bin out | about it, thar ain't many of the roughs round these oe I propedded to dress. Just asI was pulling on my | jist bout _a week and etd sign of gold had we ees that care ‘bout tackling the ‘Spider,’” — iy . boots the stranger turned over, and with a snort, eee: Our peck had "bout gi’n out, an’ there was- ‘Tl go with you!”’ I said, at once, Big suddenly awoke, n’t much show for game ’round; so we jist held a| ‘‘Shakel’’ tried has extending his muscular, well- — \ oe a “Whar the blazes am I?” was the first salutation, | ‘ big talk’ among ourselves an’ concluded to take | knit hand. I complied with his re est. ages as he rubbed his eyes and gazed around with a be- | the back-track Catfish: City, whar we started “Now let’s p’ison ourselves!” h after the ~ wildered air. . . from, I guess we were nigh aia ah miles | ceremony of whaking hands was coma z ee. 2 *% ' 2 apPwigansas ss hep se A ia ea on ee ie ‘ a bade P WS - oe ah ee ae ee. ee \ mibe * -e ~re eS ee a ee Oe ae mee Po
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10 “What?” I asked, not understanding him. “Let's hist some benzine—take a drink—stranger. That’s the way we nominate it hyer.” We adjourned at once to the saloon. . As well “Dead Man’s Gulch” as any other mining -town for me. Being a new town, and the mines “reported rich, of course all adventurers would natur- gothere. Perhaps the rascal I was in search of —Browning—would be attracted there. At any rate, _I must do something to make money, for, without money, I was powerless. Therefore every step I took Toward tho new El Dorado, the “lively” city known as “Dead Man’s Gulch,” in reality took me nearer to fortune—nearer to my revenge—nearer to Nell, the Orange Girl. CHAPTER Ix. FOUR JACKS AND A BOWIE ENIFT. ArTfeR a tiresome journey, Joe Sparks the “Spider,” and your humble servant, ‘‘Robert James,” late of New York City, rode into the “ live- ly.” town known as “‘ Dead Man’s Gulch.” We arrived about sixin the evening. Joe was well acquainted with the town—if the miserable collec- tion of small frame buildings, that looked as if they had been thrown, not nailed together, and weather- beaten tents, could be dignified by such a title. One thing struck me as being curious, and that was, that “every third shanty was a liquor saloon. I wondered _ how they all lived—in fact, pe the question to Joe, owing him to be well posted in the premises. “Tive? Blazes! I reckon they do, an’ mak heaps of money, too. Why, you see, arter dark . feller hasn’t anywhar else to go, ’cept to go an’ h’ist _ some benzine somewhar. Arter supper I'll take you round an’ show the sights.” “Show me the elephant, eh, as we say in New cs Elephant? Blazes!” responded Joe, emphatical- 3; ‘we ain’t got no elephant hyer; it’s a grizzly D’ar, claws an’ all.” wi - 8 proceeded to a hotel, kept by dn intimate friend, as he assured me. Tt was a small two-story ‘frame shanty, dignified by the title of ‘‘ Metropolitan . Hotel.” The board was only three dollars per day— ’ burly fellow, whom his guests which Joe assured me was really dirt-cheap—and the food was awful, or, as Joe expressed it in his homely way, “the peck was tough!” ‘ The landlord of the ‘‘Metropolitan” was a big. amiliarly addressed as Jones. Mr. Jones received us with a welcome that plainly _ showed that he held Mr. Joe Sparks in high esteem. _utation. [had alread . fluid, it pl “Let’s licker, gentlemen!” was about his first sal- noticed that, in the mining region, to be able to drink whisky we'l, was an_ac- complishment held in high regard. Now, as I had entirely sworn off fromthe use of the dangerous ed mein a peculiar predicament, for to with a man in the Far West is almost ' the same as to offer him a direct insult; but in this ° & r ; * : 2 F ‘a , ‘ ae ae ‘ L “ See y —Z 4 a‘. 4 1 7 a reus U yf a Tae “3 dilemma, I had RoUpDy compromised the matter by — dri ale—that. my view of the subject, not Suntainiie spirits Pes f to violate my oath. ; The ceremony of ‘ liquoring ’’ being over, Joe pro- ceeded to inquire how matters and things were in and around “ Dead Man’s Gulch.”’ “Lively, gentlemen, lively,” was Mr. Bill Jones’s mse. a aotier peculiarity of the Far West—the frequent use of the term ‘“‘gentlemen;” and you can offer no greater insult to some rough, uncouth boor - of a fellow, than to tell him that he is “no gentle- man;” that once spoken, look out for bowie-knives - and revolvers—about the first “‘ arguments” these “* gentlemen ”’ resort to. course, the moment it was knowed, the other fellers piled right in. onto him; but he’d staked out his claim bm so he kinder had the best of it; so they ormed a stock consarn, and bought out half his “Yes, he’s rsp in his checks,” said Jones. “How did it happen?’ I asked. “Wal, thar ain’t nobody that knows exactly; that is, ef they do know, they don’t say. He was found one morning on the road between here and ‘Sucker Bapd stone-dead.”’ “Murdered?” I exclaimed. “Wal, that’s jist what we can’t tell. Thar wasn’t mark of violence on the. body—nary bullet-hole or knife-cut.”’ “Did he have any money with him?” “Wal, he did. Yesee, he brought quite a pile up to town with him, an’, arter he’d waked snakes round with the boys fur a spell, and punished con- siderable ‘benzine,’ he went into ‘English Bob’s’ gombling saloon, an’ played ‘poker’ with Bob an’ old ‘Whitehead’; an’ they do say, he won nigh on- to five hundred dollars, so that be must have had *bout a cool thousand with him,” answered Jones, * Did they find any money on the body?” I asked. “Nary money. : “Weill, it is Pevidant: then, that he was murdered for his gold. “ That's the p’int!" cried Jones, bringing his hands % ; Pe 3 ‘ ORPHAN NELL, THE ORANGE GIRL. together witha een f smack; ‘‘but how the blazes they ‘fixed’ him without leaving any sign, is what knocks us.” “Ts anybody suspected?” “Wal, some folks have an idea—folks will think, ye know—but a man don’t like to say right out, *cos we've got a heap of ugly customers hyer, an’ they all hang together. I’ve my ’spicions, in course, but I ain’t anxious to have them git at me. It would be a darned good thing fur the town to raise a vigilance committee hyer, an’ ‘clean’ some on ’em out.” The landlord lowered his voice as he spoke, 7 beh is this old ‘ Whitehead’ that you spoke of?” asked, “Who is he?” responded Jones, with a look of dis- st. ‘He's the darnedest skunk that ever lived; 1e’s a fellow nigh onto sixty, with a head jist as white as snow, an’ he’s the biggest thieving gambler you ever did see. When he fust came to town—that were bout a month ago—he purtended to be dread- ful pious, an’ they do say he tried to git up a prayer- meeting one Sundar. Anyway, he’s an awful critter at speechifying. But pooty soon he j’ined in with a set of roughs and gamblers hyer, jist as natural as if he’d been with them all his life.’ Here was food for reflection. Might not this old ‘“ Whitehead ”’ be the very man I was in search of— Browning, the runaway preacher? The landlord’s description answered to the one that had been ob- tained of him in Buffalo; he was about sixty years of age, and his hair was white as snow. “* Any idea where he came from, Mr. Jones?” “Wal, yes; from New York State, I heern tell. They say he used to be a preacher thar!” It was my man, sure! Now then, if fortune but stood my friend—if I could discover from him all the articulars of the marriage of Salome Percy and the irth of her child—enough proof to satisfy the law— Ishould win the game at last! I ay osed to Joe, that, after supper, we should stroll down the street to the saloon of ‘ English Bob,” and see what was to be seen there. Joe as- sented to the proposition at once. “Look a-here, gentlemen!’ cried our worthy host, “if you play keerds down thar, jist keep your eyes peeled, *cos they’re on the gouge from the word go; an’ jist keep your we’pons handy, ‘cos they’re quick as lightning on the trigger.”’ “* Jist so,” said Joe, laconically. ‘I reckon they’d better not try any little game onto me, or I'll start a grave-yard hyer on my own account.” Mr. Jones winked both eyes in a highly significant manner—suggested that a litt'e “ benzine ” was food before supper, and remarked that he’d back Joe “‘ag’in’ his weight in wild-cats;” then we “‘p’is- oned”’ ourselves and went in to supper. Supper over, Joe and I started down the street. The saloons seemed to be full of people—rough, un- couth-looking fellows, but flush with money. ‘ En- glish Bob’s”’ saloon was *way down the street, pret- vy near the outskirts of the town: The saloon was nothing but a one-story shanty. Tt was filled by a crowd of rough fellows, nearly all of them flushed with liquor. Gambling was going on with great vigor. In the center of the room a roulette-table was in full blast, surrounded by an anxious crowd, who were betting their gold-dust freely. Round went the wheel; spinning went the marble; see how anxious were the faces of the lookers on, some of whom, perhaps, had all their for- tune hazarded upon this uncertain chance. ‘*Ace wins, ‘gentlemen!’’’ shouted the presiding gambler. ~ “Curse the luck!” cries a bearded miner; “ thar goes the last. of my pile!” Then, with an oath, he pulled his broad-brimmed slouch over his eyes and sallied forth into the darkness. *‘ That feller’s lost all his pile,’? whispered Joe to me; “it’s ten to one he’ll tackle somebody to-night. ee ae feels bad, an’ ’ll either kill some one or get ed. A group of four playing “ poker” at a small side- table attracted Hie pis Three of the four were rough-bearded men, with repulsive faces, that had a sort of hang-dog expression about them— faces that one would not dare to meet alone on a dark night. The fourth one was an old man, with hair .as white as snow, said hair cut short and sticking out like bristles all all over hishead. He was cleanly shaven, something of a rarity in the mining region, where full beards are all the fashion. His face was thin, the skin of a dirty Pg aah tinge that contrasted with the white hair; his nose was hooked like the beak of a bird of prey, and the sha little gray eyes that peered forth from beneat se ‘gy white eyebrows, suited well with the rest of e face. “That’s my man!” I said to myself, ThenI called Joe’s attention to the party. “That big feller thar with the red hair and beard is ‘Hnglish Bob.’ He’s a bruiser, he is. They tried to get up a match atween him and me onc’t, up in Montana, but he come an’ tuck a look at me an’ then he backed out of the job,” said Joe, ‘Why he’s bigger than you are, Joe?” I said. “Tt *tain’t a man’s size that tells so much ina fight as how hard he kin hit, an’ how plucky he is. en Iwere on the fight, I warn’t afeard of any man in the diggin’s, big or little. I don’t know but as how I liked one of these big, clumsy chaps best, *cos I’m spry as a cat an’ coul lick ‘em all to pieces afore they could git in a blow at me at all.” “Then you didn’t make a match with him?” “No, cuss him! I’d have liked to, ’cos he did some putty tall talking round, *bout how he eould handle me,”’ and the ht as ’ eyes snapped as he looked at “English Bob,” and mentally took his measure, ‘ ; *“Do you know that old man with the white head?” I asked, St Sop See “Nary know!” responded Joe. ‘He looks like a deep old cuss. Say, kin you play ‘poker?’” Yes, some!” I said. “Wal, Ican’t; that is, can’t play well enough for them chaps. Kin you cheat?” Cheat?’ I asked, in astonishment, **¥Yes, ’cos that’s the Sd they play here. Kin you teli when they try to cheat you, an’ kin you cheat back ag’in?” “Yes; there’s not many professional gamblers that can handle a pack of cards better than I can; but, what do you want to know that for?” “°Cos I want you to play ‘ poker’ with them chaps an’ lather ’em, an’ ef you find they cheat better nor you can, jist you catch ’em might at it, seize the pile, give me the wink, an’ ef they show fight, ’ll climb on their eyebrows lively.” “ But, puppes they draw pistols or knives?” “Draw blazes! Ill have the first lick in this fight, an’ let me give one on ’em a hot ‘un under the ear an’ they won’t draw no we’pons, not jist yit,” and hs Spider’s hard hands closed convulsively at the ea. “Hold on, Joe; don’t be in a hurry,” I said. “Count the cost first. Is it safe to tackle this fellow right in his own saloon? He may have a lot of roughs to assist him.” “That's all hunky!” responded Joe, with a wink. ° “There’s *bout a dozen of my pals hyer; didn’t you see me nod to that table-full of chaps over thar? They’ back me, tooth an’ nail, hide an’ ha’r. Jist you go in. Hyer’s five hundred that I borrowed from Jones on my ‘claim.’ Go the hull pile ef you git a chance.” “Allright! I’m your man!’’T cried. I took the money, shoved it into my pocket, and ° approached the table. The game they had been playing had just come to an end. One of the miners having “lost his pile’”—that is, lost all he had—rose from the table and lounged over toward the bar, which was at the further end of the saloon. T instantly took his place. **Good-evening, gentlemen! I should like to join in the game, if I noticed a glance of satisfaction exchanged be- tween “ English Bob” and the whiteheaded old man. “Certainly, sir,” responded the old man, in clear, courtly voice, a relic of the civilization he hoa P left behind him; “from the East, I presume?” “Yes!” I said. ‘What State?” he asked. * Buffalo, New York.” The oJd man started; I began to think that fortune had again befriended me, and that the fickle goddess had thrown right in my as the very man I was in search of, *«trom Buffalo, ch?” said the old gambler, with a yain effort to conceal his agitation. ‘What might I call your name?” “Anson Livingstone.” Again the old manstarted; a puzzled Jook appeared upon his face, as he looked curiously into mine. “) knew cne Anson Livingstone about twenty years ago. He was a native of New York city—” “Yes, and he was married at Buffalo in 1843,” I eaid, quietly, interrupting him in his speech. Ke Ye—ye—yes!” he stammered, in utter bewilder- ment. Fortune had indeed favored me; this was Brown- ing, and no mistake! ‘That Anson was a distant relation of mine,” I said, in explanation. is Yes, I suppose so,” said the old man; but Icould ages see, from his manner, that my explanation did not satisfy him. He evic gly locked upon me in the light of an enemy, or, that might become one. ° “Come, gents,” said “English Bob,” in a hoarse tone, that reminded one of the croak of a bull-frog, “let's begin; life is short an’ we kin not afford waste any cnto it.” Bob shuffled the “ papers;” we cut for deal, which fell to him, and we ccmmenced to play. Joe had taken up a position behind chair. Inoticed that “ English nied now and then in a manner that boded him no good. The game went on, We played, at first, for small amounts only. T coon discovered that the worthy ‘gentlemen’ with whom I had the honorof play- ing were not only sad chcats but bungling ones, f not an enemy, one Another, simple fact, and that was that they were - all in partnership against me. That didn’t trouble me much, for I could handle the cards much better than they; so, whenever they “put a job” and “packed ” the cards for me; I generally spoilt rhe a ekiliful “cut.” At the end of about two hou was about five hundred dollars ahead on the game. ~ My worthy friends began to Ee agitated, their money was about gone, ‘Bob,’ with an oath called to his barkeeper to brin. another thousand. The barkeeper—a stout young rough—brought the gold-dust, done up carefully in ttle begs, duly stamped, and placed himself behind ‘ Bob’s” chair. I cuspected some foul play by this, especially when nd Bob” and the barkeeper held a whispered consul- tation together. “Took out fur squalls!’ said Joe, warningly, in myear. I bent over the table to take up my cards, and, at the same time, threw my coat open by a careless motion, so1 could get easily at my ‘* bowie.”’ It was my deal, so I‘‘fixed” the pack for Mr. Bob. He cut them without args | my a ments in the least, and I dealt off the hands. To myself I gave four jacks and a king; to “ English Bob” three kings, a nine, and an ace; to the others asmall pair apiece. I calculated that ‘*Bob” would | go in heavy on his hand, which was a tolerably strong one, but which mine would beat and take the Pile. It was diamond cut diamond, ; I anticipated, “Bob” went in strong; the Pose ee Nes { , . a ¢ ree : : aks : a ; oo ube a a ee pn fe ep ee a ae OC ae > s ee ripe you haven’t any objection,” J said. ob” looked at ed ; Se
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_earried off i others “ passed,” and the game lay between him and myself. Sp planked we the gold-dust, until at last ** Bob” put up the last of his thousand. I could not understand his going it quite so rashly, for his hand could be beat, and that he knew as well asI. So I made up my mind that there was somo trick in the background. However, I covered his money and “called” him. He grinned for a moment, deliber- ately dropped his cards down upon the floor and then stooped to pick them up. The barkeeper stooped at the same time as if to assist him. I saw the dodge at once; the barkeeper had another “hand” ready, and would change cards with him. My guess was correct, for Mr. Bob, with a grin, laid down on the table four aces and a jack. ‘“*T rake this pile!” ho cried. “Not quite!’"* lexclaimed. ‘I can beat that!” “You kin! With what?” he asked contemptu- ously. 1 “An Arkansas hand; four jacks and a bowie- knife!” I cried, throwing down my cards, and whip- ing out my bowie-knife, at the same time clutching the gold-dust. Bob made a movement as if to draw a weapon, when Joe, who had observed the motion, struck him a terrific blow between the eyes, which knocked him into the crowd senseless. In another second a free fight was in full operation. Joe and I, however, had too many friends, and in about ten minutes we cleaned out all the roughs. Bob was some of his friends. In the fight the whiteheaded old ‘man had received a blow on the ‘head, which had ren ‘ered himinsensible. Joe got a couple of his friends to carry the old man up to Jones's hotel, af my suggestion. I felt sure that it was Browning, the minister who had married Sa- lomo Perey to— Well, of that hereafter. } The clew was in my hands now; I must be blind indeed, if I could not unravel the tangled ske of guilt. CHAPTER X. A STORY OF THE PAST, Tur miners carried the old man knownas “ White- head,” but whom I felt sure was Browning, into Jones’s hotel, and is 2ced him on the bed in the room assigned to Joe and myself. The old man was still insensible, and Jones, who examined the wound on his head, declared it to be - in his opinion, a very dangerous one, and advise that a doctor be sent for at once. **Ts it possible that there is a doctor near at hand?” Linquired. “Sartin,” responded Jones; ‘‘Dr. Smith; he’s a hull team; heaps of practice, too, ‘pecially arter we've had a leetle difficulty hyer an’ shot half a dozen or so, jist fur fun.”’ “Will some one go for him?” I asked. “I’m your man, hoss!’’ cried a stalwart specimen of humanity, who had been particularly distinguish- ed in the previous melee, using a heavy arm-chair as a weapon with great success upon the heads of his opponents, and away he started. ' 1 turned my attention to the wounded man. At _ Jones’s suggestion, the room was cleared, Joe and _ that I married in Buffalo to the tT alone ee em The rest accepted the cordial invitation of Mr. Jones to “ licker down-stairs. I bathed the old man’s head with water, and applied a wet towel to his temples. This had the desired effect, for, in a few minutes, he opened his eyes. fs Where am I?” he asked, in a feeble voice. ““Yow’re among friends, sir,” I replied. “That's so!” cried Joe. ‘“ You gct an ugly lick onto your head down yonder, an’, as the crowd you were hangin’ onto bolted without lookin’ after you, we took care on you, though I do think you're a p’ison old cuss,” ; “My head feels very bad,” he said, faintly. ‘I wonder if I am going todie? But I’m not fit to die. I’ve much to do, much to say, and—’’ Here he ‘Sate happening to look np in my face. i “You said your name was Livingstone—but it isn’t; you lied to me!” “You are right,” I replied; ‘quite right, Mr. _ Browning.” “Ah! you know my name?’’ and he looked up eagerly a my face as he spoke. “Yes!” I answered. “Are you a detective in search of me?” he d. “T am a detective and in cma search of you,’’ I answer- ed, ‘‘but not for the purpose which you imagine. I am acting in behalf of the child of Salome Percy.” “Salome Percy,” muttered the old man, thought- fully. ‘‘ Yes, Lremember; the girl from Little Falls , ew-Yorker. Ah! it was a foolish marriage for her, poor child.” “Very true, and the child of that marriage—” “Yes, yes; I know; called Salome, like her mother,” Interrupted the old man, — “Exactly,” I replied; “that girl now suffers, be- eause thera is no proof of her mother’s marriage,” m “No proof!” a St oe nen on suddenly, es there is, plenty of proof; the marriage-certifi- este, the witnesses—all are in Buffalo, all the wit- nesses are living—I know where they are.” “ Will you give me the information so that I can _ tind these proofs?” I asked, eagerly. “Give? He! he!” and the old man laughed, a cracked, broken laugh, Give? No one ever gave me any thing! T’ll sell it, though.” It was evident that the wretch was recovering. In his helpless condition T should have felt reluctant to use the power I had to force him to comply with my wishes, but now as it was evident that he meant to make the most of the knowledge he possessed, and was not disposed to aid the orphan gil to gain her rights, unless he was well paid, I determined to show him that he was enti at my mercy. ‘ “You will not give me this information then unlegs ORPHAN nn, ne » NELL, THE “No!” came dryly from his lips. “Ah, you mere et ‘“*T know so,’’ was his answer. : *‘He’s a p’ison skunk!” muttered Joe, in a not very low tone. ‘‘Here you’ve *bout saved his life, an’ now he wants to go back on yer. He’s p’ison now, sure?” The old man paid no more attention to Joe’s words than if he hadn’t spoken. me sige ay et your name, isn’t it? Robert Browning?” said, quietly. ‘*Yes,”’ he answered, sulkily; ‘‘ what of it?” ““Well, not much; only I arrest you.” ‘i What?” he cried, witha start. ‘“ Arrest me! for what?” “Embezzlement and forgery!’’ The old man sunk back on the bed, from which he had partly risen, with a groan. “That were a stunner!” said Joe, looking on with an air of great satisfaction; ‘‘ tame } But Mr. Browning showed no disposition to come to “time,” as Joe suggested. He was perfectly satisfied with the “round” he had already gone through. “Are you speakin low, faint voice. *‘* my arrest?” ‘Yes,’ I answered; ‘‘ you’re wanted in Buffalo.” “Blazes, I shouldn’t think anybody would want such a sinnin’ old cuss as he is anywhar. I wouldn’t have his hide for a gift, nohow you could fix it,” said Joe, in — disgust. “ And if I tell you all I know about the affair you spoke of, will you let me alone? forI haven’t a dollar left of the money I run away with, and it will do you no good to take me back?” It was plain that the old man was in earnest. I cared nothing for the Buffalo parties; besides, as the old man said, with- out I could recover the money, what was the use of dragging him back. No, the information to use against Livingstone was ail I wanted. “T give you my hand and*word I will not press the charge against you, if you will give me the full particulars regarding the marriage of Salome Percy, the birth of her child, and the man she married.” I said this to put the old man ets mained at his ease. “Very well, then,” he said; “I ask for nothing more. I will tell you all I know concerning the affair; but, my head feels strange. Oh! such a pain as I have in my temples!” Just at this moment in bustled Jones and the doctor, who was a little withered-up ‘man, with a sharp face and little round eyes. “ Good-evening. gents. Been having a little diffi- culty, eh?” and the doctor commenced to examine the head of the old man, first clipping the hair away from the wound with a pair of small scissors. I noticed that the doctor’s face grew grave as he looked at the wound—which was indeed an ugly one —and felt the pulse of his patient. — After a few moments of silent examination, the doctor left the bedside, and drew me into a corner i: Pe alegd f h d, i “A friend of yours?” he said, inquiringly. * Well, yes,” I answered, after a moment's hesita- tion. ‘He won’t live over five hours, sir; may kick the bucket in one; the blow was a very heavy one. If he was a young man an operation might be per- formed and he might live through it, but he is so old; he’s a gone case; five dollars,” and the doctor concluded his pithy remarks and held out his hand. I paid the five dollars, much to Joe’s disgust. “Say! You don’t make money easy, do yer?” was the ‘ Spider’s’ remark, addressed to the doctor, who only grinned at the speech and pocketed his five dollars. “Say!” continued Joe, “ef I ever git my head mashed, don’t you come within ten foot of me or lll git ‘vight off the bed an’ swallow yer hull!’ The octor retired precipitately. “*He’s chain-lightning, he is!’ said Mr. Jones, re- ferring to the departing doctor; “ fust-rate feller; makes a leetle mistake sometimes, they do ray, for I hearn tell that up country, a feller got his leg mashed, an’ they called the doctor in, an* in a hurry he sawed off the wrong leg—ha! ha!” and the worthy Mr, Jones roared at the idea. ‘“* Did the wounded man feel bad?” “Wal, he did some, but the doctor did the squar’ thing, he bought him a wooden leg an’ stood the licker for the crowd.’ And Mr. Jones took ‘hiniself off to attend upon his guests below. _ Ireturned to the bedside of the dying man. “Am I going to die?” he said, suddenly. I was astonished at the question, but before I could think of an answer he spoke again. ‘I heard what the doctor said; the ears of the dying are sometimes wonderfully quick. Within the last ten minutes I have been thinking over my past life. If I had only been placed differently in the world, and the tempta- tions around me had not been so strong, and I not so weak, I might have led a different life Ah!’ here the old man heaved a deep sigh; “the snake is a snake, whether born in a wood or in captivity. It was my fate to do wrong. Now, as the last act of my hfe, I will do a little good. You are a friend to the child of Salome Percy?” “Yes,”’ I answered. ““You will see that she has her rights, if I place the pole, in your hands by which she may obtain em “Yes; that is my solemn duty.” “That is allI ask. Listen, for my story must be short; I feel that I am growing fainter.” I brought a chair to the bedside and sat down in it eye ee es, 1 e year , he began, was & regularly- ordained minister in rat truth?” asked Browning, in a ave you really a warrant for the city of Buffalo, State of New _ ae rd ORANGE GIRL. } i! York, One day a gentleman oglled to gee m0; hg. RY Ala Ere aie a a young man, with light curly hair and was dark-blue eyes—eyes that shone as though they were made of polished metal. This man wasa New- Yorker—a scion of one of the oldest New York fam- ilies. His business with me was of a peculiar nature; he desired me to marry him that night to a young. irl, by name, Salome Percy. The marriage was t0e e a secret one, unknown to his folks and hers. At first I refused, but the offer of one hundred dollars— money was no object to him—won me to consent. I was poor and weak in honesty; the temptatlon came, i and i yielded. That night 1 united in marriage An- son Livingstone, of New York City, to Salome Percy, ii of Little Falls.” 2 “This was in °43?” I said, taking notes. “Yes; the witnesses to the marriage were Stephen Quirk, my servant, and the grocer who kept in the store below, by name, James R. Watson. Both of these men are now living in Buffalo, and can testify regarding this marriage, if necessary.” “Then the marriage can be proved beyond the shadow of a doubt?” I asked. “Yes. I have the mairiage-certificate; but of that I will speak in a litUle while. Anson Livingstone paid me the hundred dollars, and he and his wife de- parted. About ten months afterward, I happened to pick up a New York paper, and in it I read a full ac- | count of the marriage of Anson Livingstone and | Clara Brevoort. I was thunderstruck; my first thought was that Salome, his first wife, had ‘died; but two days after I was surprised by a visit from Salome Livingstone in person. I, of course, give her her husband’s name. She was in great distress. t She told me that, ever since her marriage, ten | months before, she had lived in Buffalo, her husband ; being with her part of the time; the rest he spent in New York. They lived happily together, until An- son’s father, old Livingstone, happened to discover, from one of his son’s triends who was in his confi- dence, that his son wasmarried. This discovery put the old man in a terrible rage, as he had entengea & match for his son with Clara Brevoort, daughter and heiress of William Brevoort, who was then one of the merchant Rate of the great metropolis, and closely connected in business relations with Living- stone, Old Livingstone was a man of few words, but of many deeds; he called his son to him and asked the truth of what he had heard. Anson did not deny his marriage, but confronted his father and braved him. This emiaged the old man still more; he said kut little, but that little was terrible. He told bis son that he had arranged a marriage for him with Clara Brevcort, and that, if he did not marry her, he would cast him upon the world without a chilling. And, not cnly that, be would use all his in- fluence, all his pecs? to crush both him and his wife. But if he would marry Miss Brevoort, why, he could easily keep his Buffalo wife in ignorance. in fact, coolly proposed that his son should ec mit bigamy. ‘he son for an instant reflected, and then —consented. ‘The loss of wealth he could not bear; he loved his wife, but he loved gold better; besides, like a great many men, his love for the young who had left hcme and friends, all for him, was not — strong now as in the first few months of married fe. “The Livingstones are a femily whose hearts are iron; the steel-blue eyes is a true index to their na- ture—cold and selfish. Tiue to his race, Anson Liv- ingstone came to his young wife, and, acting on her — love for him—a wild, passionate love, that worship- ed him, as its god—he won from her a promise that : she would never disturb him in his second Tiage. He told her all; only he represented that his father, — for a pretended forgery, had power tosend him to | rison if he refused. She, roor, weak child, know- ing but little of the world, believing fully in his word — and in his honor, and trembling for his safety, bn the required promise. He went back to New York and was married, Of course I did not know these _ facts then, and did not learn them until, hg see ig ward, Salome Livingstone, on her death-bed, told me all. ; \ ““Her motive for seeking me now was that ina — few months she would become a mother. Shecame to me,the minister who had married her, as she _ would have sought a father’s aid. . For once in my _ life, I did a good action. I aided the friendless girl. Her friends in Little Falls, of course, did not know that she was married. Should she go there in her ss condition, of course she must either tell the | ruth—which would betray her husband’s secret—or else expose herself to terrible suspicions. She did not then tell me the reason for keeping her marriage _ concealed. ; The plan Iformed was simple. I was slightly ac- euainted with George Wilson, her uncle, at Little Falls. I-went to him, told of the marriage of hin 8 ; ie Anson * oy niece with Anson Livingstone—cousin of 1h ‘ Livingstone of New York--represented that her hus- band had been called away to Europe on business, m4 and was not expected to return for sometime; re- quested that Salome might be allowed to come and stop with him until her husband’s return. pe honest old farmer consented at once. and at Little Falls, in the year 1844, Salome Livingstone gave F birth to a female child, which, at my suggestion, __ was named Salome, after the mother.” 27 8 Here the old nan grew quite faint. I bathed his temples with water, and gave him some whisky from Joe’s flask. the eyes of the world, Clara--died two months after — her death-bea, : fo Ne wr vocand a d justice from David Livi New York and deman rom David Atgpe for his child hild Salome. She gave me her n
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12 riage-certificate, and made me promise to protect her child. I gave that promise; but, just as I was reparing to go to New York, to see Livingstone, the ten thousand dollars raised by my society for vari- ous purposes, was placed in my hands. The temp- one was too great to be resisted, and I fled with he money and left the orphan child to the cold @ mercy of the world.” F “How can I find her? and this marriage-certifi- _. , -eate, where is it?” I asked. “tind James R. Watson, of Buffalo, who former- ly kept a grocery store there; he will give you the apers. He lives somewhere in the suburbs of the i font, Lintrusted the papers to him when I ran i away. Lintended some time, if possible, to go back and do something for the orphan; but, I’m a wicked } man, [ fear to die, yet 1 am nearing the great mys- tery fast. In the midst of life—death!” he cried, * suddenly, his mind evidently wandering. ‘* What is : it? To die, to sleep. Oh! I’m very tired!” He } turned restlessly on his side; a faint groan came from his lips, and the erring minister lay dead be- is spirit had fled to meet that Great s all human hearts, and receives fore us. Judge who re * - alike the saint and sinner. A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. As the dead minister had no relatives or friends ’ CHAPTER XL } . gambling crew of near at hand, excepting the “Finglish Bob,’”’ Jones, the landlord, and myself at- nded the burial. ’ The evening after the funeral, Joe and I satin our room deliberating. Ihad explained to Joe my rea- sons for possessing myself of the information per- taining to the child of Salome Percy, and also told him of the enmity existing between young Living- stone, the son of Anson, and myself. “You see,’ I said, ‘‘that this girl, Salome, who was born at Little Falls, in the year 1844, and is therefore now about twenty-five years of age, is the legal heir of Anson Livingstone, deceased, but his a erty is now held and enjoyed by Richard Liv- we LY ” Mae gstone, his son by his second wife, Clara; you see » the moment I prove the legality of Anson's first } marriage, and the birth of this child Salome, of | eee course she comes in for the property instead of Rich- f : ‘** Jist so; she’s been making a waiting race onto it, H but jist as soon as Bey git these documents into your hands you'll loose her head an’ she goes in an’ wins in a canter!’ exclaimed Joe. - “Well, not exactly,” Isaid. I then related the in- , terview between myself and Richard, when he pro- f duced the draft of his father’s will—that will that f ' gave fifty thousanl dollars to Saiome, his eldest i child, and fifty thousand apiece to Richard and Olive, his children by his second marriage. “But, ye didn’t see the will, did ye?” asked Joe. “No, only the draft of it, but it wasin the hand- writing of Anson Livingstone, Ican swear to it, for T know his hand well.” “Jist so; [don’t know much ’bout wills an’ sich Ef it were a hoss-race, or a sloggin’ match, why, I’m a hunky boy on all them things; but, when one on them rich cusses makes a will, what does he ginerally do with it?” a i foul not exactly see what Joe was dyiving at, but, thinking that he had some object in view, I an- swered his question. ; “The will is generally left for safe-keeping with the lawyer who draws it out, and then again, some- times the person making the will puts it among his private papers.” | shes ; “Then, ef a lawyer had this will, the moment the old cuss kicked the bucket, the lawyer would have forked it over, an’ if would ha’ been made public, wouldn’t it?” “Yes,” I answered, unable as yet to discern the object of these questions. An’ nary will, cept the draft shown you, has bin heard ont” “An’ ef the old cuss kept the will himself, why, ra son of his, Richard, would ha’ got his claws on i » 4 Yes,” L responded, “that is probable.” “Theo, ef he put this air will into the fire,no one _ would ha’ been the wiser fur it.’’ t “That is true; if the old man had drawn up his will himself, which it is very likely he did, the wit- nesses were probably the servants in the house, who of course would not think to say any thing about the - non-appearance of the document.” “*T don’t believe any sich paper exists!’ cried Joe, atppheicali, y not?’ I asked, for, truth to say,I did not believe it existed either, but still, I had no reasons for my belief—nothing but the bare suspicion. “Why, by the game this p’ison cuss, Livingstone is playing, Ef he had the will, why, he’d ha’ show it to you, ‘stead of t’other one, ‘case it was his ‘little game’ to bluff t all he could. And, too, why wa’n't it probated, as the lawyers call it?” _Icould not refrain from an expression of assent to Joe’s remarks, “‘ It’s jist as clear as old rye whisky!" he cried, tri- umphantly, “he haiwt¢otit! Allyou've got to do is to find this air child, an’ back her up with them documents that old ‘ Whitehead’ spoke of, an? you can clean this cuss out ef every dollar he’s got.” sf sg he say seems to me pretty near the truth. {don’t think the old man destroyed the will, if he m one, but Richard may have done s0, though his wisest course would have been to have preserved it, Stl, I suppose he thought the first marriage of his father could not be proved, or the child of that , Salome the yey might bedead, All th e. e808 ight lead him to destroy the important doe- “ie ORPHAN NELL, THE ay ORANGE GIRL. on | ument; but, in all these cases, it was his best policy not to have destroyed it, but to have held it back.” ““ Jist so; but we don’t always do what’s best in this air world,” said Joe, sagel ys “That's very true,’’ I replied. ‘‘ Now for the plan of operation. Just as soon as I make money enough, I'm going East to Buffalo for those papers, and once they are in my hands—”’ ‘* You'll make Mister Livingstone pretty sick, eh?”’ and Joe indulged ina loud chuckle. ‘ But, I say,” he continued, *“‘yousaid Z| Don’t you count me in, too? You ain’t a-goin’ to go back on yer pal, are yer? ‘cos ef you say the word, I'm with yer, tooth an’ nail, as the ‘painter’ said when he went fur the og. “All right, Joe!’ I cried, taking his hand. ‘‘ We'll fight the ‘ good fight’ together.” ‘ Jist so, pard,”’ he replied; ‘now fur operations. We've got fifteen hundred dollars to commence on- to—that air money you won last night—an’ I’ve got a ‘claim’ up here on Gopher creek that’s worth nigh onto five thousand, an’ ef the dirt is ‘panning’ out well, an’ the ‘vein’ continues, I might git eight thousand. for it. You see,I own one-sixth of the original ‘strike’ hyer. Wal, now, my idee is this: we'll go right to work to one’t onto that air claim an’ as soon as we can realize ‘bout twenty thousan we'll go East an’ put Mister Livingstone through. How’s that, pard?” “* Square!’’ I replied, using the mining expression. “ Honest Injun!”’ returned Joe, with a hearty clasp of the hand. ) It was now getting late. I looked at my watch; it was a little past eleven. Joe announced his inten- tion of “turning in,” and immediately proceeded to do so. Isat down to write to Nellie, at Buffalo. I had written her a few lines from Denver City, but as I was uncertain then as to where I should go, i directed her not to answer, but wait until she should hear from me again. Now that I was certain of re- maining in “‘Dead Man’s Gulch,” I was desirous of hearing from her; so I wrote quite at length. I told her that my prospects were good and I hoped to re- turn East within a year at the most; and I finally finished with an assuranee that I thought of her more and more every day, and that I did not know how well I liked her until fate had separaied us. I knew very well that her keen woman’s eye would discern: more than the written page expressed. Leave a woman alone for finding out when a man loves her! A subtle instinct in their natures always detects the truth. A careless word, spoken perhaps without thought—a flash of the tell-tale eye, unseen by all, except the one—a smile that lights up. the face at the approach of the loved object—all these trifles, light in themselves, yet are proofs ‘strong as holy writ” to the girlish heart that the love she seeks for is given. T did not fear but that Nellie would guess my meaning. , My letter finished, I seated it up and prepared to retire. First I turned the key in the lock of the door. There was need of precaution, for we were in a rough country, and of course it was kyown all over town that we had won considerable money the nignt before; and, as there was no place to deposit d money, why of course we must carry it on our persons. any a man has been murdered in the m region for a few ounces of gold-dust. Pro- tection in the Far West lies in revolvers and bowie- knives, and not in the strong hand of the law. Our money I carried in a belt around my waist, and we slept with revolvers under our aot Just before blowing out the candle I looked out of the window. The night was very dark, and the street was quite silent—a silence, however, broken now and then by the drunken whoop and hallo of some fellow staggering to his shanty. Out went the candle and in £ went into bed. I lay quiet, perhaps half an hour, but no sleep came. vain I closed my eyes; slumber would not ‘sealthem. Something—what it was I could not tell — impressed me with a feeling of uncasiness, In the stillness of the night, the ticking of the watch under my pillow seemed to reverberate through the room as loud as one of the old-fashioned German clocks. In vain I turned from side to side. Icould not sleep, Then a sensation of coming danger began to make itself felt in my mind. What was it that gave me this feeling? lanswered, because I could not go to sleep and my watch ticked loudly. Not ~- strong grounds for apprehension, surely! Then my thoughts wandered to Nellie, the strange girl who held my heart tangled up in the meshes of her sunny hair. Would she ever ming? Oh! that it might be! and, as her face with the steel-blue eyes, the fair pearly skin, and the strange-hued hair —that in the sunlight rippled like threads of gold— rose before me in the darkness, the rosy lips, honey- sweet in their full ripeness, smiled up n me; the eyes, now beaming softly, melting with love, and with the strange, witching, thrilling glance that holy passion alone can give, looked full upon me; the lips unclosed; the warm breath, sense-entrancing in its purity and sweetness, came softly against my fevered cheek and cooled its fire, as the sea-breeze from old ocean, in the summer-time, breathes cooling balm over the heated earth; a single sentence came from the lips and hovered on the air: “I love youl’ so low, so soft, yet so sweet, a lover’s ears alone could catch the meaning of that sound. I was happy, for I was in the dreamland of love—that bright clime, which only the fiery heart can know. The face came nearer and nearer; a pair of arms, so round, lump in their pinkish-whiteness, that even Helen of Troy, the Gre beauty herself, might have en- vied, were placed around my neck; the lips came close to mine; a moment I ome them in their poe es drank the rich draught of love that lay {mprisoned beyond their scarlet surface, and— ~eer - ~ © Creak!” G With a start and a shiver that seemed to chill the | blood leaping in my veins, I awoke from my dream of love. “ Creak!” : Again the sepa noise came from the entry-way. Itsounded as if a board had yielded a little under a footstep and then resumed its place again. In the night, one heais even the smallest sounds. It was certain that some one was prowling about in the en. try. What could he be doing there? It was evident: ly not a belated ledger seeking his rcom, for he would have walked boldly, and not with this stealthy caution. Again I heard a sound—this time it was a fcotfall, there was no mistake. Some one was outside the door, and his purpose was mischief. Quietly I put my hand under the pillow and pulled out my revolv- er. I did not cock it, for I knew the clink of the hammer would alarm the villain. That I did not ( ne to do, for I was determined to teach the thief a ~ | esson. Then came a sudden “ click,” as though some one was tampering with the key in the lock. Joe was conus soundly. I did not attempt to awaken him, ; as I knew I should alarm the intruder if I did. Another “click,” and the key turned in the lock and the bolt shot back at thesameinstant. Covered by the noise—as a military man might say—I cocked my revolver. I then realized that I had, in all prob- ability, to deal with a gang of practiced burglars. The coor began to open slowly; and, noiselessly, I leveled the revolver in the direction of the door. The room was so dark I could not see a fcot before 1 me. I could cnly judge by the sound when the door was fully open. ‘“‘ Easy, Tim!’’ came in a hoarse whisper, from the doorway. They wereinthe rcom then. The time for action was at hand. My finger was on the trig- gers I was ready for them. Then I became conscious hat the 1uffians, with slow and stealthy steps, were approaching the bed. I judged from this that they were well acquainted with the room. Now, I thought, the time had ccme to play my patt in this mysterious midnight drama, £0, with a sudden spring, I leaped to the floor and pulled the trigger of my “Colt.” Crack went the hemmer down on the cap—but no report followed. The re- volver for once kad missed fire. Quick as thought I jumped to the right, and at the same mcment re- cocked my pistol. The movement saved my life, for Treceived a terrible blow upon my shoulder that, otherwise, would have fallen bie my head—the blow given with, to me, scme unknown weapon, for it was not a club, butseemed more like a slung-shot, but with a peculiar soft feeling, which did not, how- ever, deaden its force; it almost paralyzed my left shoulder and knccked me to the ficor. I pulled the trigger again; this time the weapon did not miss fire. The flash of the dischaige illuminated the room for a second and revealed a very melo-dremat- ic picture. Inand hy the docrway stocd ‘‘ English Bob” and three stalwart ruffians, while Joe sat up in the bed, revolver in hand, with a sleepy and astonished air. I caught a glimpse of the weapon in “Bob’s”’ hand that had knocked mecown. I recog- nized it in an instant, forI had oftenread of it. It was a “‘sand-bag ’’—that is, a small Bae shared like the covering of a large sausage and filled with sand. A more dange1ous Weapon man never (cok in his hand, for a blow fiom it dealt on the head will general] kill outright and scarcely leave a mark. Now knew—for it flashed upon my mind in an instant— how Pete B1own, the miner, had kee led; he had met his death hy this weayon in the hands of “ Eng- lish Bob ” or some of his men; he kad been murder- ed for his gold-dust. I felt it was a struggle for life or death. Scarcely had the light from the flash of the powder of my pis- tol died away, ere, crack! crack! went Joe's re- volver, and one fired by some of the attacking party. A howl of pain from one of the 1uffans announced that Joe’s shot had told. Luckily, as yet, neither Jce nor I had been touched. A noice outside in the entry and on the stairs told that the house had been alarmed by the shots. The rvffians, frightened by the noise, made a rush for the entry. “Tet'sgit, boys! We're in a tiap!” growled Bob, in his hearse voice. “‘Go fur ‘em, Jim!” yelled Jce, dashing off the bed and into the entiy, blazing away at the retreating ruffans with his 1evolver. Ifollowed him, The en- try was lighted dimly by candles in the hands of the astonished denizens of the hotel, who kad ficoded into the yarsege in very scanty ccstume, nearly all carrying a revolver or bowie-knife in their hands. Three or four, with Jones, the landlord, at their head, were ccming up the stairs. Jones tcok in the sitvation in a moment. ; “Throw down your were and surrender, Eob, or I'll put a kullet.thrcugh you!” yelled Jenes, hold- | ing bis cardle in one hand and flourishing a revolver 7 in the other. . Ke “The blazes you will!” shouted “Erglish Bob,” in a dangerous position, for the who was indee : landlord and his party blécked up the stairway, -while Joe and I and scme other boarders were ad- vancing behind; so that the 1uffans were penned in between two fires. y ts ‘‘Throw down your we'pors!” egain repeated the \ landlord. ; t “Go to-——!” and Bob consigned the landlord to an extremely hot region. During this short parley all parties had remained motionless. You be durned! Ef you don’t drop that shoot- © ing-iron inside of a minute, I'll drill a hole sight through yer!’’ exclaimed Jones, mad as a hornet. “You will, —— you!” growled Bob, ‘Ill have the first fire!” and, qos as lightning, he leveled at Jones and fired. The landlord also fired, but in his
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ee we ' shoulder. Take care haste the ball went high over the ruffian’s head. Not s9, however, with the ball from the ‘“‘cracks- man’s” pistol, for it struck Jones in the shoulder, and, for a moment, staggered him. The ruffians took advantage of the confusion occasioned by Jones’s wound, among the defenders of the stair- ease, and dashed upon them. Terrified, the men on the stairway fired a hasty shot or two, that damaged the walls only, and then fled. Bob and his crew took advantage of caped into the street, followed by shots from Joe and myself, but in the uncertain light, I think they escaped without harm. : Jones had fallen at the head of the stairs and fainted. Ilknew it was useless to pursue the ruffians in the darkness, and said as much to Joe, who was boiling with rage. One of the balls fired by the brave defenders of the stairway at the scoundrels had missed them and taken off the top of Joe’s ear. It was only a slight wound, but it enraged Joe fear- fully. In fact, it was a wonder that, in the melee, we had not been shot by mistake. “The cussed fools!’ growled Joe; ‘they couldn’t hit a house ’less they were near enough to spit at it. Ef I could find the chap I'd tan him, blast me ef I wouldn’t! the long-legged, no-souled gopher!” We raised Jones up, carried him into a room and put him uport’a bed. His wound was quite serious. The row aroused all the town around the hotel, and crowds of the neighbors came flocking in, Jones, our landlord, was very popular, and loud and deep were the curses hurled against the villains. ““We ought to have a vigilance committee hyer to clean out these’suckers!”’ cried the tall miner, that I have spoken of before, and who went for the doc- tor for poor Browning. His pa met with general favor. “A vigilance committee! That’s bully!” shouted a stalwart fellow, flourishing a large bowie-knife, and a chorus of voices took up the ery. “Bully for a vigilance committee!” I foresaw that there was oo to be astormy time, and determined to give what little aid I could to “wiping out’ the gang of desperadoes, ! CHAPTER XII. THE VIGILANTES. “Hymr’s the doctor!” shouted a stentorian voice; and the bustling little man entered. _ How do, gents?” he ejaculated, shortly. “‘ Where’s Mr, Jones?” a3? “Hyer I am, doctor,” said Jones, himself, from the bed, for he by this time had recovered from his faint. “Been in a leetle difficulty, eh?” asked the doctor, first stripping off expertly examining the wounds, the shirt. “*Leetle? Blazes! I reckon it would have bin a heap of a fight ef they hadn’t got away with me so quick!” growled Jones. ‘Am JI hurt bad, doctor?” “Oh, no! the bullet’s gone clean through the ou don’t catch cold in it; you’ll be all right in a few days,” was the consoling mse of the doctor. 7 I could only git out to flax them fellers, I wouldn’t care a cuss!” cried Jones, em hatically. ‘*See here, Bill Simmons, you’re a friend of mine, ou air; now ef you don’t git up a vigilance commit- toe an’ clean out these cussed thieves an’ gamblers Tll say you’re a durned skunk.”’ This was addresse to the wart miner, who had done such tall fight- ing in the he tg oon. : : I'm oe ide an’ h’ar!’’ cried Bill. “Say, boys, who'll go with me?”’ he alg, addressing those resent. oe oe pairks yell of ‘‘me! me!’ from the entire crowd answered his question. “Hold on, boys, a moment!” the little doctor sung out, getting on a chair. He had evidently reat weight with the miners, as they all paused at fis request, and prepared to listen to what he had to say. C Bamoriber, gents,” said the doctor, “that Iam mayor of this city—chosen by your votes, and that itis my duty to see that the laws are carried out. Remember that a vigilance committee is something not recognized by law; consequently, to form a vigi- lance committee is to engage in an unlawful act, and it is my duty to warn you against it.’’ A growl of disapprobation greeted these remarks. I knew the temper of the miners well, and I knew that, if the worthy mayor attemp to stem the current of popular vengeance, he would get himself into trouble; but, the little doctor was a shrewd ’ politician, and knew the people he had to deal with well. “Patience, gen 3,” he said, with a dignified wave of the hand. ‘‘ Hear me out, then speak. As TI have said, this vigilance committee is an wful pro- ceeding, but what are the reasons that give rise to it? I will tell you, fellow-citizens! A gang of. des- eradoes have banded themselves together, right in he } t of our glorious city, which is the envy of the ounding country; they have, at the dead of night, when all nature is wrapped in tranquil slum- ber, except the bull-frog and the owl, they have come right into our principal hotel and shot our esteemed friend, Bill Jones, than whom a_ better cuss does not exist, and who keeps as good licker as ary man in the diggings, And not only that; last night they double-banked your mayor, who now addresses you, and won a hundred dollars from him at poker! These are the reasons ig you form a vigilance committee. Asa mayor, it is my duty to warn you against any overt act, but, as a man—a feller-citizen—I sympathize with ye, and I pene myself from the mayorship, until the leetle cul- ty is concluded, so that I may go in with you, with- out breaking my oath of office, tooth and nail!” this, and, rushing down the stairs, es- Ri A tremendous shout testified the crowd’s appre- ciation of this telling stump speech. : “And now, gents,” continued the doctor—or, we'll give him his official title, and call him mayor— “T move that we adjourn to the public square, kin- dle a bonfire, assemble every honest man in town who is willing to So a trigger against these black- guards, choose a leader, and move upon the enemy’s works at once.” Another shout showed the crowd’s approval of the movement. ** And now, gents, I invite the crowd to licker down-stairs!’ The crowd accepted the mayor’s invitation with alacrity, and, the ‘licker’? duly disposed of, pro- ceeded at once to the public square. It was now getting on to four o’clock. A huge bonfire was kindled in the center of the square; run- ners were dispatched in different directions to sum- mon the fighting-men, and those assembled on the ground gathered in little knots to talk over the ap- proaching contest. The miners were very bitter against ‘English Bob” and his gang; scarcely one of them but had some story to tell—how a miner had been fleeced out of his gold-dust through the ency of this gambling crew, and perhaps beaten half to death afterward. No wonder the feeling was strong against them. As the morning was quite chilly, Joe and I kept close to the fire. [noticed that the big miner, whom Jones had addressed as Bill Simmons, was. cireulat- ing around from one group to another. ores awhile to talk with each little knot. At last he lounged up to where Joe and I stood. ‘How are yer, stranger?”’ he said, nodding famil- iarly to me. ‘You raked that pile mighty well t’other night, down at ‘ Bob’s’ saloon; cuss me, e you didn’t go fur it like ightning. Thar ain't ay men that site away with them as well as you did. You did it bully!” I thanked him for his compliment, and modestly told him that I did the best I could. “T see’d you afterwards in the skirmish, too. Fur a leetle feller you hit like chain-lightning. What mought your name be?” “Robert James,’ I answered. “ From the East, I s’pose?”’ he continued. “Yes, from New York city.” “Wal, now! Do you know, I reckoned that you were from New York, ’cos they raise some lively a tO ee ‘time “fore long, ’cos I’ve been Lo thar. I’m from ‘Egypt,’’way down in old Tinoy, nigh the Ohio. I don’t want to ’pear curious, stranger, but what mought ha’ bin your bis’ness out in York?” = “T am a detective,’ I answered. “‘Show!”’ he cried, in astonishment; “one of the cusses that hunts down rascals? Wal, now, you’ve got right into bis’ness, ain’t yer?” “Tt looks like it,” I answ “Do you know, we sho *t have cleaned *em out so_ the other night, ef a lot of ‘Bob’s’ roughs hadn’t bin up-country. I ’spect we'll have a li talking with the boys, an’ they all agree that these cusses have got to leave town or fight. Ef sag do show fight, an’ we take any one on ’em alive, Judge Lynch will have work ahead fur him;” and with this sage reflection, Mr. Bill Simmons strolled away. Six o’clock found about two hundred men in the Square—the entire fighting force that cared to take part in the melee. e mayor—we beg his pardon we mean the ex-mayor, as he had self-suspended himself until the end of this difficulty—made a short speech, explained the object of the “‘ free American citizens,” as he termed us, and closed by advising the crowd to choose a leader, he himself declining the honor. For a few moments, the crowd was busy, evident- ly discussing whom to select. At last a heavy- bearded fellow in_a red shirt, and with a stentorian voice, proposed Bill Simmons. Simmons Lire parently a popular man, for the crowd instant took up the name, and shouted ‘Simmons!’ with all the power of their lungs. In obedience to the Fad cry, Simmons mounted an empty flour- wei and from its top delivered a short and pithy speech. ““Boys, I’m much obleeged to yers, but I ain’t. the man for yer ee I kin fight, but I can’t lead; I ain’t got the top-piece fur it, but I know a man that kin lead yer, an’ he’s a ‘painter’, claws an’ all, I nominate Robert James, the New York detective!” Joe gave a yell of delight. ’ ““I second that air nomination!” he cried. eyes were now turned upon me. “This is Mr. James, the celebrated detective!” cried the mayor, introducing me. He was eyvident- ly bound to side With the crowd, though how he aay that I was celebrated was, and is, a mystery me. Joe and a sturdy fellow in a red shirt seized me by main force and carried me to the flour-barrel. A ts delight greeted my appearance on the sttimp.’ “That's the cuss that. cleaned out Bob’s saloon tvother night!” I could hear Damned round among the crowd. There was no backing out; they were Tee to make me. a hero in spite of myself. Therefore I accepted the situation. After a short Feces en expressing my thanks for the high honor they had conferred upon me, I suggested that a council be appointed to act with me, and advise upon important questions. The idea took with the crowd, and a council of five was instantly appointed, consisting of my friend, Joe Sparks, Doctor Smith, the mayor, Bill Simmons, and a couple of miners known respectively as Wharton and Blake, After the council was selected, they and I returned to Jones’s hotel to deliberate. 138 in, full of intelligence. * What is it, spit it out?’’ cried Simmons. “*Bout all the gamblers an’ thieves in the lower town have gone into ‘ Bob’s’ saloon, an’ they swear - they'll fight till every durned sucker of ’em goes re a afore they’ll-give in,’ said the miner breath- essly. - ow many are there of them?” I asked. “Nigh onto thirty, I open country.” Just then another excited miner rushed in. “Look ahere, Bill, all the roughs up-town have gone into the Emerald saloon—Pat Rooney’s place— and they’re putting shutters up to the windows an’ gittin’ a! y fur a fight; an’ they say, thar ain’t men “nough in this air town to git °em out!” and the courier aren blowing like a porpoise. ‘“* Wal, Mr. Chief, what's the ticket?”’ asked Bill. “We'll divide our force; you, with Wharton and Blake, go to the upper town and lay close siege to the saloon; make them a fair offer, that if they will leave town you will not molest them; if they refuse, don’t come to an open fight, but just keep outside. the range of their fire, till we settle these fellows © pig , here; then we'll come up and attend to em.”” ‘“* Be hard work to keep the boys in; they’re il- ing for a fight,”’ said Bil pie cine ‘I wish to avoid bloodshed, if possible,” I replied. “You're right, b gs ar a every time!” Bill replied, and then depa: . He went to the ee drew off his men and took up his line. of mare With my command, accompanied by Doctor Smith and Joe, as assistants, I filed down the street toward. the saloon kept by ‘‘ English Bob,” : I halted my column at a safe distance, and then, with a handkerchief on a ramrod as a of truce, Istepped boldly forward to hold a parley with the enemy. The shanty stood all alone on one side of the road. AsI have before said, it was at the extreme end of the town, there being only a couple of smal shanties beyond it. “ Imarked the situation well as I advanced. If they showed fight, by means of the nape. shanties I could bring my men up within easy revol- ver range, without exposing them much. The saloon had the shutters up, and I could see here and there, in the walls, marks of freshly- cut loop-holes. They intended to resist, Fy think- ing, perhaps, that t attack was only a little out- burst of passion, which would soon subside. It was a vain hope, for I never saw people more determined than the men who had chosen me as their leader. When I got within a hundred paces of the saloon now turned into a fortress, a hoarse voice cried “Halt!” and the shining barrel of a rifle protruded from one of the loop-holes. I obeyed the gentle hint apa halted, “What the blazes do you want?’’ was the question that came from the loop-hole. “We want the person of ‘English Bob,’ who as- saulted Bill Jones, the hotel-keeper, this morning. If you give him up, all the rest can go, provided they exe Lowes at once.”’ Such was the ultimatum I de- vered, n go to—’’ (a very hot place, not to be men- tioned to « polite) “‘durn hag i we kin all an’ ye will dust.” nigh “Not a day!” responded I, tersely. “Then you kin come an’ to yer!” was the answer of the ruffian, whe was none other than the redoubtable “ English Bob” in person. -# ’ aa I returned to my force and held a council of war. a dash upon the enemy at once; Joe was for era 1 the mayor and I did not agree with him, We a possibly succeed but we should lose men in the attack, for they could pick us off from their strong- hold as we advanced, like so many rabbits. “No! no! Joe,’ I said, ‘‘that plan will never do. Lhave a scheme that will fix them; but, first, I want the house surrounded, yet don’t want a man to expose himself in doing it. By taking advantage of the ties, we can easily get within revolver range, and then not a man of them can escape.” “I see!” said the mayor; “you mean to starve them out?” : % “Blazes!’’ cried Joe; “the moment night comes they'll make a dash an’ git away, every durned cuss on ’em. “Yes, if we remain inactive till then! but, Joe, I intend to have that shanty within two hours, and every ruffian in it, without losing or exposing any man of my force.”’ Joe looked at me, astonished, as also did the mayor. ¥ —- do it!” cried Joe. “Ef any man kin, he Isent a man up to Jones’s hotel for a gallon of whisky, some cotton, and a few articles that I had noticed hanging in his bar-room, and which had Srepeeeed. the plan I had formed for capturing the ruffians. ; Then we commenced to surround the or Owing to the excellent cover afforded Me Rees neigh- boring houses, we succeeded in completely encir- cling the saloon, without giving them a single chance to fire at a man of our party. Hardly was this movement accomplished when py TA SIORGER returned with the things I had sent (9) - ry. _As yet we had not fired a shot. From my posi- tion behind a low shanty—by the way, it was aston- ishing to see how quick the inhabitants of the ne boring shanties got out of them when they saw that a fight was approaching—I had a_ good view of the ji ee i i a ee guess; some have put fur the _ be, | ign aed in, we'll git up S ‘ it us, an’ be durned — g “y
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~~ ss rear of the saloon, which was loop-holed also. In fact, the shanty was in a fine state for defense, but not against the weapon I was about to use. Now that my materials—a gallon of whisky, a large roll of raw cotton, an Indian bow and a couple of dozen arrows, the arrows tapering to the feather and heavy at the end, with a small spike— had arrived, I gave the signal, and my men opened a mrad é Scattering fire upon the beleaguered house. This aS a SRT ene ar ae + 5 lee ~ was to distract attention. Then I took the arrows, tied some of the cotton upon the ends, dipped the cotton in the whisky, set fire to it, and then discharged the arrows from behind the low shanty that sheltered me into the roof of Bob’s “shebang,” which was in full view. The consequence was, the burning arrows set fire to the roof of the shanty, and, inside of twenty min- utes, the whole building was in a blaze. Fire was a foe the ruffians could not fight. At last, almost suffocated by the smoke, they rushed from the building and made a mad attempt to break through our line. A deadly fire received them, Bob and some six of the advance were shot dead at the first discharge; the rest, terrified at the fate of their comrades, threw down their arms and begged for mercy, which was granted them on their swear- « ing te leaveytown at once. s I stood, gazing on the burning shanty, the mayor—Doctor Smith—who had been examining Bob’s body, came to me and said, quietly: ** Dve got a secret to tell you !” CHAPTER XIil. “STRIKING A LEAD.” I LooKED at the mayor in astonishment. Me- chanically, I repeated his words, ** A secret to tell me?” Yes,” he said; ‘‘Keep quiet. Just ask some of the boys to carry the dead bodies of Bob and these other fellows into the shanty over there,” pointing to the one that had served me as a breastwork, I called Joe at once and gave him the orders, which he immediately attended to. Most all of our Load were now busily engaged in trying to ex- tees the fire, rolling out the barrels of whisky, and making sad havoc with the cigars, The fire, however, burned briskly, and could not be subdued until the entire roof had been destroyed and a aoe part of the side walls. Hardly had the party finished carrying the dead bodies into the shanty, whem a messenger from Bill Simmons arrived. He stated that Bill and his men were anxious to attack, and ged me to allow them to go in and wipe’out the “‘durned skunks.” ** Better send Joe with all our force up there at once,” said Doctor Smith. ‘*Let them take one of . these fellows that we’ captured here, and send him in totalk tothem cutthroats in the upper saloon. I think when they hear that Bob’s done for, they'll be glad to leave without any more trouble.” I acted upon Doctor Smith’s suggestion at once, by giving Joe the nécéssary instructions, and within ten minutes he and_ his men were on the’ march for the upper town. I suspected that the mayor had some object in wishing to get rid of Joe and the miners, but, what the object was, I couldn't guess. “Now, come with me,” said Smith, as Joe and the miners disappeared in the distance; and he led the way into ‘the shanty where the dead bodies’ of the muiians! had’ been carried. I followed’ him, a little astonished, I must own. — As soon as I entered the shanty, Smith closed the door carefully behind me. , ‘«Psuppose you have never studied medicine?” Tt arm understand what’ the mayor was “ driv- ‘al me No, I answered, “Splendid study !"’ he said, with all the enthusiasm of the student. “‘I suppose you don’t care particu- larly about looking at the dead?” “T can’t say that I do,” I replied. ‘ _“Tt’s a wonderful study; the greatest thing in this world is for man to study man.” _ “ Well, now, I should prefer to ie woman,’ I replied, thinking, by a joke, to change the subject. ‘It’s all the same, man or woman,’ he answered, ruthlessly passing on without’ regarding my pleas- antry. ‘Do you ever think what a strange piece of mechanism a manis, ora woman either? ‘What is this strange principle that we call life? We can destroy it, bué we can not create it, except by the laws of nature. See this piece of earth now,” and he touched with his foot the body of “ English Bob;” “ thirty minutes ago it was living, breathing, acting—a king among the other creatures of the world; but, lo! a little bit of lead strikes it in the temple, and the life flies forever.” _I couldn’t very well understand why the doctor should bring me into the shanty to indulge in these sage reflections, particularly as, from what I had seen of him, they didn’t seem to be at all in his line; but I held my tongue and simply bowed assent to his words. “Did you ever ‘strike a lead?” he asked, sud- wee al? was a change of subject with a v ance. “Striking a lead,’ in miner parlance, is to discover a vein of ore. As I had but just arrived at, the “diggins,” and hadn’t, as yet, indulged any in mining, I was obliged to answer in the negative. ‘Would you like to strike a lead?” was Smith’s next question. ? ‘‘Of course I should!’’ replied T. “That is natural. Now, youare not blind; you of ‘eourse know, or think, that I had some abject in telling you to have these bodies brought in here, and suggesting that the men be sent off to the up , “ Well, yes,’ Lanswered. ‘I must own I thought -rou had some purpose in view.” te rs Kd ORPHAN NELL, THE’ ORANGE GIRL. | i ———_—_— “You were right. I am about to strike a lead, and I’m willing to let you go partners with me, if you wi ‘h.” d ‘Iam much obliged to you,”’ I replied. “Not at all,” he answered. “I consider that you’ve done our town a great service, and of course what helps the town helps me, as I own about thirty lots here.” ‘‘Thirty? Why, that must be a fortune!’ I cried. “No, ’tain’t much of a fortune now, but I think in about five years or so, I can realize something handsome from them, and then I'll go back East and settle down. But to my ‘lead.’” And the commenced unbuttoning his vest. his hand inside his shirt, fumbled there a moment, drew out, and held out to my astonished gaze, a buck-skin money-belt, well stuffed with something. With a triumphant smile, he laid the belt down on ae floor and proceeded to the kody of the second ruiman, with a like success, and so on he went, opening up his ‘‘ lead” until he had laid seven well-tilled money- belts upon the floor. * What do you think of that?” he asked, with a quiet smile. “What do they contain?’ In reply he took out his knife and cut a little slit in one end of one of the belts, and then held the belt up for my inspection. It was filled with gold-dust! I must acknowledge my heart gave a great leap at the sight. Here was a little fortune. 4 “What do you think of my ‘lead? ’’ questioned the doctor; “it opens rich, don’t it?” ‘*Yes,’’ Lreplied; ‘‘ but whose property is this?” The doctor looked at me in astonishment. “Why, it belongs to us, of course. You see, I had a suspicion that these fellows would have somethi valuable about them, for these seven are the he men of this gang. That’s the reason ey happened to be shot; they were in the advance, leading the others on. I consider, too, that you have as much right as myself to this booty, for your wit put them in our power, although I discovered the ‘ lead.’”’ ‘* How much money do you suppose there is, alto- gether?” I asked. ‘“Oh! between six and gighe thousand dollars, I should judge. It will be at the least three thousand apiece; it ain’t bad totake. You needn’t have any scruples about taking your share; it is the product of all sorts of rascality, and certainly we have the best right of anybody to it.” It did not require much urging to induce me to accept the windfall that fortune had placed in my way. Every dollar was a step nearer to Nell, the girl of my heart; every dollar brought me nearer and nearer to my vengeance be ge Livingstone. Little did he dream, in his stately mansion upon Fifth avenue, New York, surrounded by all the luxuries that wealth could procure, that, in the Far West, where the golden grains are wrested from the stubborn rock, or washed from the wave-rippled sands, his mortal foe was toiling to pile up the golden elements of power, that he ver eg once again mae te Strength with, and perhaps hurl him to the SDH take what fortune sends me without ques- tion,” Teried. “That's the true way to look at it,” the doctor replied. ‘Now, buckle three of these belts around ou, and I will take the other four. It will be a eavy load, but T guess we can standit. After we get up to my office, we'll empty the bags, weigh the ust, and divide it equally.” We buckled the belts on, as the doctor had said. It was indeed a heavy load, but, I must say, we bore up under it like men. This opération finished, the doctor searched their pockets. Nothing of any par- ticular value was found, except that in Bob's pocket was aroughly drawn Geeran, apparently represent- ing the interior of his shanty, and in one corner of the eee was an X, made with a pencil, “What do you think of that?” asked the doctor, handing ‘it tome. I examined it carefully; in one See pe the plan was a figure 4, in another corner a re'6, “Does that suggest any thing to you?” I asked. “Yes; any thing to you?” he replied, with a shrewd smile. “Tt does indeed. I think that this spot marked with an X is where Bob has hidden something of value, and that. the figures 4 and 6 mean four feet from one wall and six feet from the other.” “Yes; and the intersection of the four feet and the six feet line is the hiding-place.” Ls ate exactly !’’ I said. “Well; I must confess that when I found the money-belts contained gold-dust only, the thought oceurred to me that hé must have a hiding-place somewhere, because, of course, he must have some money in_ bars and bricks; and as he couldn’t earry it with him, he must have hidden it some- where.” “That is likely,” I replied. “Yes, I think so. Now, to-night we'll go quietly to the shanty over there, first providing ourselves with the necessary tools, and try,to unearth Master Bob’s treasure,’’ and the wort ae i) chuckled and rubbed his hands with deligh at the idea, | ** Well, I suppose there’s nothing more to be done here, and we may as well go and see how Simmons . wes miners are getting along with their siege,” said, - ““Yes,”’ replied the doctor, ‘but the siege has probably been turned into an attack long before now. I know our boys here prery well, and its hard work to hold them in when there’s a fight in prospect.” So Doctor Smith and I left the shanty, bearing the precious gold-dust, buckled securely around our The searching operation was repeated. and | waists, and took the road to the center of the town. | So I went to work to sarcumvent ’em, doctor knelt down by the side of Bob’s body and | Then he passed | 2 Gpapescads abide Bees: lattes hoe 25) + wr salah larch iiss dite. Poor to ee a Just as we reached the square we met Joe, Simmons, and all the miners, returning in triumph. ‘* Hyer we air, chief!’ shouted Simmons; “‘ we’ve cleaned the durned cusses out.” “Have they gone, and without a fight?”’ “That’s so! We frightened them out of their boots!” cried Joe, with a hoarse chuckle. “ How did you manage to do that?’ “You'd have died a-laughing; you see, the cusses were full of fight, an’ I know’d I couldn’t get ’em out of their cussed shanty without a heap of trouble; : ‘Lhe boys gits the fore-pair of wheels off a wagon, an’ mounts a piece of stove-pipe onto it, like a cannon—an’ it did look natural. Then we goes an’ draws it up in range, an’ makes a durned fuss *bout it, loading an’ fixing; then I sends a flag of truce in to ’em, giving *em ten minutes to git up an’ dust; ‘cos if they didn’t, at the eend of that air time, I’d blow ’em to blazes. Ha! ha! ha!’ and Simmons reared at the idea. “it frightened *em nigh to fits.: Ye see, they’ve got an old field-piece over in Gopher City, an’ I s’pose they thought we’d sent over an’ got it; but the cussed fools might have know’d that we hain’t had time, an’ ef we had got it, it would be a durned sight more likely to hurt the fellefs that fired it than any one else. Wal, them cusses were jist like the old coon—they kim down, an’ jist now the hull crowd air making tall tracks fur timber.’’ A yell of laughter from the crowd told their appreciation of the joke. Even a vigilance committee is not without its element of fun, The mayor made a short speech, congratulating the vigilance committee upon the success that had at- tended their efforts, and as peace had been once more restored, and the black sheep had been driven from the “lively” town known as “‘ Dead Man’s Gulch,” he suggested that the citizens disperse to their sev- eral homes. His suggestion was acted upon at once. It was now near ten o’clock, and, as I Landn’t had any breakfast, I began to feel hungry. The excite- ment under which we had all been latoring, caused us to think of anything rather than of eating. Joe, the mayor and myself, all went in to break- fast together at Jones’s Hotel. Breakfast being over, the mayor departed, making an appointment to meet me at eleven o'clock that evening, for the purpose of pursuing our search for the tieasures of the dead ruffians. e had put off the division of the spoils until after our nocturnal expedition. Joe and I retired to our room; there I showed him the money-belts; Joe’s eyes grew as large as saucers at the sight. ** Jerusalem! you’ve made a big strike, ain’t ye?’ and Joe indulged in a low whistle of astonishment. “Say, guess you'll be going back to York, ’fore ha Hail Columbia! guess you'll be on somebody’s trail, p’izen sure, soon!” “Tt is very likely, Joe,” I answered; and then I told him of the midnight expedition that Mayor Smith and I had planne ‘* He’s a team, he is!’’ ejaculated Joe, forcibly. Then I talked over our return to the East, for I had determined to go back at once. Joe was as willing as I was, and started out pamesstely to see how much he could realize on his ‘tclaim.” Fortine ‘ain favored us here. Joe’s partners were flush th money, and gave him six thousand dollars for his share. " Joe came back wild with delight, I took ie pencil and a sheet of paper, and sat down to calculate how we stood. Roughly fi uring it up, I found that we were in possession of between ten and eleven thousand dollars—a smell fortuiie. Enough, at rf rate, to enable me to make head against Richar Livingstone. That was allI desired. True, too, I might strike another “lead” in my midnight expedition with Smith; but stil], I did not count upon that, for I had money sufficient without it. If l could succeed in placing my hands upon a few thousand more, it would be welcome. Evening came at last; and at eleven o'clock, punctual to the minute, came Dr, Smith. “All ready?” he said. “Yes, I answered. Tt had been arranged that we should get a shovel and pick frcm his cffice, which was on our way. These, together with a dark lantern, and a couple of small carpet-kags, for tke “‘loot ” which we were to. capture, ccmprised our outfit. s . 0 one was abroad as we passed through the town, and so, luckily, we entirely escaped notice. Arriving at the ruined shant , we entered it. n eans of the roughly-drawn diagram that we too from Bob’s pocket, we easily discovered the exact spot. Turning the light of the lantern onto the haps we guessed ahs fcund that a plank in the coring was loose. This was forced up; the ground under it showed marks of being freshly dug. There was no nistake—we had discovered the gambler’s he We had, for the second time, struck a ‘lead. The spade sunk easily into the soft ground. About a foot below the surface we unearth com- mon wooden soap-box, but it needed our united strength to lift it to the surface. Once there, we forced the cover cff, and the buried treasure of “English Bob ” was revealed to our wondering eyes. The contents of the box consisted of gold at aiver “bricks” and bars, bags of gold-dust, and a few diamonds—the whole estimated by the doctor, at a rough guess, to be worth sixteen or seventeen thou- sand dollars. _Here was a fortune indeed! Three pe did we make between Doctor Smith’s office and the ruined shanty, before we conveyed all the treasure away. As I panted under. the heavy weight of the pre- cious metal, I said to myself, “I am toiling for ven- eance; love and hate, the two ruling passions of — this life, hold possession of my breast; soon, both ie, A PEs sie ies ee ee ce ae es oni Be *
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—eE——“‘C ‘Mrs. Perey and her child?’ “Oh, yes!” Isaid, in reply to his question, “my ~ visit to you_has reference to Mrs. Perey and her we es ae ibeha'y y ORPHAN NELL, ‘PHE ORANGE GIRL. — Wee ky will be satisfied. Livingstone, beware! Jam on your | track, and vengeance 13 burning in my veins! Nell, rejoice; Jam seeking you out with love in my heart! CHAPTER XIV. THE BLOODHOUND ON THE TRAIL. Jor, Mayor Smith and myself, all slept in Smith’s office that night, guarding the treasure we had found. In the morning Smith brought out a pair of scales and proceeded to divide the spoils. Judgin by the weight, there was about eighteen hundre dollars’ worth of gold and silver, not counting the diamonds, which were probably worth three or four thousand more. The division was at last completed. Joe and I instantly made arrangements to start at once for the East—first putting our treasure in the hands of an Express Company and taking the re- ceipt for the same, deliverable in Denver City. We went round town, bid good-by to ell our friends, received a hearty parting grasp of the hand from Mayor Smith, and a whispered intimation that he would be East himself, within six weeks, and then we started on our homeward journey. As soon as we arrived at Denver City, we chanzed our gold for drafts on New York, taking the precau- tion to give the banker my signature, Robert James, to forward on to the house in New York, on whom my drafts were drawn, so that I should have no trouble in cashing them, which, as a stranger, I might have. e arrived at Buffalo, New York, without having anything special to notice on the passage. My first act, on arriving at Buffalo, was to write to Nell, telling her_that I was in town, stopping at the Wadsworth House, and asking her to call uponme. This I posted at once, addressing it, as she had directed mc to do, to Miss N. Orange. course I had not received any answer to the letter I had written her from ‘‘ Dead Man’s Gulch,” as I had come East two days after I had posted it, and had probably arrived in Buffalo, almost if not quite as soon as the letter. The letter to Nell posted, Joe and I set out to find the residence of Mr. James R. Watson, the retired rocer, By ep eran a directory, we found that a ir. James R. Watson lived at No. —— Pine street. Joo and I proceeded there at once. We found thé gentleman at‘home. He was a little, short fat man with hair and whiskers quite gray. He was much of a gentleman, and upon my informing him that I had some particular business, he invited us at once into his parlor, and requested us to be seated. I went at once to the object of my visit. : ‘Do you remember Mr. Robert Browning, former- ly of Buffalo?’ I asked. ‘“* Yes, sir;,I remember him very Ae oo en yd iT was not very intimately acquainted with him,” re- plied Mr. Watson. I could see that he was both sur- prisechand annoyed at my question. ““T bring a message from yee” : “Ah! indeed!” and the little fat grocer gave a short, dry cough; ““Thops he hasn’t got into any more trouble, He created a terrible scandal here in Buffalo, Isuppose, as you know him, you also know of the cire ce?” 3 ‘‘ Yes, isir,” I answered, ‘‘but Mr. Browning will ory, ore any more trouble in this world; he is * doad, sir “Dead! bless me!’ andthe little fat man started as. though he had received an electric shock; ‘how did it happen?” L briefly related the incident of the death of the fugitive minister. Mr. Watson heard me with the eeinns a When I had finished, he heaved a dee 3 “T.do not think that Mr. Browning was what could really be called a bad man at heart,” he said; ‘‘he was a weak man, though, and one easily led into temptation; but I know of a case, gentlemen, where- in-he showed himself to be a man possessed of true Christian feelings.” “You son to his actions in regard to a certain widow and child?” T said. Again the little man started, and then he looked at me with unbounded astonishment, _ “Ts it possible,” he cried, ‘‘that you know about This was exactly what I wanted to know; I wanted to find out under what ame Mrs. Salome Livin tone was knownin Buffalo. ‘IT saw now that she had ept her maiden name, child, as well as.to Mr. Browning. By the way, you were one of the witnesses to Mrs. Perey’s marriage, wore you not?” “ “Yes; I was present at the ceremony, he replied. “ Do you remember the bridegroom?’ ce es. bb) “ Can you describe his personal appearance !”” “ Quite as well as if I had only seen him yesterday. eculiar dark-blue eye—” fon of Anson Livingstone as + ot why should an ‘Well, that’s exactly what I don’t know, only Mrs. Livingstone came to me about a year or so after she was married and begged me never to re- veal to any one the fact that'I was a witness to her marriage, orthe name of her husband. I igre her, for she seemed in such deep grief, and of course I said I would never mention it. I suspected that her husband had committed some rascality—deserted her or something of that sort, and she didn’t want it known,”’ dice So far.all was well. Browning had spoken the truth, Here was a living witness to prove the legal: mt ity of the marriage of Salome Percy to Anson Liv- | ingstone. | f 4 e ‘Ap he f | In as few words as possible, then, I explained to Mr. Watson the secret of the mystery that hung over the marriage of Salome Perey. I told him how her husband, Livingstone, had married a second time, and only a year after his first marriage. How his first wife, Salome, had kept his secret, for love of the villain husband that had basely deserted her for another; how the child of Salome Percy—or to give her the name justly due her, the name of her hus- band, Livingstone—was in reality the true heir to the estate of her father—the estate now held and en- joyed by the children of the second wife; that my mission was, through the courts of justice, to give to the orphan child, Salome, the property justly hers, and that I needed his aid—first, to give me a clew to find the heir, and next, to prove the mother’s mar- riage. The grocer followed me in my story with rapt attention, and at its close, grasped me by the hand warmly. ‘My dearsir, you shail have be | assistance in my power!” he cried. ‘Salome was here in Buffalo, only a few weeks ago. She’s a strange, independent sort of creature. She came on from New York, quite suddenly, and went back as suddenly again. My wife says she’s sure she’s in love with some one in New York, for she used to go to the post-office here every day, as though she was expecting a letter rom some one. I don’t think she ever got a letter, though, for she always came home again looking very sorrowful.” ‘“Have you her address in New York?” I asked, ‘for, of course, before I proceed to action, it will be better for me to see the young lady and consult with her on the subject.” **Yes, of course. As I said before, she’s a strange creature, for although she might have a good com- fortable home, either here with me in Buffalo, or with the folks she isnow stopping with—some dis- tant relations of her mother’s—she prefers to go and take a lodging-room all by hersel?, and supports her- self with her needle.” “A strange fancy, indeed,’ I said; at the same time I must confess that I admired her independ- ence, ‘*Here’s the address,”’ he said, taking a card from the mantlepiece: ‘‘Miss Salome Percy, No. West 30th street, New York city.” ‘‘I shall find her there then, beyond a doubt?” I asked, taking the card. ““Oh, yes!” answered Mr. Watson; ‘my wife got a letter from her about three days ago.” “Does she know the facts connected with her mother’s marriage?’ I asked. : “T have a shrewd suspicion that she does, because she has never made any inquiry about her father, and, in fact, whenever she has been at our house, and 1 have brought up the subject of her mother, she always seemed to avoid speaking of it, as if the matter was distastefulto her. This makes me think that she knows all about it.”’ “Probably the mother asked her not to reveal anything,” I said, “passing the promise she had made to her guilty husband on to her child, and thus keeping her faith, eyen beyond the grave.” ‘Yes; that is possibly the truth. “By the way, you have.some papers, Mr. Watson, have you not, that Mr, Browning left in your care?” ne es,” he answered; “they are up-stairs in my sk. ri “T shall probably be obliged to call upon you to produce them shortly, for one of the papers ts the marriage-certificate of Mrs. Livingstone,’ “‘Tshouldn’t be surprised,” answered the grocer, “for Browning, when he gave them to me to take —t of, hinted that in time they might be of great value. “That time has come,” I replied, ‘for I shall set out instantly for New York, to hunt up the heir, Sa- lome, the child of Salome; and the moment she is found I shall bring suit against Mr. Richard Living- stone to compel him to give up the property.” “Excuse the question,” said the worthy Mr. Wat- son, after a moment’s pause, “‘ but you seem to take a deep interest in this affair. Are you a relative of the Percys?”’ ‘No, sir,” I answered, ‘Ah!’ said Mr. Watson, a little bothered; ‘“‘a friend of the family, I presume?” “No, sir; I never eyen heard of them until my at- tention was called to this case.” “Oh! then may I ask why you take suchiaminter- est in it?” ae. “ Certainly,” I replied. “In the first ei allow me to introduce myself. My name is Robert James; my business, detective officer; my residence, New York city.” The little cer stared at me, open-mouthed. “Bless me!” he cried; “a detective officer! why you don’t look a bit like a detective officer; that is, : mean my idea of one. I thought they were always great, strapping fellows, with a general expression, which said ‘fight’ about them.” T laughed at the idea—a laugh in which Joe joined, for he being a hadi Mamas enjoyed being taken for a non-combatan f “Appearances are deceptive, sir,” I said; “ bu to return to the subject. About three months ago, was employed by Richard Livingstone, in my capa- city of detective officer, to learn certain facts about a child named Salome, and born at Little Falls, New York State, in 1844, While pursuing my search for the facts concerning this child, I discovered, much to my astonishment, that she was the daughter of Richard’s father, Anson Livingstone, and, as she was his «dest child, of course was the heir to all his property. When Livingstone discovered that I knew these facts, and had, as he thought, certain proofs in my possession, in order to obtain those proofs, and stop my mouth, he committed a crime that will put his neck within the halter, the very instant I prove that crime against him. So you see, sir, that have a very strong motive for es Richard Liv- ingstone down, and I can pull him down by giving the girl, Salome, her rights,” **T see,” said Mr. Wa son, who had listened to all Thad said, with the utmost attention; “ by giving. the orphan child her rights, you at the same time revenge yourself upon this man, who has wronged rou. ” “Exactly !”’ I said. *“ Squar’!”’ said Joe, in an undertone. By the way; I have neglected to state that Joe, on arriving at Buffalo, had ponent himself an entire suit of biack, and, as he familiarly termed it, a ‘‘ plug” hat, and eee dressed in bis new rig, he looked quite *\nobby.’ ‘My dear sir!"’ cried the fat grocer, warmly, ‘I wish you_every success in your undertaking, and I must say I feel sure that you will succeed.” “I’m much obliged to you, sir, for your good wishes,”’ I replied. “Not good wishes alone!” he cried. ‘I’m not a very rich man, but I’m worth a little scmething, and if you need any money, sir, I should be pleased to lend you five hundred or a thousand dollars to push on Miss Salome’s cause.”* “Thank you, sir,” I replied, astonished by his kind offer; ‘“‘but lhave money enough to carry out my pitts and l’llspend every dollar that 1’m worth, ut this girl, Salome, shail have her rights,” “That's so!” cried Jce; “‘you’re a brick, old ep you air; but we've got the rocks, an’ we kin put t through, we kin!” The little fat grocer looked astonished at the queer- ness of Joe’s speech, but I suppose he set it down as a little bit of eccentricity, appertaining to the detec- tive force! We took our leave of the worthy grocer, followed by his best wishes for our success. Then Joe and I returned at once to the hotel. The interview with Mr. Watson had taken up scme time, and we found that dirner was ready when we returned. Dinner over, I gave notice at the office that I ex- pected a visitor, and should be in my rcom all the afternoon, And in my room all the afternoon I waited. Joe extended himself upon the sofa and read a little while, and then went to sleep, while I, uneasy as a caged tiger, paced up and down the floor. The hours passed slowly by, and yet she did not come. Every time that I heard a footstep near the door, I expected that it vas a waiter with a mes- sage that alady wished tosce me. But, no message; no lady came. What coulditmean? 1 thought this: Nell would probably go to the post-cffice between eleven and three, she would find my letter there and then would come instantly to see me. But, five o'clock had ccme and _no Nellie! Oh! how impatient Igrew! At last, an ideastruck me. I would go to the post-cffice and inquire if my letter had been called for, The thought was'a gcecd one. I weke Joe up at once, and told him if any one called, to tell them I would be back soon, and to de- tain him or her untilI did come. Then I took my hat and set out for the post-cfice. On ertining there, I went to the ladies’ wincow. To the clerk there I explained my wishes, The clerk was a gentlemanly young fellow, and appeared Cesirous to give all the information in his achat I could see from his Jooks that he thought hat there was a love-scrape at the bottom of it; possibly he was in love hinself; most young men are. In fact, they take toitas natur as young ducks to water, “N. Orange,” he said; “let me see. I think I re- member some directions left here about forwarding all letters directed to that address; here it is now,” and he took down from a nail and handed out to me a small paper, upon which was wiitten, ‘ Please Joruard cli letters .ddressed to iiss N. Orange to New York city, «7 d oblige.” It was Nell’s small, legible hand. How well I knew it! alibough I had never received buta single letter from her, but ‘Aci letter, every syllable of it, was imprinted on my heart. Nell had gone to New York, then, Gocd! Iwas obliged to go there also, and vow Lhad nothing to detain me any longer in Buffalo. _I got back the letter that I had written, teliing Nell Iwasia Luvffalo, got a sheet of paper and en- velope from tke obliging clerk, and wrote another ncte to her, telling her thet I wculd be in New York on Wednesday, and that Iwculd he at the rost- cffice there every Cay at precisely twelve o'clock £0 that she could meet me. Then I sealed it up and put it in the mail. I returned to the hotel, told Joe of the movements rig aoe our bil), ard tcok the 7:40 express for New Yor! CHAPIER Xv. THE MISSING WILL, Jor and I arrived at the depot justin time to catch the train. The cars were full of people, and seats were scarce. Joe, however pl te to get one on ahead while I found one at the rear end of the car. beside an old gentleman with iron-gray hair, and a face bronzed almost as dark as an Indian's. I have neglected to mention that, before leavin; the hotel, after supper, I resumed the disguise tha’ I fled from New York in, namely, the yellow, curly wig and mustache, and again trimmed ny eyebrows down, for it must not be forgotten that the sentence of five years at Sing Sing, which my friend Richard had been kind enough to procure me, by his false charge of forgery, was still hanging over me; and that I was liable to be arrested and sent to serve m: term out. Of course, if this should happen, it woud entirely block my game. \ A hag
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n** ih orig Ri: t 7 es * Ry | Bs | — telli ‘true, I had hopes of a pardon, for I had received a letter in Denver City, from Peters, the detective, me that, aided by some influential political friends, he had applied for my pardon and hoped to obtain it from the Governor. I knew that Peters had a great deal of influence with certain parties who controlled the wires by which certain political Se ee, puppets danced; and politics have a great deal to do ! sometimes with the pardon of criminals, in some States of our great- and glorious Union. Besides, the crime which I was accused of committing, and for which I had been convicted, was quite a trivial one in the opinion of the world. Picking a pocket or robbing a house, are horrible offenses against the law, but forging a friend’s name for a few thousand or robbing the bank of which you are a trusted servant and supposed guardian, are pleasantly de- nominated ‘financial irregularities,” and if the skillful “‘ operator’ happens to sometimes be un- skillful enough to let himself be detected in his little ‘*pleasantries,” the world exclaims, ‘‘a very weak and foolish young man—to allow himself to be eaught.”’ ter the train had been under way a short time, I fell into conversation with the elderly gentleman, ‘vith the iron-gray hair and bronzed face, who occupied the seat with me. Of course, as was nat- ural, our first remarks had reference to the weather; from that we glided into politics—the election being near at hand. SoonI found, to my utter astonish- ment, that the stranger was totall ae regard- ms Fh resent politics of New York State—a fact whic! © explained by stating that he had been . trave in India for the past five years. I soon gathered from his conversation—for he spoke freel D: - that I would be delighted. Now, w ‘ ‘had some little property : ; and —, me executor, knowing at the same time ‘knew [I and without reserve—that he was what the Frenc would call a ‘“savant’’; in truth, was a very learned man, about certain things. He had traveled in the East a great deal, and, as he informed me, spoke the Hindoo tongue like a native. In grder to penetrate to certain places, in India, which ‘Ste had wished to reach, he had found it necessary to assume tho native garb and character of a Hindoo, which his bro: complexion and perfect knowledge of their language easily enabled him to do. I was quite interested in his story of his travels for he spoke in an easy, off-hand manner, without an patilutiar desire to make himself the hero of his tale, although he was so, in reality. Isoon discov- ered the charm of his manner; he loved the subject hoe was jon of. Although born in Albany and reared there, remaining in that city, as he told me, until he was twenty-one, nearly all the rest of his life had been spent in the Orient. “T commenced the study of the Hindoo tongue when I was yet a lad,” he said. ‘I donot know how it was, but the study seemed to Sssess a peculiar charm for me. en I attained the age of twenty-one my father died and left me quite a for- tune; my mother had died when I was an infant. I had no brothers or sisters; my nearest relatives were my cousins, who lived in Buffalo. After my father’s death, I stopped with them some little time, when the idea took possession of me to go to India, and in person see the country, and there, from the natives, thoroughly age eS tongue, © sooner had I thought of this thanIset aboutit. So, sir, whent T-waatyenty-two years old, I went to India and havo remained there most of the time since; that is, when I say that, I except a visit that I made home about five years ago. It’s st , sir, but I have been called home m’ India twice by death. e first time, one of my cousins died, and, as he he chose to make a will that I was in the wilds of Hindostan, and for all he might be making a meal for some hungry tiger in one of its jungles, or strangled by some re- ous ‘ Thug’ as an offering to great Brahma. ‘Tho letter, sir, informing me of the death of my cousin, was two years in reaching me, for I was on an expedition up in the ‘ hill country,’ and the letter lay in Calcutta until I returned.” *Well, that was a long time,” I said; “I should have thought the heirs here would have become impatient. ; “T rather think they did,’’ responded the “‘sa- vant,” with adry chuckle. ‘But, here again, the reason for my return now is that one of my early friends has seen fit to intrust his affairs in my haads. Notarelative this time, mind, but only an old friend. He and I were school-fellows together, | at Albany, and when he was married in Buffalo, I romined to be present, but unfortunately I forgot he direction and missed the minister’s house. That was ’way back in 45. I didn’t see him again until about five years ago, when I returned from India, and, passing through New York, en vovte for Buffalo, I called upon him. He was then one of the leading men of New York. I only made a short visit, don’t think I stopped over haif an hour, and I remember that he asked particularly what my post- office address was; and, when I spoke about settling up this will business in Buffalo, and what a trouble it was, he laughed, and asked—should I happen to outlive him, would I take char of his will? Of course, for the joke of the t » 1 said I would, at do you think, sir?” and tho old man laid the fore-finger of one hand impressively on the palm of the other. ‘ That man remembered this conversation of five years ago, and when he got ready to make his will, which was about a year ago, after he had made it, he sent it to my address at Buffalo, with directions to keep it there till I should return home, and, with the will, he sent a letter to be forwarded to me, wher- ever I might be. The letter was just about a year in reaching me, for it arrived in Calcutta short} after I had started on an expedition for the head- waters of the Ganges. When I returned about a ‘ { THE ORANGE GIRL. year afterward, I found it there waiting me. I read it through, carefully. He didn’t give any reason for | intrusting the will to my care—only reminded me of my promise, and begged of me, by the memory of our old friendship, to keep that promise, and ob- scurely hinted that, upon my faithfully carrying out his wishes as expressed in the will, depended the righting of a foul wro All this, mind you, was quite mysterious; but, of course, there was no need of my returning to the States until the man was | dead, which event, he said in his letter, I must not } be ae ripe to hear of at any time, as his health had been failing. “Well, now, as this letter had been waiting for me nearly a year, and no other had come notifying me of his death—for of course his son would have writ- ten in the event of his father’s death, knowing that I had the will—I concluded that his health had improved. But, judge of my astonishment, when, a few days after this, [happened to take up an old New York Herald, and read there an account of the death of Anson Livingstone,” ‘Livingstone!’ I cried, with a start of surprise. Luckily the ‘savant’? happened to look out of the i orgie just then, and did not notice my astonish- ment, “Yes,” he replied. heb have probably heard of him; he was an ol ew Yorker. I’ve got his will now, here in my breast-pocket.” Fortune had again favored me! man with the missing will! “* Ah, indeed!” I said, more for the sake of saying something, than any thing else. “Yes, sir; it’s rather a, strange story, for the moment I saw the notice of the death of my friend, I started for home, instantly. On arriving in New York, I wrote to Mr, Richard Livingstone, the son of my old friend—told him I had his father’s will—that I would proceed to Buffalo, get it and return to the city and see him on the rae pee Then I pushed on instantly for Buffalo. I had a little business there to arrange, for one of my cousins, which I saw would detain me a week, so I wrote to Mr. Livingstone and told him I would be in New York on Wednesday next—that’s to-morrow—and that I should like to meet him at the depot. Well, I received an answer at once. I gathered from his letter that he knew that his father had left a will, and what the contents of the will were, but that he had been in the dark as to who had it. Now, that seemed very strange to me, for I should have certainly thought that the father would have told the son all about it. Fortune was ae Livingstone’s game right into my hands. I thought I could guess what the plan vg but I determined to learn all I could in regard it. ‘Perhaps the’ reason that the old man did not confide the secret of the will to his son, was that he did not leave all his Peey to him, but bestowed the greater part o s wealth elsewhere,” I said, throwing this out as a sort of a feeler. “No, no!’’ responded the “savant; ‘ Richard says expressly, in his letter, that the disposition of his father’s property is perfectly satisfactory, both to himself and sister, Olive.” “Ah! you wrote him, then, in rd to the my way Here was the division made by vhe will,” I said, fee cautiously. *“No, of course not!’’ he exclaimed; “‘ how could I? The will, is securely sealed up, and is not to be Ri, ane except in the presence of certain parties whom he names in connection with myself. 1 wrote as much to Richard.” I saw Livingstone’s “little game’ now. He had determined to get this will into his possession; to do that he must use foul means. Little did the gray-haired “savant ’ dream that he had journeyed through the wilds of India, and es- caped the jaws of the wild beasts, the silken noose and knife of the ‘‘Thug”’ assassin, to encounter here, in his own native land, the most terrible danger that he had ever met. “Will the gia ae you speak of meet you at the depot?” I asked. So he said in his letter,” he replied. “Isent him a pag oe ah of my personal appearance; he will a “eg ely to mistake me,” he added, with a augh, The past was all clear to me now; when Richard Livingstone showed me the draft of his father's will, | he did not believe the wili itself was in existence, and no wonder, for his father had been dead a year, one had come forward with the will. All this in Buffalo, while the letter qvorising the of the fact was waiting in Calcutta for turn from his expedition. Strange are the ways of fate, and I surely must be a favored son of fortune. Here had I accidentally fallen in with the very man whom, to serve Livingstone’s purpose, fate should have kept out of my way. Yet here we were, i side by Boe and he had told me the very thing I ought to know. Fortune, too, had favored the old “savant,” for he was going to meet a terrible danger—one all the more terrible because it was not looked for, and came at the hands of a supposed friend; but he had Joe and I to watch over him; for I had resolved not to lose sight of him, if I could help it. In thinking the matter over I came to the conclusion that Liv- ingstone would not take him to his own house, for it was his policy not to excite the old man’s suspicions but to appear anxious to have the will produced. it the “savant ’’ was robbed of the will in the house of Richard, why, the old fellow would naturally think that there ‘was something wrong, but if he lost the will before reaching the house, he could not im- plicate Richard in the transaction. Livingstone’s ame, then, was to send him to a hotel, and then ave some shrewd fellow “go through him.” I would have liked to have given the “savant” a EEE eT eT RR ter a myself upon the favorable look that. hings wore. In the first place, I had the “sinews a sudden thought struck me—was I particularly anxious to have this will pro- duced? Yes; for if the will was destroyed, Salome could only claim one-third of the estate, while Rich- ard and Olive would take the other two-thirds. No! what the deuce was I thinking of? Richard and Olive were | oth illegitimate children. Their mother’s mar- riage was not legal, for Anson Livingstone’s first wife was then living. Therefore they could claim ncthing if the will was destroyed, and Salome would take all. Clearly, then, it was for my interest that the will should be destroyed, for that would make Richard Livingstone a beggar. On we went, in the darkness of the night. After a little more conversation, none of which has any bearing on my story, the bh omy “savant”? went to sleep. I endeavored follow his pees but for a long while was unsuccessful. A cert: face, fringed with hair of tawny beauty, and lit by steel- blue orbs, was ever and anon dancing before my eyes. Strange how the two pasecta, love and hate, were ruling my nature. If I did not think of poor Pat’s death, and vengeance Big the assassin, Liv- ingstone, then I thought of Nell, the Orange Girl, and love. Is there nothing in this life but love? Is this the beginning and the end of all? Yes, it is; life is. love, and love is life! Finally, my eyes closed in sleep, but, even in my dreams, the fair round face, with its pure, innocent smile, was always present. We reached Albany_about six in the morning. During the stop there, I had a few minutes’ conver- sation with Joe, and told him all I had discovered. For the better carrying out of my plans, I suggested that, in the depot in New York, we should appear as strangers to each other, but for him to keep a nar- wow watch upon my movements, and when the time for other on came, I would advise him. Ray CHAPTER XVI. A DOUBLE-BANKING OPERATION. ; THE train on the Hudson River Railroad bearing the savant, William Vanderwilt—so he was called— Joe Sparks and myself, arrived in New York city a few minutes before one o’clock. It was a pleasant day, the sun beaming down warmly, although the air was rather chilly. Mr. Vanderwilt and myself,. after the train had stopped in the depot, left the car.. Hardly had bbe n,« upon the platform, before a Poune, stoutly-built fellow, dressed in a plain suit of lack, came up to Mr. Vanderwilt, and, speaking quite politely, said: “Isn't this Mr. Vanderwilt, of Buffalo?” “Yes, sir,” said the savant, in reply. “Ah, I thought I could not be mistaken, by the: description,” said the st r. ‘Allow me to in- troduce myself; my name is Everett Clark. I have the honor to be Mr. Livingstone’s secre ‘= Mir, deny. Livingstone has been called out of town su on important business, and requested me to mee you at the depot.” I‘‘tumbled”’ to this “little game” at once, as a detective might say. This was Livingstone’s first move. He did not intend to see Vanderwilt until the said Vanderwilt had been relieved of the important document, the will of his father, Anson, which the gray-haired guest carried in his breast-pocket. I Soccer the movement that this “secre 7 SNL, verett Clark, was to carry out. His business was. to relieve Mr, Vanderwilt of the srecious will, with-. out. exciting his suspicions. This Mr. Clark was probably some shrewd “confidence operator,” one of those gentlemen who have a “ check to cash,” but the bank has just been closed; ‘‘ would Mr. Green- horn, who has just arrived from the country, lend him a hundred, or two or three hundred, according to the amount of money said Greenhorn happens to have about him, and take the check for security?” Tn nine cases out of ten, Mr. Greenhorn is only too eh to oblige such a perfect gentleman as Mr. — Y ammon, Esq., the gentleman with the check Mr. Greenhorn lends his city friend all the loose cash he has about him, takes the check, and then Mr. Oily Gammon suddenly remembers that he has an appvintment with Peter Cooper, Horace Greeley, Mayor Hall, or some other noted individual, and hurries away, promising, however, to return in an hour or so and redeem the check. Mr. Greenhorn waits pati ntly ; the time expires; the gentleman from the rural “ deestricks ” begins to feel anxious at the non-appearance of his agreeable friend; a pe- culiar sensation creeps over him; a slight suspicion that Bempape al is not right; but, then, he looks at the bank-check in his hand: * drawn on the First National Bank. Thai makes him safe anyway, but, as a matter of precaution, he will go to the bank and inquire. He does so, and is some- what astonished on receiving information that the valuable check is worth simply what it will fetch as waste paper. Mr. Greenhorn departs for the rural * deestricks, ’ by the first conveyance, a sadder but a wiser man; or, perhaps he. is of a combative na- ture, and rushes at once to the nearest police station to have the infernal scoundrel arrested; the polite clerk in attendance at the station listens to his woe- ful story, and takes a description of the rogue, which is always particularly indefinite. Mr. Greenhorn now feels satisfied; justice is on the track; he will sit down and wait until the blue-coated Metropolitans vei to bearer $500.00," =, r 7 34 + i co ele
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bring in the rascal. The gentlemen from the rural districts always have an immense idea of the power of the ed police; but, the obliging clerk informs him that the police stations are not hotels, and that not only hours but days may elapse before the rogue is caught, and he will take Mr. Greenhorn’s address and notify him when his presence is desired to make his charge. Mr. Greenhorn departs, fully satisfied that at last he will have justice. As he goes through the door, the polite clerk puts his tongue in his cheek in quite a significant manner and exclaims: ‘Walker!’ The stout policeman on duty returns the peculiar smile and says, briefly, ‘‘ Not much!” All of which are supposed to refer to the improba- bility of Mr. Confidence Operator ever being caught. This is no fancy case that I have been stating, but one that occurs in all our pes! cities nearly every day. Once ina while it gets into the police column of the epi) 5 ei but, nearly always, the sufferer, conscious of his own stupidity in being swindled in such an easy manner, holds his tongue and says nothing about it. | ' This Mr. Clark, from the peculiar, restless look of his light-blue eyes, and the extreme soberness of his “‘get-up ’’—that is, his dress and general appearance —I set down at once as belonging to that class of people who are said to get their living by their wits —or, in other words, those who prey upon the ree sness of their fellow-beings by cunning, not by orce. . I knew very well that, two months ago, Living- stone had no secretary, and, as he had no particular business cares to attend to, it was not likely that he had one now. As the police would say, it was a *plant;’? so I looked around cose for Mr. Clark’s confederates. I was not long in discovering them. Three men stood in a little group on the plat- form—three fine specimens of that peculiar class that flourish only in cities, and are known by the general term of “rough ’’—individuals. generally very well known to the police. They were stoutly- built fellows, with hair cut short to what my friend Joe would call a “fighting-crop;’’ black, bristling mustaches, red faces and small, evil-looking eyes. These fellows were standing near the doorway, watching Mr, Everett Clark and my friend, the sa- vant, very intently. I had an idea, now, what their “little game” was. As Vanderwilt passed through the door they would probably block up the entrance. and, in the little confusion thus occasioned, would pick his pockets; but I had little fear of their getting the will, because he had told me that it was in the breast-pocket of his body-coat, and he had his over- coat tightly buttoned pe Besides, Joe and I would be near at hand, and I didn’t intend to let them pro- ceed in their prrensions uninterrupted. But I thought to myself: I must warn Joe, somehow, and ut him on his guard, because I had a fancy that oe’s powerful arm—the terrible “left-duke ” of the _ pugilistic “Spider ’’—would soon be brought into service. Joe, for a little man, was the most terrible left-handed hitter that I had ever seen. Of course all these rates ssed through m mind in avery few minutes. inutes? Seconds should say, for they occurred while Mr. Vanderwilt replied to the secretary’s speech. ‘When does Mr. Livingstone return?” “To-morrow, sir, I expect him back. It was quite urgent business that took him away, and he desired me to say to you that he was extremely sorry that he could not meet you as agreed upon.’ “Oh! business is business, sir, course. I know that, although I'm not a business man,”’ replied the savant, 4 oa yee I spEeone we might as well go at once to a hotel. 1am obliged to take you to a hotel, Mr. Van- derwilt, because, at present, there are repairs being put upon Mr. Livingstone’s house, and all the fami are out of town.” The “secretary ”’ delivered t in such a nice, easy manner that I was quite charm- ed with his power of conversation and the easy facility with which he lied. It was truly a capital excuse to prevent Vanderwilt from going to Rich- ard’s house. At a hotel, he would ke completely at the mercy of the ‘‘ secretary.” “Ah! lam sorry for that, for I should have liked to have seen Miss Olive,” said Vanderwilt. “Oh! she will return, sir, before you go away. I heard her speak of that particularly. e@ repairs in fact are all done, and they will have the house in order in a day or two; so that you will only have to stop at the hotel a very short time. By the way, is there any particular hotel that you prefer goi _ My admiration for Mr. Everett was increased con- siderably by this adroit-put speech. I knew very well that ‘“‘ Mr. Secretary * had already arranged in his own mind as to what hotel my friend, the sa- vant, should go, and had even cpap picked out the room for his victim—the one most convenient or his purpose. ? = No,” auld ‘Vanderwilt; ‘I have no particular preference; one is as good as another for me.” ‘ “Well, I had an idea that, perhaps, you hadn’t any decided liking, and so I spoke about a room for you at my place, the Metropolitan Hotel. They had avery nice one right next to mine, so I engaged it, as Mr. Livingstone left particular orders that no- thing, should be left undone to make you comfort- able. . The smooth manners of the tricky agent of Liv- ingstone Isaw had made wie a favorable impres- sion upon Vanderwilt; in fact, I must own that the fellow was smart, and if I hadn’t been on my guard, he possibly would have deceived me; but I look- ed Pebind the curtain of deceit, and knew something of the wires that made the pu — dance, * “T am really much. obliged. Mr. Livingstone, replied Vanderwilt; ‘“‘I.am much obliged to him for hhis kindness.” **Oh! don’t mention it, sir,” cried Mr. Everett, » \ 9), ORPHAN NE | | | | oF to a ears LL, THE O sewttont oan Sonar cand quickly. ‘‘Asafriend of his father, of course, sir, he must feel a high degree of respect for you.’’ It was evident that the ‘‘agent’’ was well posted in the premises, as a lawyer would say. Richard had chosen his man carefully. The Metropolitan Hotel, too—one of the leading hotels of New York city; nothing in that to excite the suspicions of the stranger. what feet ny chances to play their ‘‘ little game”’ and rob Vanderwilt of the precious will, provided they could not pick his pocket and relieve him of it beforehand! ecidedly, the whole scheme was hie: the clear head of Richard. He was a man to) took the road that leads to the State’s Prison. Fig you any baggage, sir?” asked the ‘‘sec- retary.” “Yes, a carpet-bag, only; here is the check.” “Tf you will 7 permit, I'll get it for you and we can take an omnibus right down-town; I detest these close carriages,” said Everett. And in one of the large New York hotels, | enius, beyond all question, although his genius | ‘“Who’re you pushin’!’”? sung out Joe, to “rough No. J,” giving him a shove in the breast that forced him half-way through the door space—I, at the same time, being between Vanderwilt and the two _ roughs in the rear, thus preventing them from oper: | “Certainly; I shall be much obliged,’’ replied the savant; and away went the secretary with check. Here was another chance for them; if they couldn’t pick his pocket_in the depot, why they might in the omnibus. I could not but admire the carefully-arranged details of the pm particularly as Joe and I could upset it all; but I saw I must find a chance to speak to Joe, and warn him. “Quite an agreeable fellow, this Mr. Clark, don’t you think so?” said Vanderwilt. ‘Yes, quite so.”’ Then a thought occurred to me, and I turned round and pretended to see Joe for the first time; he was standing on the platform a short distance from us. ‘‘ Why, Mr. Sparks!’’ I cried, ‘how are you?” and rushed over to him and took him by the hand warmly. “How do you do?” exclaimed Joe, understanding the littie movement at once, and taking me by the |; hand as though I was an old friend that he hadn't seen for years. ** Joe,’ said I, sinking my voice down low, “ have you noticed these three fellows standing over there together and watching Vanderwilt?” Sy hat—those three ‘ roughs?” . Yes.” “Wal, [have. What of ’em?” ‘““They’ll probably try the jam through the doorway, and pick Vanderwilt’s pocket. Now, I'l take you over and introduce you to Van- derwilt, and just as we get to the door you slip ahead of him and go through first, and if there’s any difficulty why hit out strong—” “You bet!” was Joe’s emphatic response. ‘Ef they give me any of their slack, I'll climb on their eyebrows lively.” “ All ot keep yom. eyes open,’’ I replied; then I took him over to Vanderwilt and introduce him to the savant, as Mr. Sparks from Nebraska. Just then the secretary, Mr. Clark, returned with the savant’s carpet bag. “Tve gut it, sir,’ said he. ‘IT suppose we might as well go now,” and ther. he glanced suspiciously at Joe and myself. Before I had stood behind Van- derwilt, and he hadn’t noticed me. “By the way, Mr. James,” said Vanderwilt, turn- ing to me, ‘‘are you going to any hotel? If you are, w ny. not come to the oy ogo with me?” ow, this was exactly what I wanted; in fact, I was just trying to think of some excuse to “wring in ’’ on the party, and now, here was the opportunity offered! Of course I jumped at the chance. [ “T guess I will go to the Metropolitan,” I said. Mr. Everett looked ted; this was an addition to his party that he had not counted upon. “Mr. James, Mr. Clark,’ said Vanderwilt, intro- ducing. I, of course, immediately expressed my pleasure, which I could plainly see was not recipro- cated on Mr. Clark’s . Then I introduced Joe. It was hard work for Mr. Everett Clark to look pleased. In his heart, I’ve no doubt, he wished us all to the devil. But, there was no help for him. Here we were all together, and to separate us would be difficult. I saw that he was thinking over his ae of action. I had an idea that he was not going try the pickpocket business, as I noticed that his eyes wandered irresolutely over to where his con- federates stood. They were, doubtless, rem for some signal from him. Suddenly he seemed to have decided, for he raised his left hand and stroked his chin carelessly. This was, evidently, the signal they had been expecting, for they walked quickly over to the doorway, nearest to us. They did not pass through the doorway, however, but stood on the inside. I saw that the movement was to be attempt- ed, so I winked a warning at Joe, but his quick eye had also seen the movement of the “ roughs,’’ and I noticed that he quietly ness for the attack. “T suppose we may as well go,” repeated Mr. Everett. ‘ . “Oertainly,” said Vanderwilt; and we started in the following order: first came the “secretary,” carrying the carpet-bag; then Mr. Vanderwilt; then Joe, and then myself. i Just as we got to the doorway, Clark quickened his pace and sed through, leaving a space be- tween him and Vanderwilt that “rough No. 1” in- stantly stepped forward and occupied. two roughs attempted to push in between Vander- wilt and Joe, but were roughly shoved back by Joe, who in the little confusion that this occasioned, changed positions and took Vanderwilt’s , 80 that when “rough No, 1” in the doorway urned round suddenly and vant! gpd heim 4 by this movement to jam Vanderwilt up against the other two roughs in the rear, so that in the confu- sion they could ‘‘go through” his pockets; he en- eo Joe, who carried his arms well up, ready or a blow. + ame as we £0 | osed his left hand in readi- | The other | the | | making a dash at Joe. ating upon his pockets. “What did yer do that fur?’ demanded “ rough Nowa? turning upon Joe with an oath. ‘Fun, fun!” responded Joe, coolly, still keeping hands up ready for a Ee ag ‘ ‘“Fun!—you!”’ cried the rough, making a sudden pass at Joe’s head, which would probably have seriously damaged my friend’s nose, but for his uick right arm, that threw the blow off to one side. then with a suddenness that can only be ese tog to the jump of a cat, he drew back his terrible left arm, and, with the whole weight of his muscular _ vi, body, delivered a terrible blow that took the rough ~ square on the chin, lifted him off his feet, and | knocked him clean through the doorway down the steps onto the hard sidewalk. Joe followed his fallen foe, and we all passed py fe the Coorway. * Double-bank him !—him!”’ cried ‘rough No. 2,” “ Double-bank,” in sporting parlance, is to take an unfair advantage, two or more on one. But Joe was not easily double-banked, | especially when I took a hand in, as I speedily did, | / knocking one of the ruffians into the gutter with a swinging hit under the ear. A crowd assembled speedily; the cry a el was raised, The two roughs that were able took to their heels; the first who was still insensible was captured by the Metro- politans, while Joe, the savant and myself, got off unnoticed in the crowd. I never saw a man look so thoroughly disgusted as Clark did at the failure of plan No. 1. CHAPTER XVI. THE MASQUERADE BALL AT THE ACADEMY. “You settled that fellow speedily,” said Vander- wilt, in admiration of the scientific manner in which ; my friend, Joe the *‘ Spider,” had disposed of the rough, *“You bet!’’ said Joe, emphatically; ‘‘ we handle some very rough customers out in the mines, some- times, an’a man’s got to know how to hit out, to travel fur in the diggin’s.”’ Clark, the “secretary,” the wily agent of Living- stone, looked crestfallen at the failure of the first attack, and uttered never a word as we made our way to the omnibus. As we rode down-town, I could see that Clark was busy thinking—probably revolving over in his mind what scheme to try next to gain possession of the precious will that the savant, Vanderwilt, carried on his person. I watched him closely, and soon I saw that his brow, clouded over with the shades of depression, black as night, began to grow lighter; then a faint smile appeared around the corners of his thin, treacherous-looking lips. He had con- ceived a scheme to suit him. I must be on my guard, then, to defeat him. I had until twelve o'clock of tue next day to myself, for at twelve on the morrowl was to be at the post-office to meet Nell, the girl of my heart. I had but litile doubt that she would get the letter I had written to her from Buffalo, and keep the appointment Ihad made. Now, my object was to keep close to Vanderwilt, and thus prevent this ‘‘ Mr. rk” or his confeder- ates from robbing him. Of course Clark had no suspicion that either Joe or myself knew his ‘little game *’—how should he? Both Joe and I were strangers to him; he could not possibly guess, for a single moment, that we knew the mission on which he had been dispatched by Richard Livingstone, or that we were determined to prevent him from accomplishing that mission. In this I had the advantage. He thought his object was unknown, whereas I knew it as well as he did. The row in the depot, in which Joe polished off his confederates so handsomely, looked only as the re- sult of accident. He, of course, could not think that it was a well-laid plan on the part of Joe and myself to prevent his associates from robbing the savant. But now the question was, what little dodge would he try next, since his first scheme had failed? We reached the hotel, registered our names, and then went in to dinner. Dinner over, our rooms were allotted to us. Clark, of course, had his already, and one picked out and saved for Vanderwilt; then we ascended in the “ ele- vator ’’—the convenient machine that saves going up-stairs—to the third story. Luckily for my p ns, we were al] located on the same story. As 1 had suspected, Clark had picked out the room next to his own for Vanderwilt, and a door led from one in- to the other—a nice little arrangement for Mr. ‘‘ Sec- retary,” truly. a4 After we had examined our rooms, Clark sent for | a bottle of champagne, and extended a cordial invi- tation for us to join him in a social glass in his room. Of course we accepted. The wine brought, we fell the current topics of the day. “By the way,’ said the savant, “what do these flaming hand-bills of the ‘Wickedest Man in New York’ mean, that I see about the streets?” “They have reference to John Allen, who keeps a sailors’ dance-house, in Water street,” replied Clark. “ Weil, is the man really so bad?” _ “No,” responded Clark; “there are twenty others just as bad as he. It’s all a money-making scheme. A monthly magazine wants to get up a sensation— something to make it sell. To this end it is neces- sary to get everybody to talk about it. Some pub- lishers achieve that by large pet Poets wer- t , but that costs a great deal of money. The ee study of all good business men in this world is have their business advertised without costing them anything. That was the idea of the publisher to discussing that and ve 47503 : 7 ' ee eo r a oe. ae ee , ree x rr a ge LS a ee a ~ ’ ee. ee ee eee eee 4 y ~ ~ q
Page 18
: 18 I ms of. He employed an able writer—one of that class of writers called sensational—to write up some subject which would instantly attract the pub- lic’s attention, and also be mentioned gratuitously by every journal in the country. Who selected the subject, this John Allen—whether it was publisher or author—I, of course, don’t know; but the article, headed the ‘ Wickedest Man,’ was a decided success. Nearly every dail pape. in the country copied por- tions of the article. The resuit was that it rushed the sale of the magazine up enormously; to use the popular expression, it went like ‘hot cakes,” and ohn Allen, the keeper of a common sailors’ dance- ~ house in Water street—a place neither better nor worse thana dozen others of the same class—became notorious. Everybody was talking about the _ *Wickedest Man in New York;’ hundreds rushed ~ down to see the dance-house and the ‘soiled doves,’ its inmates, who decoyed and fleeced poor ‘Jack.’ Of course Allen, the keeper, liked it at first, because it brought custom to his den; for it is a den, though from the illustrations and descriptions in some 0 the weekly papers, one would be py? to imagine it a palace. en this man pretended a sort of half- Riet , a8 though a man could serve Heaven and the evilat the same time, and thus the case stands. His place was filled to overflowing gf night, and quite a number used to go therein the daytime, but Allen, just now, is beginning to grumble because, he says, the prayer-meetings don’t pay; so he has put back the girls and the liquor, and entices poor sailors, just the same as before. By the way, we'll go down there some night, if you like, an|l you can see for : yourself,” “T should be pleased to go,” replied Vanderwilt. This little gin ge a by Mr. Clark, of the Water street den, rather increased my opinion of his clever- ness. He wasa man of brain, though working for F evil, not for good. I felt that I needed al “my shrewdness, or he would beat me in the game we were playing. ‘““By-the-by, Mr. Vanderwilt,” said Clark, “did ope dy wd | ‘Ci you ever go to a masquerade ball?” : % No,”* replied the savant; ‘‘I have never attend- _ ed one. “The Arion Society give a grand masquerade to- night at the Academy of Music. We have nothing else to do; suppose we go?” said Clark. “T think it’s a good idea, What do you say, gen- tlemen?”’ said Vanderwilt. : Both Joe and I signified an assent to the proposi- Torr on, “T had better go, then, and make arrangements for costumes,” said Clark. like, Mr, Vanderwilt?’’» ‘Well, I haven't the slightest idea. What do you think, Mr. James?” asked the savant. . ‘“*T think a monk’s dress—a plain domino, because K it’s no trouble, and you can put it on over your own citizen’s dress and save changing,” I said. “That is a capital idea!’’ said Vanderwilt. ‘ ‘Shall I get your dominos for you, gentlemen? I can as well as not!’’ added Clark. I thanked him kindly for, the offer, but declined. I knew at once that this visit to to the,masquerade concealed some trap, and I did not choose that he should select two conspicuous dominos for Joe and J myself, as I knew he would, thus to be able to mark i us for his confederates. I had resolved to wear P plain black. I felt sure that twenty others there would be dressed the same, and in the crowd it would be hard work to tell one black domino from another, After a little more conversation, Clark and I start- ed to walk down the street to get our tickets and dresses. I left Joe with Vanderwilt, with strict in- structions to keep his eyes open during my absence. ldid not fear, however, that Clark and his confed- erates would attempt ponte ay before night. I felt assured the next plan would be developed at the } masquerade; what it would be, however, I could not Fi : guess as yet, but Ifelt I must trust to my wits to err ‘eat it when they began to put it in operation. wk and I walked down Broadway as far as the A corner of Broome street. There we parted; he 7 went up Broome street, to visit a costumer, and I re- mained on the corner a few minntes to make sure that he would not return to spy upon my footsteps. ' Then I crossed over to the other side of the strect, i went up-stairs, and knocked at the door of the office of my friend, John Peters, the Detective. Peters P oe the doorin person. He knew me in an in- stan _ ‘You're just the man I wanted to see!’’ he cried, as he grasped me warmly by the hand and drew me inside the door. : ‘* Well, I’m glad of that,” I answered. ‘“Teouldn’t very well write to you, because you told me in your letter, from Denver City, that you were going up the mountains, so I was waiting to hear from you again.” “What is it—any good news?” I asked. “Oh! not much; only this.’”’ He went to the little desk in the office, and from one of the pigeon-holes took out a large yellow envelope. From this envel- ope he took a folded paper, opened it, and at the bottom of the paper showed me tho seal of the State of New York, and the clerkly signature of the Gov- ernor. It was my pardon! I tell you, my heart gave a great leap when my eyes took in the contents of that little sheet of Lo ag It was life and liberty to me. Now, once again, I could walk the streets of my native city, without having the dismal fear that a blue-coated Metropoli- tan, or a bird of prey in the shape of a private detec- tive, would be tapping me on the shoulder with the polite but significant intimation—‘‘I want you!” Wa y I wrung Peters’s hands in my joy. “Thank you, John,” I cried. fide Kk yo “Tcan never repay ‘service, a ox ie 6 a. 4 ade? Stine _ ip EAN NEL 3 “What dress would you, ' off at once. “Yes, you can; if not to me, to some one else,”’ he replied. ‘It may be in your power one of these days to help a fellow-creature; by helping him you repay the service I have done you; that’s the way I look at it. We were all put in this world to aid one another; that’s my doc rine.” “And a good, sound one it is, too; but, tell me, how did you contrive to procure this pardon?”’ “Oh! it was simple enough. I am very well ac- quainted with a prominent politician who wields great influence in the politics of the State, and through him the work was done.” Again I thanked him, and then I proceeded to tell | him what had occurred during my absence. Peters listened to my story with attention. He | was particularly pleased when I told him how I be- came heir to the gold left by ‘‘ English Bob,” and of my discovery of all the proofs needed to give Sa- lome Livingstone the fortune now held and enjoyed by the half-brother, Richard. I also told him of the 1 ‘““secretary,’’? Mr. Clark, who had met Vanderwilt and myself at the depot; of my conviction that he intended to rob Vanderwilt of the precious will at the masquerade ball at the Academy of Music that was to take place that evening. Peters thought for a moment. ‘I tell you what it is,’ he said; ‘I haven’t any thing particular to do just now. Suppose. I take a hand in this ‘little game.’”’ “The very favor I would have asked!” I cried. “ All right; I’m your man! Hank and I—Hank Henry, my partner, you know—will be on hand at this masquerade ball to-night. I don’t agree with you in one thing, though; I don’t think t oa try the dodge there, because, if he carries this will in a breast-pocket, it will be difficult fer them to get at it. Their plan will probably be, to get him away somewhere to take some supper, or something of that sort, and then ‘fix’ him. You see, the reason for going to the masquerade is, that in the crowd paey oe easily separate him from you and your riend,’ I could not help saying that this appeared to me to. be reasonable. ‘*] think so,” he replied. ‘‘ Now, Hank and I will watch outside, so that, if they do separate him from you, and try torun him off to some other eo why we'll be down on them, sharp as needles. at do you think of my pent ‘Tt is excellent,”’ I replied. , “T think it will hold water, as the English say,’’ he said, quietly. “And the moment we settle this will business, I | shall bring suit against Livingstone to force him to vacate the pro: erty.” ‘“That’s your game!” cried Peters, emphatically. ‘““T think you stand a chance to win, now.” SL hope so,’’ I replied. “You'll start for the Academy about nine o’clock, | won't you?” he asked, bir YOR _“‘ Very well; Hank and I will be on guard there at nine precisely.” So, with a parting grasp of the hand, I left Peters’s office. I went instantly to a costumer’s on Broome street, and got a con of black dominos for Joe and myself, then bought a couple of tickets for the masquerade, So far, allhad gone well. Could I but foil Richard’s lans to gain possession of the will, and manage to ve it destroyed, I would ask for nothing better. To-morrow, too, I should meet Nell, the blue-eyed witch, whose sweet face haunted my slumbers— Nell, who was to be the angel of my life. CHAPTER XVIII. MR, CLARK’S ‘‘ LITTLE GAME.” I RETURNED at once to the hotel. I found that Clark had already got back and was seated in the office talking with Vanderwilt and Joe. es i you get your dominos, Mr. James?’ he e€ ‘Yes, I have them.” “Did you think to get any masks?” “No, I didn’t.” ‘Oh! we must have some masks by all means,” eried Vanderwilt; ‘‘we must be disguised for a masquerade, or else there wouldn’t be any fun.” ‘+ t’s so,’’ chimed in Joe. ‘Suppose, Mr. James,” said Clark, ‘‘ that we take a walk up Broadway and get some masks. We have plenty of time before supper.” ‘Certainly,’ I replied; ‘I’m agreeable; let’s be So Po armen Mr. Clark and I started. I no- ticed t, as we walked up the street, Clark kept his eyes on ahead; as though he was oe for | some one. I kept close watch upon him. I was playing a difficult game, and it was necessary that I should see all the moves Rae ae to it. Just as we crossed over Bleecker street, I noticed that his eyes brightened. He had evidently seen what he had been loo for. Of course I was careful not to let him see that I was noticing him. I looked on ahead at the throng coming down the street, to see who it was that Clark had been ex- peoting to meet, for I felt sure, from his movement, hat he had been expecting tomeet someone. I soon saw who it was. It was a woman—a woman dressed in the hight of fashion; a short dress, little hat, dainty boots, pale green kid gloves, matchin the underskirt of silk, peculiarly arranged head- dress, with the long, loose tress of perfumed hair floating down over the shoulder. All was charming. She was pretty, too. A little below the medium hight, with a well-proportioned form—that is, to the eye well. proportioned; I believe our fashionable ladies sometimes owe something of their exquisite figures to the skill of their dressmakers and to a certain Southern pliant, the product of which, | * THE ORANGE | evident | friend Clark had missed GIRL. before the war, was dignified by the title of ‘‘ King.” Be thatas it may, I will not attempt to discover or reveal the secrets of the feminine toilet, content to take them as they are, angels—when they are not— the opposite. The woman advancing—I use the : good, cld term, woman, as being preterable to the modern shabby-genteel appellation, lady—was fair to look upon. er face was oval; the features regular; the eyes and hair dark brown, and but for certain indescribable lines about the eyes and mouth, she could have been called beautiful. But, those lines told of evil passions, swaying the inner nature—passions not controlled, but allowed to have their free sway; of nights sent in dissipation: of deep draughts of the liquid fire that steals the brains away. On she came, with her dainty tread, exciting gen- eral notice. As she passed, men turned round to look after her. I saw that, at quite a distance, she had noticed Clark, although as yet she had not manifested any sign of recognition, but, just as she passed, she yop to see him for the first time, and bowed. ark instantly returned the salutation. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said, hastily,, ‘* while 1 speak to that lady.” ; ‘Certainly,’ I answered. Clark halted, turned round and hastened after the feminine. In afew steps he caught up with her, for she had slackened her pace after passing us. Then they both stopped and held apparently quite an interesting conversation. Inoticed that the woman, ever and anon, turned her face my way and indulged herself with a good, long glance at me. Had T been avain man, I might have thought that the “fair lady” had taken quite a fancy to ope * humble servant ;” but, not being a vain man, I merely asked myself what “little game” they were going to try now, for, in my own mind, I felt sure that this superbly-dressed feminine was only another one of Clark’s confederates. He had tried force and failed; now he was probably going to try what cunnihg would do; in fact, put in force the shrewd maxim of the crafty Greek, ‘‘when the lion’s skin falls short, eke it out with the fox’s,”’ But, in this. case, forewarned was to be forearmed, and I had little fear but that I could check all Mr. Clark’s moves. Clark talked with the fair stranger, perhaps ten minutes, and then, with a polite bow, he left her and joined me. As he came up, I happened to glance across the street, and there, on the opposite curb-stone, sucking a quill tooth-pick, and swinging a light cane, in a particularly careless manner, stood my friend, John Peters, the detective. He had been a witness to the interview be- tween Clark and the unknown female. I fancied just then that if Clark knew the parties he had to contend with, he would have given up his “little. game’’ in sheer disgust. But, we little know in this world what is in store forus. We walk blindly on in our life-path, perhaps happily, ignorant of the future. “Did you notice the lady?” asked Clark, after he oh joined me, and we had again resumed our walk. ““Yes,’’ I answered. “Pretty, isn’t she?” “Yes, quite pretty.” “She’s the caughter of one of the richest mer- chants in New York; one of the old families, too— none of your modern codfish or coal-oil stock.” “ Ah, indeed!” I remarked. I knew well enough ee he lied, but I was curious to know what he was. er. “Yes, she’s a nice girl, too, not a bit stuck up. She’s got plenty of money and she knows how to use it. She drives as handsome a pair of horses as ever trotted through Central Park. I tell you she cuts an awful ‘ swath,’ as they say, on Saturday af- ternoon at the Park. Ihave known her ever since we were children and went to school together.” ““Ah! indeed?’ 1! knew he was lying again, but I waited patiently for him to unmask the battery, which I felt certain he was bringing to bear on me, “Yes, we're gid Ta aay a see, though I’m poor and she’s rich; but, as I said before, there’s no pride about her. She moves in the best society in New York, but she’s just as friendly with me as though I was worth a million. In fact, she’s a dev- ilish nice girl, as good-natured as she’s pretty. the way, I’d almost forgot to mention it: she’s going to the masquerade to-night.” ‘“ What, to the Academy?” Yes, just where we are going,” he answered. The murder was out now. I knew what the next move was going to be. " * And, speaking of that,’ he continued; “do you know tbat you made quite an impression upon her?” “Did 1?” It was the old game over again, but my is mark. was not a “flat” or a “‘greenhorn” to be twisted round the finger of even a pretty woman. i “Yes, you did, upon my honor,” he replied. ‘‘ She’ wanted to know particularly who my friend was, 1, of course, put in a good word for you, and she look-. ed quite pleased when she learne:i from me that you’ were going to the masquerade to-night, and she made me promise to introduce you to her,” ‘Did she?” cried I, with an innocent smile of de- light. “Oh, yes! she did!” exclaimed Clark, swallowing the bait I had offered him, and I Sune laughing in his sleeve at the ae manner in which he was go- ing tohumbug me. “I tell you, you’re a lucky fel- low, the very first day in New York, to make_a ccn- quest of about the prettiest girl in the city! Why, 1 envy you. “Do you?” Isaid this in such a simple, innocent way, how could the wily “secretary *—the shrewd, artful Mr. Clark—the gentleman up to all the dodges = ‘ Il oe ; ET ea ; : ee ee eee ee eS ee ees ee ee
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enw ioe = of the metropolitan rogues, be else but deceived? It is astonishing how blind these cunning men are sometimes. “Til introduce you to-night. She tcld me what she’s going to wear. Her dress is a scarlet domino, trimmed with white. She said she would be there about nine. Now, just you take my advice and fol- low this thing up. Go in and win.” Oh! how well this man knew the weakness of his fellow-men. With his counsel he appealed to the strongest passion that rules the will of man. I saw his object. His idea was at the masquerade to sepa- rate me from Vanderwilt by introducing me to this woman. In all probability he had some similar scheme niederht to entrap Joe. Once we were away from the savant, and lost in the crowd, why he was in their power. I saw the wisdom of /eters’s thoughts; he was right—they would not attempt to rob Vanderwilt.of the will at the Academy, but would decoy him away elsewhere. The plan was excellent, but it could not succeed. Joe, Peters and myself were too strong for him to cope with. We stepped into a store devoted to fancy goods and bou 3 four half-masks, all of them alike and al black. Then we left the store and strolled down Broadway again toward our hotel. As we entered the hotel, whom should we meet Ment on the steps but John Peters. Peters was fl sucking his quill toothpick and swinging his light cane. As we came up the steps, Peters gave Mr. Clark a searching look, but he paid no more at- tention to me thanif Thad been an utter stranger. I noticed that Clark became a shade paler as he cauzht Peters’s eyes. It was evident that he knew the detective, but of course he could have no suspi- cion that Peters was on his track. ; After supper we all satin the office—Vanderwilt Clark, Joe and myself—and smoked and talked till about nine o’clock; then we took a carriage and were driven to the Academy of Music. _ In the carriage we put on our dominos. Clark had procured black dominos for Vanderwilt and himself, so all four were dressed alike. On arriving at the Academy, we left the carriage and entered the building. There was quite a lot of people going in just then, and they formed a small crowd at the door. Thad not yet put on my mask, but held it in my hand, half concealing my face with it. Iwas the last of our party; before me was Van- derwilt; before him Joe; and, first of all, Clark. While waiting, some one gave a gentle tug at my domino. I turned my head and found Peters behind me, clad also in a black domino and mask. “Which is Clark?” ha said in a whisper. “The one in black ahead; d from me.” ‘And Vanderwilt?” “The one just ahead of me in black.” * All right,’’ he answered. ‘“Hank’s at the door, I must mark these fellows, so that he and I will ow them, there’s thirty black dominos here al- r ad ” ‘* How mark?” I asked. “Look over your right shoulder, at the back of your right sleeve.” ; I did so, and found that where he had placed his hand, he had left a small daub of white paint. With asmile, he showed me a little tin tube of white paint, such as artists use for oil-painting. “Let me ka by you so as to mark the others. Clark and Vanderwilt I will mark on the back; your friend, on the arm like yourself.” Quietly, and without exciting any one’s attention, he marked each of the th_ee before him with white nt. The crowd before us gave way, and we passed into the Academy of Music, the parquet of which had been planked over even with the stage, thus forming a splendid dancing-floor. | ; e interior was brilliant with lights. All cos- tumes of the world and of all periods floated about the waxed floor in the giddy movement of the dance. All was mirth and fun. We four stood by the doorway and gazed upon the giddy and sense-entrancing scene. We had been standing there perhaps ten minutes, when a female form, clad in a scarlet domino, trimmed with white, and leaning on the arm of a large gentleman dis- guised as a red devil, came past. The lady bowed to Olark, who had not covered his face with his mask. ‘That is Miss Preston,” said Clark to me, grasping my arm and pointing to the figure in scarlet; “‘ come with me and [ll introduce you.” oe Is es ae one who passed us on Broadway to- day ?’’ I asked. Y Yes; but, confound it, I’ve lost sight of her now in the crowd, Never mind; she'll be around again resently.”” Then Clark turned his attention to Van- verwilt, and commenced explaining to him the dif- nt costumes. rerenien,” said Peters, who had quietly kept out of sight and followed close behind me, “what did he say about that woman in scarlet?’ “He's going to introduce me presently,” I replied. “Tt’s a ‘plant,’ I think. She’s in_with this Clark. The iden ta to separate me from Vanderwilt, and I suppose he’s got something else fixed to get Joe beat 8 : ‘What did he call her?” asked Peters. | “Preston,” I answered. Then I told him of the meeting in Broadway. “You're right, it is a ‘ plant.’ ” “And who is this Clark?” I asked. ‘“He’s a ‘capper-in’ for one of the largest gam- bling-hells in town—one of those fellows that lay in wait around the hotels, rope in country merchants who come to the city to buy goods, get them out for a little spree, and finish up by going to the gambling-hell to fight the ‘ tiger‘ just a little. Of course the countryman loses his money and the | faithlessness o' | were—how that she never. ‘capper-in’ gets a percentage of what the house wins from his victims. c 2 What is best to be done; decline this introduc- ion?” ; “*Oh, no! accept it! To decline ‘ht rouse their suspicions, and our game is to let them think that every thing is going all right for them. But keep near the door, and when you hear a shrill whistle, break for the pavement instantly. Say you’re sick, any thing you like, but get away. Here she comes ‘ain.’ The scarlet domino came sailing by. Clark per- ceived her, and, darting forward, bowed and ee tety her. They stood a moment in conversation—Clark, the lady in the scarlet domino, and the man dressed as the red devil; then Clark left them and came to me. “* Now I will introduce you, if you like,” he said. “‘T shall be delighted,” I replied. So Clark took me out and introduced the lady in the scarlet domino to me as Miss Preston. I bowed in acknowledgment. She asked the red devil to ex- cuse her; his Satanic majesty said, ‘‘ Certainly.” I took Miss Preston’s arm, and we commenced prom- enading up and down the ball-room—lI of course tim- ing our walk so as to keep within easy distance of the door. After a short conversation of about a quarter of an hour, I came to the conclusion that Miss Jen- nie Preston was about as near a fool as she could ossibly be without being one. It did not take me ong to find out what her motive was for playin this “little game.”’ Clark had told her that Tha ba returned from the gold-mines and was absolute- y rolling in wealth. I gathered this from her con- versation. She tried the course usually adopted in these cases, She spoke of the cold, heartless world —of the strong, never-dying love of woman and man—what heartless creatures we never could possibly be brought to love an wicked, cruel man, she knew she never would! - During all the conversation I had been keeping a wary eye on the three black dominos by the door, but at the end of her speech, as I turned round, the three forms had disappeared in the crswd, The time for action was coming. CHAPTER XIX. THE DANCE-HOUSE IN WATER STREET, Miss Preston and I continued our promenade for perhaps a half an hour after I had noted the disap- earance of the three black dominos. I had been tening intently for the whistle, the signal for me to leave the ball-room. As we walked up and down, I tried in vain to dis- cover my three friends, There were plenty of black dominos all around me, but none of them were marked with the white paint—the capital device that rece had adopted to enable him to know us in the crowd. While I was waiting for the time for action I amused myself by pretending to feel the deepest ad- miration for Miss Jennie, who leaned so lovingly upon my arm. But, in my heart, I compared her to the blue-eyed, golden-haired Nell, and the thought absolutely made me loathe her. Yet she was what men would call pretty. As I looked upon the crowd of gayly-dressed masqueraders before me, I noticed one, enveloped in a black domino, who seemed to be alone, and also seemed to be seeking some one. As he came nearer he turned, and I saw the white paint-spot gots the right-arm. It was Joe. By some ruse, he had been separated from Clark and Vanderwilt. I felt that it was necessary to warn him of the signal appointment by the detective, so that he could also be at hand to take part in the ap- proaching drama soon to be enacted. “Will you excuse me for a minute, Miss Preston, while I speak to a friend?” I asked. “You will come right back?” she said. It was evident her orders were not to lose sight of me. “ Certainly,’ I answered, gallantly. A few steps brought me to the black domino, “* Joe!” I said. “That’s me,” replied the Spider’s well-known voice. “Is that you? Cuss me, ef I believe I could tell my grandimother in these rags,” he muttered. “ How did you become separated from Clark and Vanderwilt?’ ““Wal—you see, we got into a big crowd, an’a durned cuss—a big, red devil—got a-hold on me, an’ afore I knew it I lost the other fellows. I kinder got riled when I looked round an’ couldn’t see ’em anywhar, an’I just told Mr. Red Devil, that had a-hold onto my arm, that ef he didn’t let go, I’d walk into his affections lively. You ought to have seen him git up and dust when I drew back to give him one.’ “Joe,” I said, “that fellow dressed as a red devil is a confederate of Clark’s; it was a ‘ put-up job’ to separate he from Vanderwilt. While the devil had Sou, Clark drew Vanderwilt off in another direction.” “Blazes it were!” cried Joe, disgusted. ‘“‘Ef I come across that devil , I'll welt rocks out o’ him.” ““Look out you don’t get into trouble with the police, because that’s just what they want. If they can get us out of the way to-night they’ll fix the Savant and the will, dead sure.” “That's so! _ Now ere talking,” responded Joe, sagely ; * what shall I do?’ Go and stand near the door. When you hear a shrill whistle, look out; that’s the signal for me to leave the ball-room, and you just stop a moment and see if any one attempts to follow me. If I am fol- lowed, get up a row in *he doorway if possible; then a me in the street; I'll wait for you a few minutes, can.” “ All right, boss, an’ ef that big red devil comes in my way, I'll give him a sockdologer he won’t git over fur a week, you can jist bet high on that.” ORPHAN NELL THE ORANGE GIRL. _ 419 Then Joe began to make his way slowly to the dvor, I again joined Miss Preston, who had not moved from the spot where I had left her. She was evidently determined not to lose sight of me. For the next quarter of an hour I devoted myself to the task of lulling her suspicions, and making her believe I was desperately in love with her. In this I succeeded admirably. Suddenly, and without previous warning, a shrill whistle sounded through the Academy. It run high above the strains of the musi¢. No one mind- ed it, though. All, of course, thought it but some masquerading freak. The time had come; I looked toward the door; I saw the black domino that cov- ered Joe’s person slowly me heey ned it. There was uite a knot of masqueraders gathered around the oor. All was favorable to my purpose; now was. the time to escape from my partner. She leaning quite heavily and lovingly upon my Suddenly releasing myself I pointed to the extr end of the room. “Isn’t that Peters, the detective?” I asked. I could see her lips tremble as she looked in the di- rection I indicated. The moment she turned her face away from me, I ran noiselessly through the crowd for the door. Just as I reached it, the fellow dressed as a red devil, who had evidently been watching me with two others—one dress as a brigand, the other as a Turk—sprung forward as if to detain me, pag probably, that I would regard this as a piece of masquerading pleasantry. But, before they could lay hands upon me, Joe, who had been watching for his particular friend, the red devil, jumped to my rescue; he hit the red devil a whack in the face which smashed his false nose and sent him reeling back into a group of ladies diss guised as flower-girls. The red devil, in endeavor- ing to save himself from falling, caught hold of them; they all eg oe hold of each other, and the consequence was that the whole party came tum- i. to the floor in a mixed heap, while the screams of the ladies pealed on the air. ‘The red devil dis- posed of, Joe turned his attention to the b d, and doubled him up in mortal agen with a blow in the stomach. Then he frapple with the Turk, and seizing him by the collar and the waist, raised him clear off his feet and slung him head-first against a couple of policemen, who had run in to suppress the disturbance, All three came to the ground together. The Turk, astonished at the attack and the sudden- ness of his downfall, and imagining that he was still rappling with his antagonist, struck out lustily and it one of he. pomeearen in the eye; he, of course, retaliated, and the consequence was a brisk little skirmish between the two policemen, the Turk, and several of the bystanders, who had first ran to sepa- rate the combatants and then joined in the melee. Under cover of this timely diversion, Joe and I made our retreat, We hastily rine ios off our dominos and masks as we bes, down the steps. On the pavement we found eters. “Jump into that hack, quick!’ he said, pointin to one that stood near the curbstone. We pinco | instantly. The moment we were in, the hack started, / : “T guess that red devil won’t fool round any more fellers in black dominos, fur some time,” muttered Joe to me, with an air of satisfaction. ‘“‘ Where are we bound, Peters?’ I asked. Allen’s dance-house in Water street,” ‘*Has Clark taken Vanderwilt there?” ‘““Yes; can’t you see the ‘little game?’ He’s gone down there to see the sights. After they've n there a little while, they’ll take Vanderwilt into a rivate room and induce him to drink something; the liquor‘ll be ite sia it will put him to sleep almost instantly, and then they'll ‘go through him * for that will.” ‘How did you learn this?” I asked. “Why, it was just as easy as falling off a log. I don’t know as you noticed it, but when you left the hack to enter the Academy, Clark told the driver to wait; that he should want him inside of an hour or sO. Hank, my partner, heard this; so he instantly told the hack-driver who he was—that he was a de- tective officer on a ‘lay,’ and that he wanted his assistance. So that, when this Clark came down with a pal of his and Vanderwilt, and gave the di- rection where to drive, the driver repeated it in quite a loud voice, so that I could hear it in the door- Bed where Iwas hid. Hank quietly got on the box with the driver, in case the tion was ‘put up’ to throw us off the scent; wherever they go, he'll go with them.” “Peters, you have worked this case up capitally!”” I exclaimed. ; “Well, things haven’t gone bad.” “Bad? They couldn’t Hd well go better.” ~ “That’s about so, I think myself. Their ‘little game’ was good, though, but as we could guess retty well what.their movements would be, we nder had the inside track,” replied the detective. rubbing his hands quietly together with an air of satisfaction. On we went, rattling over the pavements. I thought the situation all over. If I could only surprise the t the will in his rather than give it up to me, would destroy it. This was a reasonable supposi- tion, because, of course, Livingstone had not told this Clark all the particulars in om gap to this will. He had probably told him to steal it at all hazards, but had not given. express injunctions to preserve it. Livingstone’s game was to get the into his hands; then, if events were to occur to bring for- ward the claim of Salome, his half-sister, and prove that claim, why, he could produce the will and take one-half the estate, under its conditions, for himself agent of Livingstone, just as he hand, he probably “To one of the roughest places in New York—
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ale ey and his sister, Olive. But if the orphan child could not prove her right, why, he could hold the will back and enjoy the whole of the Property So it was clearly to his interest to hold the will, not to have it destroyed. But, as I said before, it was ten to one th-5 he had not explained this to his tool, Clark. So tl.> chances were that, if we could surprise Clark with the will in his possession, he would probably attc-upt to destroy it, thinkin, that, by so doing, he was carrying out the wishes of his employer. At last we arrived in Water street. Our hack stopped at a corner, three blocks from the dance- house, so as not to excite suspicion by drawing up to the door. We got out and walked up the street. At the corner just below the dance-house another hack was standing. Peters pointed it out. “That's what brought the game we are in search of,’’ he said. } Just before we reached the dance-house, Hank seppec. out from the shadow of a doorway. “How are things?” questioned Peters. “ All serene!” answered Hank, laconically. I had noticed, during my short acquaintance with this long-legged, countryfied-looking detective, that he was pe lay OF words; ‘‘ they’ve gone up-stairs to try some of Allen’s forty-rod whisky. I’ve fixed ita right with Allen; told him we were ona ‘lay;’ he’s very anxious to keep in with the police. We might as well go for ’em.’ - We acted on his suggestion at once. On entering the dance-house, we found it well filled. Dancing was going on briskly. The principal patrons of the plaice seemed to be sailors and ‘longshoremen; to- ge.er with a few better-dressed mén, who had been attracted apparently by curiosity to see the den of the ‘‘ Wickedest Man in New York,” Wo passed through the dance-house saloon, and went Hp-fae narrow staircase. At the top of the stairs, Hank, who led the way, motioned for us to walk quietly. He sae aM before a coor; the hall- way was but dimly lighted, but enough to answer ov? purpose. Hank motioned for me to look through tho key-hole of the door. Ididso. The key was in the lock, but turned so that it did not obstruct the view. The room was occupied by three men—Van- derwilt, Clark, and a stranger, in whom I recognized one of the roughs that had attacked Joe in the Hudson River Railway Depot. Vanderwilt sat by the fire-place, in which blazed a huge fire, fast asleep. I saw at once that he had | been drugged, for a bottle and glasses were on the table. ark stood over him and had just drawn the will from his pocket and held it up in triumph. “Go it!” I said to Hank. uick as thought, he applied his pincers to the end of the key that projected through the lock, turned it, and thus unlocked the door, and we en- tered. Clark and his companion started with sur- rise. The wily ‘secretary ” recognized us at once. e saw that the odds were against him, so he did the very thing I expected he would do. With a laugh of triumph he thrust the will into the fire, and in a moment it was ashes! The game now was in my hands; the will destroyed, and Salome’s claim proved, Richard Livingstone was a beggar! “We don’t want you; Bet out!” said Peters, cool- ly. Clark was astonished; he thought he had play- ed his “little game’ and won; but the destruction of the will hadn’t seemed toannoy us at all. He was ' evidently puzzled, but he took the gentle hint given by Peters and left with his companion. We took the sleeping savant, put him in our coach, _ and took him to the hotel; there we put him to bed, ¢ Aan he still econ ng. _ lL arranged the plan of action for the morrow with Peters. He was to call upon the heir, Salome, tell her of her good fortune, and bring her to Living- stone’s house, whither I was to precede her. I felt sure that when I showed Richard that I had both the heir and the proofs, he would relinquish the es- ite without a law-suit. .nd to-morrow I was to see Nell, the girl that I loved better and better every hour! ‘To-morrow would be an eventful day! ry . CHAPTER XxX. ot THE VENGEANCE OF ALEX GORDEN. a ae! Peters about eight o’clock, just after break- . This was Thursday morning. I gave him the direction relating to ten tothe savant, and we explained i ce ieeuape - to that somewhat astonished gentleman what had occurred the previous night. About nine o’clock Peters departed to visit the heiress, and at eleven I started for the post-office, | poise oe to keep Vanderwilt come T arrived at the post-vfiice about half-past eleven. I walked down-town quite slowly, although I was in a fever of impatience. At the post-office, I took up | a position at the upper corner and waited. Just as the City Hall clock struck twelve, I saw a dainty little figure, clad neatly in black, coming down Nassau street. Full well I remembered that little figure, the blue eyes and the strange-hued hair, that tho, sun tinged with its yellow sheen. I advanced and met her before she crossed the street. The meeting was commonplace enough. T held out my hanci and said, ‘‘ How doyou do?” She just pressed my offered and said, ‘‘ Very weil, thank you;” then took my arm and we walked up toward Bre.ad- way. Once on Broadway, we turned down toward the Battery. : I don’t exactly know how I said it, but, as we walked along, I managed in a ver, words to tell Nell how much Iloved her, and she, in as few words in reply, told me that the love was returned by her; but, T knew that before she had said a word, for she had told me so with her own eyes. ** Ah! Nell,” I said, ‘‘ we shall be so happy.”’ “*T hope so,”’ she replied, simply. me Zz phic ‘* What sort of a person is she?” Salome Livingstone’s abode. I | ORPHAN NELL, THE ORANGE GIRL. » “T know so,” I said, ‘‘for I love you and you love ; me. By the way. world.” Then I told her of my adventures, and how Thad suddenly acquired a fortune. ‘“ How was it, Nell?’ I asked, “ that you came to leave New York so suddenly ?”’ “TJ will tell you all about it to-morrow. I have | something, too, besides that, to tell you to-morrow; that is, I think I shall have. I’m not quite sure yet. You know you asked me once about my life, but then I had a reason for not telling you. To-morrow I think that reason will be removed, and then I can tell you all.” And so we walked and talked—talked those sweet nothings which are so pleasant to hear’ sometimes, and it was twe o’clock before we guessed it was one. ‘“Oh! how late it is!’ she cried, as I looked at my watch. “Yes, time flies quickly, sometimes.” ““T must go home, for I have promised to go out this afternoon,” she said. ‘* And when shall I see you again?” I asked. “To-night; have you a pencil and card? I'll ; ive | you my address, so that you can call upon me,” she answered. I produced the pencil and card; she wrote her address, and then consigned it to my pocket-book. ““Good-by,” she said; ‘“‘come to-night and come early. Perhaps I may have something to tell you then that may surprise you.” ‘“Good-by,”’ I answered; you may expect me the first thing after supper, and then, you mysterious little puss, you can satisfy my curiosity.” She fone ed, bid me good-by again, and then we parted. Could I have but foreseen the events of the | next few hours, I do not think we would have parted / at-all; but who can guess the future? I returned at once to the Metropolitan; there I / found Peters waiting for me, terribly impatient. ‘* Pretty fellow you are to keep a man waiting!” he cried. ‘It’s after two.” : “Never mind, we have time enough. Did you see the young lady—Miss Salome Livingstone?” ee ixactly. ‘“Well, she looks quite sopber ont look much over seventeen instead of being twenty-five.” “Pretty?” I asked. “Well, she is very pretty; she has the Livingstone family marks, as regards hair and eyes; in fact, she looks enough like Richard Si EEOnS, to be his full sister instead of being only a half-sister.” ‘* How did she receive the intelligence?” “Quite coolly, at first. It seems she made a promise to her mother, never to trouble her father, Anson Li ne, or even to let him know that she was living. She seemed to think that she ought to extend that promise to take in the son, but, when I told her of the will that her father, Anson, had made, leaving her one-half the property, and how Richard had schemed to get that will into his pos- session, and had, by his agents, destroyed it, in pipe A, ie do so, all the old Livingstone blood in her veins fired up, and she said that she would put herself fuily into our hands and be guided solely by I tell t Bie she looked just like a little queen her about the will business. She drew herself up, and said, ‘If my half-brother Richard treated me right, I would never have troubled him, only for just enough to live on; but, since he has chosen to treat me as an enemy, I will show him that I am his father’s child as well as he.’ If I hadn’t been a married man, with one of the nicest women for a wife that ever lived, she would have taken me for all I was worth.” ‘She consents, then, to put her casein our hands?” “Yes, of course. I didn’t mention any names, because if I had oes of youas an outsider, she naturally would ve wanted to know what in thunder you were hee, Ase up in the affair for. Then, if she learned that you were after .re- venge for his murderi your friend, she might not want to send her half-brother to the gallows or to the stone-jug for life. By the way,” asked the de- tective, suddenly, ages got Livingstone prett well cornered now. This heiress will strip him of a his money; then, if you bring the accusation of murder against him, without him us. when I tol powerless, and you can crush “Yes,” I answered, and | triumph was swelling in my voice; ‘‘at last 1 hold the winning hand.” — | “'DPrumps, every one on ‘em, or I’m a Dutchman!” , returned Peters. Then we arranged our plan of attack. Peters was to go te Thirtieth street and get Salome, the fand Joe, Perey ard, would precede them. ving at Richard’s stately brown-stone man- sion, I walked up the steps, followed by Joe, and rung the When the servant opened ‘the door |W 4 | “Vell Mr, Livingstone Mr. Robert James, detective stood ope officer, desires to see him on particular business,” I | said, walking into the parlor, the door of which | | | money he will be | I felt that a tone of | n. Joe followed close at my heels. The | servant a little astonished, at once went with my | | “old woman,” as he terms her, at Stamford, and | message. Within three minutes, Livingstone walked into the arlor. Icould see that he looked nervous and a ittle surprised. I rose at his entrance and took off both my hat and the light, curly wig. “Gorden!” he cried, in astonishment, and his face blanched at the sight of me. “ The same, quite at your service,’ I replied. “What do you want with me?” he exclaimed; and then, without giving me time to answer, he con- tinned his speech: ‘Do you not know that you are / an escaped felon—that a word from me to the near- — est policema. would send yeu to Sing Sing?” ’ , your | half an hour. “Well, why don’t you speak that word?’ I asked, ell, I have prospered in the , with a slight tone of menace in my voice. ; ‘““Why? Because, Alex Gorden, | have done you mischief enough already. Don’t force me in my own self-defense to strike you again. If it is to be your life or mine, Iam such a vile coward I cannot sacrifice my own life, and must fight you. But, I'll make you a fair offer. I'll give you a thousand dol- lars a year to leave-the States and live in some for- eign country. Alex, we were friends once; I am not a good man, in ies sense of the word, but I think sometimes of that old friendship, and I feel sorry that hatred ever came between us. You know now, Alex, that I have the best of the struggle, and that I make you a fair offer.” I saw that he was thoroughly in earnest; here was ; one ood trait in this man’s nature. ““You are wrong,” I replied; “‘you have not the Ihave been pardoned. Your Clark, was foiled in his attempt to secure ather’s will last night, and destroyed the will sooner than let it fall into my hands.” He started at this. ‘Tt was you, then, that baffled me there?” he eried. “Yes, it was I! That will is destroyed. If I find the heir Salome, the child of Salome Percy, who was your father’s just and only wife—for his second marriage was void, being contracted while the first wife lived—and prove her claim, it will strip you and your sister Olive of every dollar that you have, for ou are illegitimate. I have found the heiress, Sa- ome; she isin New York, and will be here within I have the proofs of the marriage of her mother and of her birth.”’ Tt was thunder all around. Livingstone sat down in a chair that stood near him, his face deadly pale, his brow streaming perspiration in large drops. It was a moment of triumph for me. At last I had won the difficult game. I held the trumps—the stakes, he himself had said it: my life against his; and I had won! The door-bell sounded. I hastened to open the door, for, as I expected, it was Peters and the heiress, best of the struggle. eat Salome. I ee ee only a glimpse of her as she —— in the hall, and followed Peters into the par- or—he Y ees me in obedience to a motion of my hand. I followed them into the parlor. ‘This is Mr. Peters,” I said, addressing Living- stone. He had risen to his feet, and the look of an- goes on his pale, handsome face was painful to be- old, but Macarthy’s spirit was by my side; his voice said, ‘Thisismy murderer. Vengeance!” “This is Miss Salome Livingstone,” said Peters, in- troducing the slight vailed figure. “ Brother,” said a low, sweet voice. I could hard- ly believe my ears, _ “Yes, lam your brother, Salome,” said Richard ina low, broken tone, “although I have not acted toward you like a brother. Forgive me, if you can; I will restore all. I can make you some recompense —but, there is cne other here, whose debt can only be satisfied by the forfeit of my life. Iam not fit to die; no man is who bears with him a record of crime, —crime that perhaps might have been atoned for.” “Perhaps I can plead for you,” said the low, sweet voice. _“ Plead to him, then,”’ said Richard, indicating me. He alike ismy accuser and my judge.” Then he again sunk back in the chair. ‘“You will have mercy, Mr. Gorden?”’ said Salome Livingstone, ee 3 me, at the same moment raising up the heavy black vail that had concealed her features, and revealing to my gaze the steel-blue eyes and yellow hair of Nell, the Orange Girl! Of course T had suspected this from the moment she had spoken, as probably the reader had. Then flashed upon me the truth. The story that Nell had told me of her life, slight as i+ was, was still the story of the heiress Salome. My name never being mentioned in the affair, cf course she had no sus- picion that I knew anything about it, This was the secret that she was to tell me on the morrow. Livingstone sat before me, the criminal, waiting for his sentence. What should it be? I had sworn to Macarthy to avenge his death; I had avenged it, for I had reg ge his murderer of wealth and sta- tion, Should I go further? “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” a low, sweet voice whispered in my ear, and a little hand stole into mine with a gentle pressure. * Richard Livingstone, I will make you the same offer that you made me a moment ago. Go to a foreign land; you shall have a certain amount of money each year. You are young; a new life is be- fore you. Jn that new life strive to forget the old.” This was my vengeance—a more manly one than if I had taken the life at my disposal. A gentle pressure of a little hand rewarded me, My — is done. In due time Nell came in pos- session of all her property, excepting twenty-five thousand dollars she set apart for Olive, her half- sister. Before the estate was settled, Nell and I were married; love like ours could not wait for the law’s cold delay. We were married and we are as happy—well, as happy as it is possible for mortals to be in this world. Joe hunted up his mother, bought a house for the ps ars amusing himself by cultivating his little estate. The savant, Vanderwilt, returned to India and ex- pressed his intention of Abas 3 and dying there. He prefers the ‘Thugs ”’ to the New York shaivers. Richard Livi me sailed for Brazil to seek a new fortune and lead a new life far from his iative land. May that new life atone for the past. THE END, ~ 21. Now and Forever; or, Wuy Dm SHE Marry Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. — ‘