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diff --git a/old/69984-0.txt b/old/69984-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 487cb54..0000000 --- a/old/69984-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4725 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The mystery of Central Park, by Nellie -Bly - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The mystery of Central Park - -Author: Nellie Bly - -Release Date: February 8, 2023 [eBook #69984] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman, PrimeNumber and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF CENTRAL -PARK *** - - - - THE “NELLIE BLY” SERIES - - The Mystery of - Central Park - - [Illustration: cover] - - BY NELLIE BLY - - Originally published in the New York EVENING WORLD - - - - -MRS. MARY J. HOLMES’ NOVELS - -Over a MILLION Sold. - -_THE NEW BOOK_ - -GRETCHEN. - -JUST OUT. - -The following is a list of Mary J. Holmes’ Novels. - - TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. - ENGLISH ORPHANS. - HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. - LENA RIVERS. - MEADOW BROOK. - DORA DEANE. - COUSIN MAUDE. - MARIAN GREY. - EDITH LYLE. - DAISY THORNTON. - CHATEAU D’OR. - QUEENIE HETHERTON. - DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. - HUGH WORTHINGTON. - CAMERON PRIDE. - ROSE MATHER. - ETHELYN’S MISTAKE. - MILLBANK. - EDNA BROWNING. - WEST LAWN. - MILDRED. - FORREST HOUSE. - MADELINE. - CHRISTMAS STORIES. - BESSIE’S FORTUNE. - GRETCHEN. [_New._] - - - - - THE - - MYSTERY - - OF - - CENTRAL PARK. - - A Novel. - - BY - - NELLIE BLY, - - AUTHOR OF - - “TEN DAYS IN A MAD HOUSE” AND “SIX MONTHS - IN MEXICO.” - - [Illustration: colophon] - - NEW YORK: - - COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY - - _G. W. Dillingham, Publisher_, - - SUCCESSOR TO G. W. CARLETON & CO. - - MDCCCLXXXIX. - - _All Rights Reserved._ - - - - - TROW’S - PRINTING AND BOOK BINDING CO., - N. Y. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -Chapter Page - - I. The Young Girl on the Bench 7 - - II. Penelope Sets a Hard Task for Dick 19 - - III. Wherein Dick Treadwell Meets with Another - Adventure 45 - - IV. Story of the Girl who Attempted Suicide 64 - - V. The Failure of the Strike 77 - - VI. Is the Girl Honest? 87 - - VII. Mr. Martin Shanks: Guardian 95 - - VIII. The Missing Stenographer 103 - - IX. The Stranger at the Bar 114 - - X. Tolman Bike 121 - - XI. Who was the Man that Bought the Gown? 139 - - XII. One and the Same 153 - - XIII. A Lovers’ Quarrel 166 - - XIV. “Give Me Until To-Morrow.” 177 - - XV. “To Richard Treadwell, Personal.” 190 - - XVI. The Mystery Solved 205 - - XVII. Sunlight Through the Clouds 220 - - - - -THE - -MYSTERY OF CENTRAL PARK. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE YOUNG GIRL ON THE BENCH. - - -“And that is your final decision?” - -Dick Treadwell gazed sternly at Penelope Howard’s downcast face, and -waited for a reply. - -Instead of answering, as good-mannered young women generally do, -Penelope intently watched the tips of her russet shoes, as they -appeared and disappeared beneath the edge of her gown, and remained -silent. - -When she raised her head and met that look, so sad and yet so stern, -the faintest shadow of a smile placed a pleasing wrinkle at the corners -of her brown eyes. - -“Yes, that is--my final decision,” she repeated, slowly. - -Dick Treadwell dropped despondently on a bench and, gazing steadily -over the green lawn, tried to think it all out. - -He felt that he was not being used quite fairly, but he was at a loss -for a way to remedy it. - -Here he was, the devoted slave of the rather plain girl beside him, -who refused to marry him, merely because he had never soiled his firm, -white hands with toil, nor worried his brain with a greater task, since -his school days, than planning some way to kill time. - -He was one of those unfortunate mortals possessed of an indolent -disposition, and had been left a modest legacy, that, though making -him far from wealthy, was still enough to support him in idleness. - -He lacked the spur of necessity which urged men on to greater deeds. - -In short, Richard was one of those worthless ornaments of society that -live, and die without doing much good or any great harm. - -That he was an ornament, however, none dared to deny, and the -expressive brown eyes of the girl, who had seated herself beside him -bore ample testimony that she was not unconscious of his manly charms. - -Dick took off his straw hat, and after running his firm, white fingers -through his kinky, light hair, crossed one leg over the other, while -he brooded moodily on his peculiar fate. The frank, boyish expression, -that had won him so many admirers, was displaced by a heavy frown, and -his bright blue eyes gazed unseeingly over the beautiful vista before -him. - -He could not understand why a girl should get such crazy ideas, any -way. There were plenty of girls who made no effort to hide their -admiration for him, and he knew that they could be had for the asking, -if it only wasn’t for Penelope. - -But, somehow, Penelope had more attraction for him than any girl he had -ever met. Her very obstinacy, her independence, made her all the more -charming to him, even if it was provoking. - -Penelope Howard was in no wise Dick Treadwell’s mate in beauty. - -She was slender to boniness and tall, but willowy and graceful, and one -forgot her murky complexion when gazing into the depths of her bright, -expressive eyes and catching the curve of a wonderfully winsome smile. - -Penelope was an heiress, though, to a million dollars or more, and so -no one ever called her plain. - -She was an orphan and had been reared by a sensible old aunt, who would -doubtless leave her another million. - -Penelope knew her defects as well and better than did other people. She -had no vanity and was blessed with an unusual amount of solid sense. - -Penelope Howard was well aware that she would not have to go begging -for a husband, but she had loved handsome Dick Treadwell ever since -the year before she graduated at Vassar. He had gone there to pay his -devotions to another fair under-graduate and came away head over heels -in love with Penelope. Nevertheless Penelope was in no hurry to marry. - -She loved Richard with all her heart, but there was a barrier between -them which he alone could remove. - -“You know, Dick,” she said, softly, as he still gazed across the green -lawn, trying to find a mental foothold, as it were, “that I told you -this before”---- - -“Yes, this makes the sixth time I have proposed,” he said, savagely, -still looking away. - -“I have always told you,” smiling slightly at his remark and lowering -her voice as she glanced apprehensively at a girl seated on a bench -near by, “that I will not marry you as long as you live as you do. I -have money enough for two, so it makes no difference whether the man -I marry has any or not. But I can’t and won’t marry a--a worthless -man--one who has never done anything, and is too indolent to do -anything. I want a husband who has some ability--who has accomplished -something--just one worthy thing even, and then--well, it won’t make so -much difference if he is indolent afterwards. You know, Dick, how much -I care for you,” softly, “how fond I am of you, but I will not marry -you until you prove that you are able to do something.” - -“It’s all very easy to talk about,” he replied savagely, “but what can -I do? I don’t dare risk what little I have in Wall street. I don’t know -enough to preach, or to be a doctor, or a lawyer, and it takes too -infernally long to go back to the beginning and learn. You object to my -following the races, and I couldn’t sell ribbons or run a hotel to save -me. Tell me what to do, Penelope, and I will gladly make the attempt. -When you took a--a craze to walk in the Park at a hideous hour every -morning before your friends, who don’t think it good form, were out -to frown you down, did I not promise to be your escort, and haven’t I -faithfully got up--or stayed up--to keep my promise?” - -“And only late--let us see how many times?” she asked roguishly. - -“Penelope, don’t,” he pleaded. “You know I love you. Why, Penel’, -love, if I thought that your foolish whim would separate us forever -I’d----Oh, darling, you don’t doubt my love, do you?” - -“Hush!” she whispered, warningly, pointing to the girl on the other -bench. - -“Oh, she is asleep,” Dick replied carelessly. - -“Don’t be too sure,” Penelope urged, gazing abstractedly towards the -girl, her eyes soft with the feeling that was thrilling her heart. - -Like all girls Penelope never tired of hearing the man who had won her -love swearing his devotion, but like all girls she preferred to be the -sole and only listener to those vows, to that tone. - -“If she is awake she is the first young woman I ever saw who would let -her new La Tosca sunshade lie on the ground,” he said laughingly. - -“She must be sleeping,” Penelope assented indifferently, glancing at -the parasol lying in the dust where it had apparently rolled from the -girl’s knee. - -Two gray squirrels, with their bushy tails held stiffly erect, came out -on the dusty drive, and finding everything quiet scampered across to -the green sward, where they stood upright in the green grass viewing -curiously the unhappy lovers. - -Penelope had a mania for carrying peanuts to the Park to give to the -animals. She took several from her reticule and tossed them towards the -gray squirrels. - -The one, with a little whistling noise scampered up the nearest tree -and the other, taking a nut in his little mouth, quickly followed. - -“I have not seen her move since we came here,” she said, returning to -the subject of the girl. “Do you suppose she put her hat over her eyes -in that manner to keep the light out of them, or was it done to keep -any passers-by from staring at her?” - -“I don’t know,” carelessly. “Probably she is ill.” - -“Ill? Do you think so, Dick? I am going to speak to her,” declared -Penelope, impulsively. - -“Don’t, I wouldn’t,” urged Dick. - -“But I will,” declared Penelope. - -“You don’t know anything about her,” he continued pleadingly. “She -may have been out all night, or you can’t tell but perhaps she has -been drinking too much, and if you wake her she will doubtless make it -unpleasant for you.” - -“How uncharitable you are,” indignantly exclaimed Penelope, who feared -no one. She had spent much time and money in doing deeds of charity, -and she had met all sorts and conditions of women. That a woman was in -trouble and she could help her, was all Penelope cared to know. - -She got up and walked towards the girl. Richard, knowing all argument -was useless, went with her. When they stopped, Penelope, bending down, -peeped beneath the brim of the lace hat which, laden with an abundance -of red roses, was tilted over the motionless girl’s face. - -“She is sleeping,” she whispered softly to Dick. “Her eyes are closed. -She has a lovely face.” - -“Has she, indeed?” and Dick, with increased interest, bent to look. -“She is very pale and--I am afraid that she is ill,” in an awed tone. -“Young lady!” he called nervously. - -The girlish figure never moved. Richard’s and Penelope’s eyes met with -a swift expression--a mingled look of surprise and fear. - -“My dear!” called Penelope, gently shaking the girl by the shoulder. - -The lace hat tumbled off and lay at their feet; the little hands, -which had been folded loosely in her lap, fell apart and the girlish -figure fell lengthwise on the bench. - -Breathlessly and silently the frightened young couple looked at -the beautiful upturned face framed in masses of golden hair; the -blue-rimmed eyes, with their curly dark lashes resting gently against -the colorless skin; the parted lips in which there lingered a bit of -red. - -Nervously Richard touched the cheek of pallor, and felt for the heart -and pulse. - -“What’s wrong there?” called a gray-uniformed officer, who had left his -horse near the edge of the walk. - -Penelope silently looked at Richard, waiting for him to answer, and as -he raised his face all white and horror-stricken, he gasped: - -“My God! The girl is dead.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -PENELOPE SETS A HARD TASK FOR DICK. - - -Richard Treadwell was not mistaken. - -The golden-haired girl was dead. - -The fair young form was taken to the Morgue, and for some days the -newspapers were filled with accounts of the mystery of Central Park, -and everybody was discussing the strange case. - -And what could have been more mysterious? - -A young and exquisitely beautiful girl, clad in garments stylish and -expensive, although quiet in tone, and such as women of refinement -wear, found dead on a bench in Central Park by two young people, whose -social position was in those circles where to be brought in any way to -public notice is considered almost a disgrace. - -And to add to the mystery of the case the most thorough examination -of the girl’s body had failed to show the slightest wound or -discoloration, or the faintest clue to the cause of the girl’s death. - -The newspapers had all their own theories. Some were firm in their -belief of foul play, but they could not even hint at the cause of -death, and how such a lovely creature could have been murdered, if -murder it was, in Central Park and the assassin or assassins escape -unseen, were riddles they could not solve. - -Other journals hooted at the idea of foul play. They claimed the girl -had, while walking in Central Park, sat down on the bench, and died -either of heart disease or of poison administered by her own hand. - -The police authorities maintained an air of impenetrable secrecy, -but promised that within a few days they would furnish some startling -developments. They did not commit themselves, however, as to their -ideas of how the girl met her death. In this they were wise, for the -silent man is always credited with knowing a great deal more than the -man does who talks, and so the public waited impatiently from day to -day, confident the police would soon clear the mystery away. - -Hundreds of people visited the Morgue, curious to look upon the dead -girl. - -Many went there in search of missing friends, hoping and yet dreading -that in the mysterious dead girl they would find the one for whom they -searched. - -People from afar telegraphed for the body to be held until their -arrival, but they came and went and the beautiful dead girl was still -unidentified. - -Penelope Howard and Richard Treadwell were made to figure prominently -in all the stories about the beautiful mystery, much to their -discomfort. The untiring reporters called to see Penelope at all hours, -whenever a fresh theory gave them an excuse to drag her name before the -public again, and poor Richard had no peace at his club, at his rooms, -or at Penelope’s home. If the reporters were not interviewing him, his -friends were asking all manner of questions concerning the strange -affair, and pleading repeatedly for the story of the discovery of the -body to be told again. Some of his club acquaintances even went so far -as to joke him about the girl he had found dead, and there was much -quiet smiling among his immediate friends at Dick’s fondness for early -walks, a trait first brought to light by his connection with this now -celebrated case. - -Not the least important figure in the sensation was the Park policeman -who found Penelope and Richard bending over the dead girl. He became -a very great personage all at once. The meritorious deeds which -marked his previous record were the finding of a lost child and the -frantically chasing a stray dog, which he imagined was mad, and wildly -firing at it--very wide of the mark, it is true--until the poor -frightened little thing disappeared in some remote corner. - -This officer became the envy of the Park policemen. Daily his name -appeared in connection with the case as “the brave officer of the -‘Mystery of Central Park.’” Daily he was pointed out by the people, who -thronged to the spot where the girl was found, curious to see the bench -and to carry away with them some little memento. He always managed to -be near the scene of the mystery during the busy hours of the Park, and -the dignity with which he answered questions as to the exact bench, was -very impressive. - -But the officer’s pride at being connected with such a sensational -case was not to be wondered at. - -Rarely had New York been so stirred to its depth over a mysterious -death. The newspapers published the most minute descriptions of the -dead girl’s dainty silk underwear, of her exquisitely made Directoire -dress, of her Suéde shoes, the silver handled La Tosca sunshade, and -more particularly did they dwell on descriptions of her dainty feet and -tiny hands, of her perfect features and masses of beautiful yellow hair. - -There was every indication of refinement and luxury about her. - -How came it, then, that a being of such beauty and grace could have no -one who missed her; could have no one to search frantically the wide -world for her? - -The day of the inquest came. - -Penelope, accompanied by her aunt and Richard, were forced to be -present. Penelope in a very steady voice told how they found the body, -and she was questioned and cross-questioned as to the reason why she -should have become so interested in the sight of an apparently sleeping -girl as to accost her. - -It was a most unusual thing. - -Did she not think that it had been suggested by the young man who -accompanied her? - -Penelope’s cheeks burned and she became very indignant at their efforts -to connect Richard more closely with the case, and she related all that -had transpired after they spoke of the girl with such minuteness and -ease, that it was hinted afterwards that she had studied the story in -order to protect the culprit. - -Poor Richard came next. - -His story did not differ from Penelope’s, and while no one said in so -many words that they suspected him of knowing more than he divulged, -yet he felt their suspicions and accusations in every question and -every look. - -A very knowing newspaper had that same morning published a long story, -relating instances where murderers could not remain away from their -victims, and always returned to the spot, in many cases pretending to -be the discoverer of the murder. The story finished by demanding that -the authorities decide at the inquest whose hand was in the murder of -the beautiful young girl. - -Dick, remembering all this, felt his heart swell with indignation at -the tones of his examiner. - -Penelope was more indignant, if anything, than Dick, but she had read -in a newspaper that repudiated the theory of murder, a collection -of accounts of deaths which had been thought suspicious that were -afterwards proven to be the result of heart disease or poison, and she -quietly hoped that the doctors who held the post-mortem examination -would set at rest all the doubts in the case. - -The park policeman, in a grandiloquent manner, gave his testimony. - -He told how he found the young couple bending over the dead girl, who -was half lying on a bench. When the officer asked what was wrong, the -young man, who seemed excited and frightened--and he laid great stress -on those words--replied “The girl is dead.” The officer had then looked -at the body but did not touch it. The young people denied any knowledge -of the girl’s identity, and then his suspicions being aroused he asked -the young man why he had replied “The girl is dead,” if he did not know -her? - -The young man repeated that he had never seen the dead girl before, and -his companion gave him a quick, frightened glance; so the officer said -sternly: - -“Be careful, young man, remember you are talking to the law; I’ll have -to report everything you say.” - -And then the officer paused to take breath and at the same time to give -proper weight to his words. Everybody took the opportunity to remove -their gaze from the officer and to see how Dick Treadwell was bearing -it. They were getting more interested now and nearly everyone felt that -the elegant young man would be in the clutches of the law by the time -the inquest was adjourned. - -The officer cleared his throat and in a deep, gruff voice continued his -story. - -At his warning the young man had flushed very red, then paled, and then -he called the officer a fool. - -Still the conscientious limb of the law determined to know more about -two young people, who, while able to drive, were doing such unusual -and extraordinary things as walking early in the Park and happening -upon the dead body of a young girl; so he asked the young man why, if -he did not know the girl, he did not say “_a_ girl is dead here,” -instead of “_the_ girl is dead,” whereupon the young man told the -officer again that he was a fool, adding several words to make it more -emphatic, and at this the young girl, who stood by very gravely up to -this time, had the boldness and impudence to laugh. - -Richard Treadwell was called again, and had to repeat the reason of his -early walk in the Park, and had to tell where he spent the previous -evening, which was proven by Penelope and her aunt. He was questioned -why he used the definite article instead of the indefinite in answering -the officer’s question. He could offer no explanation. - -That a man should say “_the_ girl” instead of “_a_ girl,” and -that he should be excited over finding the body of a girl unknown to -him, were things that looked very suspicious to the law, and those in -charge of the inquest had no hesitancy in showing the fact. - -A few persons whose testimony was unimportant were called, and then -came the doctors who had made the post-mortem examination. Nothing was -discovered to indicate murder or suicide, nor, indeed, could they come -to any definite conclusion as to the cause of death. - -The coroner’s jury brought in an indefinite verdict, showing that they -knew no more about the circumstances or cause of the girl’s death than -they did at the beginning of the inquest. With this unsatisfactory -conclusion the public was forced to rest content. - -They did know that the girl had not been shot or stabbed, which was -some satisfaction, at any rate. - -Penelope persuaded her aunt and Richard to accompany her through the -Morgue. She was deeply hurt at the way in which Dick had been treated. -Still she wanted to look on the face of the fair young girl, the cause -of all the worriment, before she was taken to her grave. - -“How dreadful!” exclaimed Penelope’s aunt, as the keeper unbolted the -door and waited, before he closed it, for them to enter the low room. - -She tiptoed daintily over the stone floor--which, wet all over, had -little streams formed in places flowing from different hose--holding -her skirts up with one hand, and with the other hand held a perfumed -handkerchief over her aristocratic nose. Penelope, with serious but -calm face, kept close to the keeper, and Richard walked silently with -the aunt. - -“I thought the bodies lay on marble slabs,” said Penelope, glancing -at the row of plain, unpainted rough boxes set close together on iron -supports. - -“They did in the old Morgue, but ever since we’ve been in this building -we put them in the boxes. They keep better this way,” explained the -keeper, delighted to show the sights of the Morgue to persons of social -prominence. - -“Do you know the history of all these dead?” asked Penelope, counting -the fifty and odd coffins which came one after the other. - -“We know somethin’ about most all ’cept those found in the river, and -the river furnishes more bodies than the whole city do. We photograph -every body and we pack their clothes away, with a description of ’em, -and keep them six months. The photographs we always keep, so that years -after people may find their lost here. Would you like to see them, -miss?” - -“You see,” continued the man, lifting a lid, “we burn a cross on the -coffins of the Catholics, and the Protestants get no mark. The boxes -with the chalk mark on are the ones that’s to be buried to-morrow. This -man here, miss,” holding the lid up, “was a street-car driver; want to -see him, mam?” - -Penelope’s aunt shook her head negatively. - -“He struck, and could not get work afterwards, so as he and his family -was starvin’, he made them one less by committing suicide.” - -“It is so hard to die,” Penelope said with a shudder. - -“Hard? Not a bit, miss; death’s a great boon to poor people. This ’ere -fellow,” holding another lid while Penelope gazed with dry, burning -eyes down on a weather-beaten face, which, seared with a million -premature wrinkles, wore a smile of rest, “he was a tramp, they ’spose. -Fell dead on Sixth Avenue, an’ he had nothin’ on him to identify him. -And this ’ere woman who lies next the Park mystery girl, though she do -smile like she got somethin’ she wanted--an’ they nearly all smile, -miss, when they’ve handed in their ’counts--she were a devil. She’s -done time on the island, and they’ve had her in Blackwell’s Insane -Asylum, but ’twan’t no good; soon as she got out she was at her old -tricks. Drink, drink, if she had to steal it, an’ fight an’ swear! -They picked her up on a sidewalk the last time and hauled her to the -station-house, but when mornin’ come an’ they called her she didn’t -show up; an’ when they dragged her out, thinkin’ she was still full, -they found she’d got a death sentence and gone on a last trip to the -island where they never come back.” - -A little woman, stumpy, fat and old, in a shabby black frock and plain -black bonnet, came in with one of the keeper’s assistants. She held a -coarse white cotton handkerchief in her hand, and her wrinkled, broad -face with its fish-like mouth, thick, upturned nose and watery blue -eyes, looked prepared to show evidence of grief when the search among -the labelled rough-boxes was successful. - -“Mrs. Lang,” read the man who was assisting the woman in her search, -“from the Almshouse?” - -“Yes, that was her name, true enough. The Lord rest her soul!” the -woman responded fervently, and the man slid the lid across the box, and -the little old woman, holding the handkerchief over her stubby nose, -peeped in. - -“Yes, that’s her; that’s Mrs. Lang. Poor thing! Ah! she do look -desolate,” she wailed. “She hasn’t a fri’nd in all the world,” she -continued, looking with her weak eyes at Penelope, who sympathetically -stopped by her. “She was eighty years old, and paralyzed from her knees -down. Poor thing, they took her to the Almshouse not quite a month ago, -and she looks like she’d had a hard time, sure enough. Poor Mrs. Lang, -she do look desolate.” - -The man closed the box as if he had given her time enough to weep, and -the wailing woman went out. - -“What becomes of the bodies of these poor unfortunates?” asked -Penelope, with a catch in her voice. - -“Most of ’em we give to the medical colleges as subjects. Yes, men and -women, black and white alike. That nigger woman, who wouldn’t tell on -the man who gave her a death stab, lying to the other side of the Park -mystery girl, will be taken to a college to-night. The bodies not sold -are all sent up to Hart’s Island, where they’re buried in a big trench.” - -Penelope’s sympathetic nature quivered with pity by reason of what she -had seen and heard. She secretly resolved to give the poor unknown -girl a respectable burial, and to order some flowers to be strewed in -the rough-boxes with the other unfortunates who would be taken to the -Potter’s Field to-morrow. - -“Death is a horrible thing,” she remarked sadly, as they filed through -the iron doors again. - -“It is, miss,” the keeper assented. “I’ve had charge of this here -Morgue for these twenty years, still if I was to allow myself to think -about death and the mystery of the hereafter, I’d go crazy.” - -“But the thought of Heaven. It is surely some consolation,” faltered -Penelope. - -“Twenty years’ work in there,” nodding his head towards the throne -where death sits always; where the only noise is the sound of the -dripping water; “hasn’t left any fairy tales in my mind about what -comes after. We live, and when we’re dead that’s the last of it. -You can tell children about the ‘good man’ and ‘bad man’ and Heaven -and--beggin’ your pardon--Hell, just the same as you tell them about -Santa Claus, but when they grow up if they thinks for themselves they -know its fairy tales--all fairy tales. When you’re dead, you’re dead, -and that’s the last of it, take my word for that.” - -Penelope was not a religious fanatic, but her few pious beliefs -experienced a little resentful shock at the man’s outspoken words. She -haughtily drew her shoulders up, the kind expression faded from her -face, leaving it less attractive, and she was conscious of a little -feeling of repulsion for the unbelieving Morgue keeper. Not that the -keeper’s ideas were so foreign to those that had visited her own mind. -She had many times felt dubious on such subjects herself, but she had -always felt it to be her duty to kill doubt and trust in that which was -taught her concerning the life hereafter. - -Penelope joined her aunt and Richard Treadwell, where they stood under -a shade tree opposite the Morgue waiting her. - -In a few words she told what she wished to do. Her kind aunt good -naturedly encouraged her. Perhaps what they had seen had had a -softening effect on her as well. - -Instead of driving home they drove to the coroner’s, and with the -permit which they obtained without difficulty, to an undertaker’s, -where the final arrangements were made for the girl’s burial. - -So the beautiful mystery of Central Park was not sent to a medical -college nor to the Potter’s Field. The next morning Penelope -accompanied Richard in his coupé, and Mrs. Louise Van Brunt, her aunt, -who had in her carriage two charitable old lady friends, followed the -sombre hearse in its slow journey across the bridge to Brooklyn. In a -quiet graveyard on the outskirts of the city the dead girl was lowered -into the earth. - -Penelope was greatly wrought up over the case. All the way to the -graveyard she was moody and silent. Seeing that she was not inclined -to talk, Richard too sat silent and thoughtful. - -Added to her interest in the dead girl, the evident suspicions -entertained against Richard had preyed upon Penelope’s mind. While she -never doubted Richard’s innocence in the affair, still ugly thoughts -concerning his careless nature, and the recalled rumors of affairs with -actresses, of more or less renown, which the newspapers darkly hinted -at, almost set her wild. Could it be possible that he had known the -girl, or ever seen her before they found her dead? - -She recalled his excitement when he leaned down and for the first time -saw the face of the girl as she sat on the bench. The officer had laid -great stress on Dick’s excited manner, and to Penelope, as she looked -back, it seemed suggestive of more than he had acknowledged. - -“And I love him, I love him,” she cried to herself during the long ride -to the cemetery, “and with this horrible suspicion hanging over him I -could never marry him; I could never be happy if I did. I can never be -happy if I don’t. If we only knew something about it; if only people -did not hint things; if I could only crush the horrible idea that he -knows more than he told!” - -They dismounted, after driving into the cemetery, and walked silently -across the green; winding in and out among the grassy and flowered beds -and white stones which marked all that had once been life--hope. - -An unknown but Christian minister stood waiting them at the open grave. -Penelope glanced at him and at the workmen, who left the shade of a -tree near-by when they saw the party approaching, and came forward with -faces void of any feeling but that of impudent curiosity. The minister -repeated the burial service very softly, as the coffin was lowered -into the earth. Penelope’s throat felt bursting, and her heart beat -painfully as Richard, with strangely solemn face, dropped some flowers -into the grave. - -“Oh death? How horrible, how horrible!” she thought, “and I, too, some -day must die; must be put in a grave, and then--and then, what? What -have we done to our Creator that we must die? And that poor girl! This -is the last for all eternity, and there is not one here she knew to see -the last, unless”----but the morbid thought against Richard refused to -form itself into definite shape. - -The men who filled the grave were the most light-hearted in the group. -They pulled up a board, and the pile of fresh earth at the mouth of the -grave, which it had upheld, went rattling in on the coffin and flowers, -almost gladly it seemed to Penelope. She shivered slightly, but watched -as if fascinated, until the men put on the last shovel-full and with -a spade deftly shaped out the mound. Richard helped her cover the -newly-made grave with the flowers and green ivy and smilax they had -brought for that purpose. - -They were the last to leave. The others had walked slowly among the -graves and back to the place where the carriages were waiting. The -hearse, immediately after the coffin was lowered into the earth, had -gone off with rollicking speed, as if eager for new freight, and the -workmen with their spades and picks had disappeared. - -“It is ended,” said Dick with a relieved sigh, as he led Penelope back -to her carriage. “Now let us forget all the misery of these last few -days and be happy.” - -“It is not ended,” exclaimed Penelope, spiritedly. “It has only begun. -I can never be happy until I know the secret of that girl’s death.” - -“That is impossible, Penelope,” replied Dick. “That mystery can never -be solved.” - -“Dick, you have sworn you love me; you have sworn that you would do -anything I asked if I would marry you. Did you mean it? Will you swear -it again?” cried Penelope, breathlessly. - -“Mean it, love?” repeated Dick, as he pressed her hand closely between -his arm and heart. “Upon my life, I swear it.” - -“Then solve the mystery of that girl’s death, and I will be your wife.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -WHEREIN DICK TREADWELL MEETS WITH ANOTHER ADVENTURE. - - -Richard Treadwell was in despair. - -Days had passed since the burial of the unknown girl, and he was no -nearer the solution of the mystery than he was on the morning of the -discovery. He had not learned one new thing in the case, and what was -infinitely worse, he had not the least idea how to set about the task. - -He had taken to wandering restlessly about the city racked with the -wildest despondency. - -“Great Lord, if I only had an idea,” he thought, desperately, as he -walked up Fifth Avenue. “If I only knew how to begin--if I only knew -where to begin--if I only knew what to do--if I only--Confound the -girl, anyhow. Why couldn’t she have died somewhere else, or why didn’t -some one else find her instead of us. Confound it, I’ll be hanged if I -hadn’t enough to worry about before. Women will take the most infernal -whims. Good Lord! If I wasn’t suspected of being connected with her -death, and if Penelope----But I’ll be d---- if I can give it the go-by. -It’s solve the mystery or lose Penelope! If I only knew how to go to -work. But, by Jove, I know I could preach a sermon, or set a broken -leg, or--or cook a dinner easier than find out why, where, when, how, -that yellow-haired girl died. Curse my luck, anyhow.” - -“I have read stories where fellows who don’t know much start out to -solve murder mysteries, but they always find something which all the -detectives and police authorities overlooked, which gives them the -right clue to work on. It’s very good for tales, but I find nothing. -The rest are just as smart and smarter at finding clues than I am. They -got nothing. I got nothing, and what to do would puzzle a Solomon.” - -Dick stopped and looked up to the windows of Penelope’s home, where -his wandering feet had brought him. He had not seen her for two days; -so busy on the case, he wrote her with a groan, and then he had sent -her a bunch of roses, and gone forth to kill another day in aimless -wanderings. - -But here, before her door--how could a lover resist the temptation to -enter and be happy in the presence of his divinity for a few moments at -least? Richard was not one of the resisting kind any way, so, after a -moment’s thought, he ran up the broad stone steps and was ushered into -Penelope’s room off the library--half sitting-room, half study--to wait -for her. - -Nothing was wanting in Penelope’s special den, that luxury could -suggest, to make it an exquisite retreat for a young woman with a taste -for the beautiful. There were heavy portieres, soft, rich carpet, -handsome rugs here and there on the floor and thrown carelessly over -low divans. Chairs and lounges of different shapes, all made for -comfort, little tables strewed with rich bric-a-brac, unique spirit -lamps, and on easels and hanging around were paintings and etchings, -all of which, as Penelope said, had a story in them. - -There were some fine statues, among which were several the work of -Penelope. A little low organ, with a piano lamp near it, stood open and -there were music and books in profusion. - -Near where the daylight came strongest was a sensible flat-top -desk littered with paper, cards, books and the thousand little -trinkets--useless, if you please--which a refined woman gathers about -to please her eye. - -The most unusual things that would have impressed a stranger, if -by some unknown chance he could gain admittance here, was a mixed -collection of odd canes and weapons, and a skull in the centre of the -desk, which was utilized as an inkstand and a penholder. - -“Why, Dick,” said Penelope, as she tripped lightly in, clad in an -artistic gray carriage gown. “I am glad to see you. I wish you had been -earlier so you could have enjoyed a drive with aunt and me.” - -“I have been busy,” Richard said bravely, releasing the hand she had -given him on entering. - -They sat down together on a sofa. - -“I have been so occupied that I haven’t had time for a drive these last -few days.” - -“And have you discovered anything yet?” Penelope asked, eagerly. - -“Well, not exactly,” hesitatingly, “it will take time to clear it all -up, you know.” - -“Tell me, do you know her name yet, and where she came from, and was -she really murdered?” - -“Slowly, slowly; would you have me spoil my luck by telling what I have -done?” asked Richard evasively, his eyes twinkling. - -“Oh, you superstitious boy,” laughed Penelope, lightly tapping him with -her hand, which he immediately caught and held captive in his own. - -“Don’t be unkind,” he pleaded, as she tried to draw her hand away. - -“Not for worlds,” she replied gravely, ceasing to struggle. “Mr. John -Stetson Maxwell called here last night, and he told me of an experience -he had when he was an editor, that made me resolve never to speak or -act unkindly if I can help it.” - -“I am deeply obliged to Mr. Maxwell,” Richard responded lightly. - -“But it was very sad, Dick. I felt unhappy all the evening over it.” - -“I wish my miseries and wretchedness could have the same influence on -you,” he broke in with a laugh. - -“Don’t you want to hear the story? I had intended to tell it to you,” -she said, half provoked at his lack of seriousness. - -“Why, certainly. By all means,” he replied, grave enough now. He never -joked when she assumed that tone and look. - -“When he was an editor,” she began softly, “he one day received a -very bright poem from a man in Buffalo. He did not know the man as a -writer, still the poem was so meritorious that he straightway accepted -it, and sent a note to the author enclosing a check for the work. A -few days afterwards, the man’s card was sent in, with a request for an -interview. Mr. Maxwell was very busy at the time, but he thought he -would give the man a moment, so he told the boy to bring the visitor -up. When he came in, Mr. Maxwell was surprised to see a young man of -some twenty-five years. He was not well clad, and was much abashed -when he found himself in the presence of such a great personage as the -editor, Mr. Maxwell.” - -“Rightly, rightly,” Richard said, good naturedly, patting her hands -encouragingly. - -“Mr. Maxwell recalled afterwards that the young man looked in wretched -spirits,” Penelope continued, with a slow smile. “At the time he was -too hurried to notice anything, and then editors are used to seeing -people who are in ill-luck. He brusquely asked the young man his -business, seeing that he made no effort to tell it, and then the -young man said he had come to the city and thought he would like to -look around the office. Mr. Maxwell rang for a boy, and telling him -to show the young man about, shortly dismissed him. In a few days -after he received a batch of poetry from the young man, but though of -remarkable merit, Mr. Maxwell thought it too sombre in tone for his -publication, so he enclosed it with one of the printed slips used for -rejected manuscripts. In a day or so Mr. Maxwell was shocked to read of -the young man’s death. He had gone out to the park, and sitting down -on a bench, beside the lake, put a revolver to his ear and so killed -himself. He fell off the bench and into the lake, and his body was not -found until the next day. He had a letter in his pocket requesting -that his body be cremated. He left enough money to pay the expenses, -and word for one of his friends that he could do as he wished with his -ashes.” - -“Well, many people do the same thing,” Richard said, rather unfeelingly. - -“Yes, but this case was particularly sad,” Penelope asserted. “The -young man was all alone. He hadn’t a relative in the world. He had -fought his way up and had just completed his law studies, but had not, -as yet, succeeded in obtaining any practice. He was in distress and Mr. -Maxwell thinks, as I do, that he was so encouraged when his poem was -accepted that he came to the city with the purpose of asking employment -of the editor, but being greeted so coldly and roughly, I think he -could not tell the object of his visit. On his return to Buffalo, -as a last hope, he wrote some poetry which was colored with his own -despondent feelings, and when they were all returned to him it was the -last straw--he went out and shot himself.” - -“But what else could Mr. Maxwell have done, Penelope,” Richard asked, -in a business way. “He could not accept work, and pay for it, that -was not suitable for his periodical. I don’t see how he could reproach -himself in that case.” - -“I do and so does he,” she replied stoutly. “It wouldn’t have taken -any more time to be kind to that man than it took to be unkind to him, -and when he rejected the poetry, instead of sending back that brutal -printed notice he could have had his stenographer write a line, saying -the poetry, though meritorious, was not suitable for his journal. That -would, at least, have eased the disappointment.” - -“But editors haven’t time for such things, Penelope.” - -“Then let them take time. I tell you it takes less time to be kind than -to be unkind,” she maintained, nodding her head positively. - -“If they were not short, bores would occupy all their time,” he -persisted. - -“Richard, we will not argue the case,” she said loftily, as a woman -always does when she feels she is being worsted. “You can’t make me -think anything will excuse a man for being brutal and unkind.” - -Richard had his own opinion on the subject, but he was wise enough to -refrain from trying to make Penelope have a similar one. - -“I am going away,” she said, presently, finding that Dick was not -averse to dropping the discussion. “Auntie has accepted an invitation -to go to Washington for a few days to visit Mrs. Senator ----, and I am -to go along. I rather dread it, but auntie says they won’t know as much -about the Park mystery there, and I won’t be worried with reporters.” - -“I hope not,” replied Dick, beginning already to feel the ghastly -emptiness which pervaded the city for him when Penelope was not in it. -As long as he knew Penelope was in the city, even if he did not see -her, he had a certain happiness of nearness, but when she was away he -felt as desolate as Adam must have done before Eve came. - -“Penelope, girlie,” he said, with a sudden hope, “could we not be -engaged while I am working on this case? It would not embarrass you -in any way, for we only need tell your aunt, and it would be such -help, such encouragement, such happiness, sweet to me. You see it may -take months to solve this mystery.” Poor Richard thought it would -take years. “And if I only knew, darling, that I had your promise, -I could do so much. It would help me to conquer the world. Don’t be -hard-hearted, dear; don’t be cruel to the one who loves you more than -anything on earth or in heaven.” - -“No, no, Dick, you must wait,” said Penelope. “Wait until the mystery -is solved, it shouldn’t take you a great while”--(Richard sighed)--“and -then, and then--” - -“Then?” repeated Dick, questioningly. She looked down with sudden -embarrassment; he put his arms around her slender waist and drew her -close to him. “Then? my love, my soul!”-- - -“Dearest, come here!” called Penelope’s aunt, in that well-bred voice -of hers which charmed all hearers, but at this particular moment was -very exasperating to Dick. “Richard, come, I want you to see the man -standing on the other side of the Avenue. I have been watching him and -I think it is quite probable that he is watching the house. Are we -never to have done with that Park mystery business?” - -They all looked cautiously through the curtains, and they all agreed -that the man was watching the house for some purpose. - -“They are after you, Dick,” exclaimed Penelope. “Oh, I am so afraid -this will result seriously to you.” - -Richard thought so too, only where she was concerned, though; but he -did not give voice to his fears. - -“My dear child,” laughed the aunt, with that pleasant ring. “Do not -talk such nonsense! Richard is able to take care of himself, and -especially now that he knows some one is following him.” - -Shortly afterwards Dick took his leave of Penelope. She maintained -an air of cheerfulness as he said farewell, but though the mouth was -merry, the sad eyes which met his seemed to whisper the nearness of -tears. - -Catching up his walking-stick, Richard hastily left the house. He was -feeling so blue that he was almost savage. He thought of the man who -had been watching the house, and he looked to see if he was still -there, half tempted to hunt the fellow out and pull his nose. - -Sure enough, the man was there and, as Richard started down the -Avenue, he sneaked along on the other side, much after the manner of -a disobedient dog who had been told to stay at home. Dick hailed a -passing stage, after walking a little way, and almost as soon as he was -seated the man also got in. Richard was not in a mood to bear watching, -so he jumped out when he saw an empty hansom cab, and, engaging it, -told the driver to cross town. He did not drive far until he had made -sure that he had eluded his would-be follower, and having no appetite -yet for dinner he ordered the driver to go to Central Park, where he -paid and dismissed him. - -Now that he was alone, he became conscious of a desire to visit the -scene of the mystery which promised to be so fatal to his happiness. - -“I’ll go there and think it over,” he mused; “it may give me some idea -how to work it out.” And on he walked over the course he and Penelope -had taken that direful morning. - -Night was coming on and the Park was deserted, except for an occasional -workman taking a hurried cut across the Park home. How dreary and quiet -everything was, and then he thought about the officer who had made -himself so obnoxious. This led him to wonder if there were no policemen -on duty at night in the Park. He could not remember of ever having -noticed any the few times he had visited the Park after nightfall, and -there were none visible now anywhere. - -He stopped to look for a few moments at the bench where they had found -the dead girl, and then he walked on until he came to a bench near the -reservoir, where he sat down, and lighting a cigarette gave himself up -to unhappy thoughts on his unhappy position. - -“If only the Fates would throw something in my way to help me solve -that mystery,” he thought. “Unless the most extraordinary things occur -I shall never be able to tell anything about it. Penelope firmly -believes it was a murder, but I can’t see what grounds she has for it. -She thinks it was a deliberate and well-planned murder, because no one -has claimed the girl, and I sometimes think so myself, but how to prove -it?--that’s the question.” - -And Dick gazed seriously at the space of light made by the opening -for the reservoir, and on to the dense thickness of trees where night -seemed to be lurking, ready to pounce down on all late comers. - -As he looked he became aware of something moving between him and the -spot of light. He was a brave young man, yet his heart beat a little -quicker as he strained his eyes to see what the moving object was. - -Again it passed in view, and this time it looked to be something -climbing; another moment and it was on the edge of the reservoir. - -Now, plainly outlined between him and the strip of light sky, he saw -the figure of a woman, a slender girl with flowing hair. - -Quick as a flash came the horrible thought that she had come there to -die--that she intended to commit suicide. - -With a choking cry of horror he ran swiftly towards her. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -STORY OF THE GIRL WHO ATTEMPTED SUICIDE. - - -Richard Treadwell sat moodily on a bench, half supporting the limp form -of the girl he had just saved from death. - -He had caught her just as she threw up her hands with a pitiful, weak -cry, ready to spring into the reservoir. - -“My dear young woman, don’t take on so,” he said, vexedly, as the girl -leaned against his shoulder, and sobbed in a heart-broken, distracted -manner. “You are safe now.” - -As if that could be consolation to a woman who was seeking death which -sought her not. - -“Really, I am sorry, you know, but there’s a good girl, don’t cry,” -making a ludicrous attempt to console her. “I did it before I thought; -if I had known how much you would have been grieved, I--I assure you, -upon my honor, I wouldn’t have done it. I--I haven’t much to live for, -either, still when I saw what you intended to do--it shocked me that -you should be so desperate. Now that it’s all over I wouldn’t cry any -more. I’d laugh, as if it were a joke, you know. I’d say the fates had -saved me for some treat they had reserved for me. There, that’s better, -don’t cry, you are not hurt--not even wet.” - -The girl broke into a nervous, hysterical laugh, in which the sobs -struggled for mastery. Dick, much relieved, added a laugh that sounded -rather hollow and mirthless. - -“I c-can’t help it,” said she, haltingly and endeavoring to stop her -sobs. “It seems so unreal to be still living when I wanted to be dead. -I--I thought it all over, and it seemed so comforting to think of it -being ended. Then I couldn’t see, nor think, nor hear, nor suffer. Oh, -why did you stop me?” - -“I didn’t know, you see; I didn’t understand it all. I thought you -would regret it--that you were making a mistake,” he tried to say -cheerfully. - -“What right has anybody--what right had you to prevent me from ending -my life? I don’t want to live! I am tired of life and of misery. I -want to know what right any one has to interfere--to make me live a -life that doesn’t concern them and only brings me misery?” she cried, -indignantly. - -“Come now, don’t be so cast down.” At this burst of anger Richard was -himself again. “Tell me all about it; maybe I can help you. Have things -gone wrong?” - -“Have they ever gone right? Don’t preach to me. It’s easy to preach -to people who have friends and money and home. Save your sermons for -them. I have nothing! I am all alone in this great big heartless world. -I haven’t a cent, a home or a friend, and I’m tired of it all. There -is no use in talking to me. Some people get it all, and the others get -nothing. I am one of the unlucky ones, and the only thing for me to do -is to die.” - -“Why, my good girl, there is surely something better for you than -death.” - -“There is nothing but trouble and hunger, and sometimes work. Do you -call that better than death?” she cried despondently. - -What a story her few words contained! But Richard, happy, careless, -fortunate, little understood their real import. - -He knew the girl was very much depressed and morbid, so he concluded -it might have a beneficial effect if he could induce her to relate her -woes to him. - -How mountainous our troubles grow when we brood over them. - -How they dwindle into little ant-heaps when we relate them to another. - -Richard talked in his frank, healthy way to the girl, and it was not -long until she told him the simple, pathetic story of her life. - -Her name was Dido Morgan, she said. She was a country girl, the only -child of a village doctor, who lived in comfort but died penniless. Her -mother died at her birth. She had been raised well, and when reduced to -poverty she was too proud to go to work in her native village, so after -her father was buried she came to New York. - -She soon found that without experience and references she could not -get any desirable work in New York. When all other things failed, she, -at last, in desperation, applied for and obtained a position in a -paper-box factory. She was fortunate enough to learn the work rapidly, -and in a few months was able to earn as much as the best workers. She -rented a little room on the top floor of a large tenement-house, where -she slept and cooked her food. Every week she managed to save a little -out of her scant earnings. - -One day a girl who worked at the same table with Dido, and who had for -a long time been her friend, fainted. The girls crowded around them as -Dido knelt on the floor to bathe the sick girl’s head and rub her hands. - -“Aha! Away from yer tables durin’ work hours. I’ll pay yer fer this, -I’ll dock every one of you,” yelled the foreman, who at this instant -entered the workroom. - -The girls, frightened, crept quietly back to their work, but Dido still -continued to bathe the girl’s head. - -“Here, you daisy on the floor, you’ll disobey me, hey? I’ll dock yer -twice,” brutally spoke the foreman as he caught a glimpse of Dido’s -head across the table. - -She looked at him with scorn. If glances could kill, he would have died -at her feet. Still, she managed to say, quietly: - -“Maggie Williams has fainted.” - -“And because a girl faints must all the shop stop work and disobey -rules, eh? I’ll pay yer for this. I’ll teach yer,” he vowed, as he -quitted the room. - -Dido, unmindful of his brutal threats, turned her attention to Maggie, -who in a short time opened her eyes and tried to rise. - -“Lie still awhile yet, Maggie,” urged her self-appointed nurse. “I’ll -hold your head on my knee. Don’t you feel better now?” - -But the girl made no reply. Her small gray eyes stared unblinkingly, -unseeingly, up at the smoked rafters of the ceiling. - -“What is it, Maggie?” asked the kindly Dido, smoothing the wet, tangled -hair, her slender fingers expressing the sympathy which found no -utterance in words. “Are you still ill? Shall I take you home to your -mother?” - -The stare in the small gray eyes grew softer and softer; the corners -of the mouth drew down into a pitiful curve, the under lip quivering -like a tiny leaf in a strong wind; turning her face down, she sobbed -vehemently. - -Drawing the poor thin body into a closer embrace, Dido sought to -comfort the weeping girl. - -Some of the nearest workers hearing those low, heavy sobs, started -nervously, and their hands were not as cunning as usual as they covered -the boxes, but they dared not go near their unhappy companion or speak -the sympathy they felt. - -“I’m awfully sorry, Maggie,” whispered Dido, “don’t cry so; you’ll feel -better by-and-by.” - -“Mother’s dead,” blurted out Maggie. - -Dido was stunned into silence by this communication. She could say -nothing. - -What could you say to a girl when her mother is dead? - -What could console a girl at such a time? - -Maggie told Dido that the dead body of her mother, who, for a year -past, had been confined to her bed with consumption, was lying alone, -uncared for, at home. - -“I loved her so, and I didn’t want her to die,” she said pitifully. -“I was afraid to go home after work for fear I’d find her dead, and I -was afraid to sleep at night for fear she’d be dead when I woke up. -She lay so still, and she looked so white and death-like, and I would -lean on my elbow and watch her, fearing her breath would stop. Every -few moments I prayed, ‘O God, save her!’ ‘O God, have mercy!’ I--I -couldn’t say more, and I would swallow down the thing that would choke -my throat and wink away the tears that would come, and watch and watch, -until I couldn’t bear the doubt any longer, then I would touch her -gently with my foot to see if she was still warm, and that would wake -her, and I would be so sorry. - -“All last night I never took my eyes off her dear face,” Maggie -continued between her sobs, and Dido was softly crying, too, then. - -“She wouldn’t eat the things I had brought her, and when I talked to -her she didn’t seem to understand, but said things about father, who -died so long ago, and once or twice she laughed, but it only made -me cry. She didn’t seem to see me either, and when I spoke to her -it only started her to talk about something else, so I watched and -watched. I didn’t pray any more. Somehow all the prayer had left my -soul. Just before morning she got very still, sometimes a rolling -sound would gurgle in her throat, but when I offered her a drink -she couldn’t swallow, and then I called to her--I couldn’t stand it -any longer--‘Mother, mother, speak to me. I have always loved you, -speak to me once,’ and her dear lips moved and I bent over her, -holding my breath for fear I would not hear, and she whispered: -‘Lucille--my--pretty--one,’ and then her eyes opened and her head fell -to one side, but she didn’t see; she was dead--dead without one word to -me, and I loved her so.” - - * * * * * - -Dido Morgan shared her own scant dinner with Maggie that day, and the -unhappy girl remained at work that she might earn some money, which -would help towards burying her mother. - -That afternoon foreman Flint came in, and, nailing a paper to the -elevator shaft, told the girls to read it, saying he’d teach them to -disobey another time, and that next week they would work harder for -their money. - -In fear and trembling the girls crowded timidly about the shaft to read -what new misery the foreman had in store for them. They instinctively -felt it was a reduction, and the first glance proved their fears were -not unfounded. - -Some of the girls began to cry, and Dido, the bravest and strongest, -spoke excitedly to them of the injustice done them. Even now they were -working for less than other factories were paying. - -“There is surely justice for girls as well as men somewhere in the -world, if we only demand it,” she cried, encouragingly. “Let us demand -our rights. We will all go down, and I will tell the proprietor that we -cannot live under this new reduction. If he promises us the old prices, -we will return to work. If he refuses, we will strike.” - -The braver girls heartily joined the scheme, and the weaker -ones naturally fell in, not knowing what else to do under the -circumstances, and frightened at their own boldness. - -Dido Morgan, taking little Margaret Williams by the hand, naturally -headed the line, and the girls quietly marched after her, two by two, -down the almost perpendicular stairs. - -Dido stopped before the ground-glass door on the first floor, on which -was inscribed: - - ............................ - . TOLMAN BIKE, . - . . - . PRIVATE. . - ............................ - -Her heart beat very quickly, but clasping Maggie’s hand closer, she -opened the door and entered. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE FAILURE OF THE STRIKE. - - -Tolman Bike was engaged in conversation with foreman Flint when Dido -opened the door and entered. - -He lifted his head, and never noticing Dido, fixed a look of absolute -horror on Maggie Williams’s tear-stained and swollen face, as he rose -pale and trembling and gasped in a husky tone: - -“Why do you come to me?” - -Margaret gazed stupidly at him with her small, grey eyes, offering no -reply. - -Dido, greatly astonished at Mr. Bike’s manner, stammered out that she -represented the girls he employed, who had decided to appeal to him -not to enforce the proposed reduction, as they were already working for -less than other factories were paying. - -When she began to speak a strange look of relief passed over his face -and with a peculiar, nervous laugh, he sat down again. - -“Get out of this,” said he roughly. “If you don’t like my prices leave -them for those who do.” - -Turning his back to the girls he coolly began arranging the papers on -his desk. - -When Dido began to plead for justice he calmly ordered foreman Flint to -“remove these young persons.” - -“If you do dare touch me, I’ll kill you!” exclaimed Dido in a rage, as -Flint made a movement to obey orders. - -He cowered, stepped back and stammered an excuse to his employer. He -felt the scorch in Dido’s blazing midnight eyes and he respected her -warning and his own person. - -Mr. Bike moved quietly to the door and holding it open, said: - -“My beauty, you be careful, or that fine spirit of yours will get you -into trouble some of these days.” - -Dido gave him a scornful glance as she and Maggie walked out, and the -door was closed behind them. - -She related her failure to the waiting girls, and they all went home -after promising to be there Monday morning to prevent others taking -their places. They seemed to feel the consequence of their own act less -than Dido and rather welcomed an extra holiday. - -That evening Dido pawned all her furniture and extra clothes, and -the money she received for them, added to her savings, went towards -saving the body of Mrs. Williams from the Potter’s Field. There was not -quite enough to pay the undertaker, so Dido was forced to borrow the -remainder from Blind Gilbert, the beggar, who occupied the room in the -rear of that occupied by the Williamses. - -Monday morning the girls all gathered around the entrance to -the factory and urged the new girls, who came in answer to an -advertisement, not to apply for work and thereby injure their chances -of making the strike successful. - -Only the foreigners stubbornly refused the girls’ request, and they -applied for and received the work which the others had abandoned. -Tuesday more foreigners were given work, and the weaker strikers, -getting frightened at this, quitted their companions and returned to -the factory. - -This so enraged the other strikers that they waited for the deserters -in the evening, when they were going home from work. They first tried -to persuade their weaker companions to reconsider their decision and -somehow the argument ended in a fight. - -Dido Morgan, who was stationed as a picket further down the street, -came rushing up to the struggling, pulling, crying girls, hoping to -pacify them. - -Almost instantly foreman Flint arrived, accompanied by an officer. -Pointing out Dido, with a diabolical grin he told the officer to arrest -her. The now frightened girls fell back while the officer dragged Dido -away, despite her protests. - -That night she spent in the station-house, and in the morning she was -taken to the Essex Market Court, where the Judge, listening to the -policeman’s highly imaginative story, asked her what she had to say, -and though she endeavored to tell the truth, hustled her off with “ten -days or ten dollars.” - -Being penniless she was sent to the Island, where she spent the most -miserable ten days of her life. - -But her final release brought her no happiness or joy. She knew that -it was useless to return to her bare rooms, because of the rent being -overdue, and she had no friend but Margaret Williams, who had as much -as she could manage to provide for herself. - -Disheartened, penniless and hungry, she spent the day wandering around -from one place to another, begging for any kind of work. At every place -they complained of having more workers than they needed. - -Night came on and she thought of the Christian homes, ostensibly -asylums for such unfortunate beings as herself. She applied to several -along Second Avenue and Bleecker Street, but she found no refuge in -any. They were either filled, or because she had no professed religion -and had long since quit attending church, they barricaded their -Christian (?) quarters against her. - -The last and only place, in which they made no inquiries about -religion, they charged twenty cents for a bed, and so the weary, hungry -girl was forced again to go out into the darkness. - -She noticed an open door, leading to a dispensary, on Fourth Avenue, -and hiding herself in a dark corner of the hallway there, she spent the -night. - -In the morning she got a glass of milk and a cup of broth in the diet -kitchen, and then she resumed her search for work. - -It was useless. Tired out and discouraged she wandered on and on, until -she came to the Park. The unhappy girl sought the enticing shade, where -she watched the gay, merry people who passed before her. The more she -saw, the more despondent she became. They looked so blest, so happy. - -Life gave them everything and gave her nothing. - -It began to grow dark, and every one hurried from the Park. She had -no place to go, no one to care for her, nothing to live for, and she -walked further into the Park, helpless, hopeless. - -How grand it would be to rest for evermore! - -The thought came and charmed her. How sweet, how blessed a long, easy, -senseless slumber would be with no pain, no unhappiness, no hunger! - -She noticed the reservoir, she climbed up and looked in. Like a bed of -velvet the dark waters lay quietly before her, and the rough darkness -of the surrounding country seemed to warn her to partake of what was -within her reach. - -A great wave of peace welled up in her heart, her weariness disappeared -in an exquisite languor, which enwrapped her body and mind. - -“‘Rest, everlasting rest,’ rang soothingly in my ears,” said Dido, in -conclusion, “and with a little cry of joy I went to plunge in”---- - -“And I saved you from a very rash deed,” broke in Dick. “My poor girl, -don’t you know there are hundreds of noble-hearted people in New York -who are always ready to help the unfortunate? There is charity and -Christianity in some places.” - -“But they are hard to find,” said the girl, “and they do not exist in -so-called benevolent homes.” - -“Now, I tell you what we will do,” said Dick, cordially, lighting a -match and looking at his watch. “We will first try to find something to -eat, for I am beastly hungry, and then I will take you to your friend, -Maggie Williams, if you will kindly show the way, and we will see what -can be done for a young woman who gives up so easily.” - -To be frank, Richard doubted the girl’s story. Yet he did not want -to act hastily in the matter. If the girl had suffered all she said, -he felt that not only would he gladly help her, but Penelope would be -delighted to make life brighter for the poor victim of fate. So he -decided to take her to the home of Margaret Williams, if such a person -really existed, and learn from others the true story, if what she had -told him should prove to be false. - -In this Richard showed himself very wise for a young man. If it was -really a case of charity no one would be kinder or more liberal, but he -doubted. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -IS THE GIRL HONEST? - - -In a small oyster-house near the Park they found something to eat, and -Dick also found that he had saved the life of a remarkably pretty girl. - -At any other time Dick Treadwell would have scorned to eat dinner--and -such a dinner--at such a place. This night he not only ate, but enjoyed -it. He never noticed the uninviting appearance of the big, fat German -waiter who had, when they first came in, leaned with both hands on the -table and said briefly, and with a rising accent, “Beer?” - -He slapped his dirty towel over the sticky circular spots on the table -as Richard ordered dinner from a card that looked as if it had never -served any other purpose than that of fly-paper. - -The waiter went out, after receiving the order, carefully closing the -door after him. The room was evidently meant for small parties, for the -only thing in it was the table and four chairs. - -“Don’t you think the room is too warm?” Dick asked, and hardly waiting -for his guest’s reply, he got up and opened wide the door. - -The waiter spread a cotton napkin over the table before Dick and Dido -Morgan, and set some pickles and crackers, and pepper and salt, and -two little bits of butter, the size and shape of a half dollar, on the -table; then he brought the clams. - -This done he went out again, very carefully closing the door after -him. Richard called to him, but he did not answer, so Dick got up and -opened the door himself. Dido Morgan looked at him with an innocent, -questioning smile. She had no idea that Dick could possibly have any -other reason for opening the door, than that it made the room cooler. -When the waiter came in the next time he closed the door. Richard’s -face flushed angrily as he said sternly: - -“I wish that door open. You will please leave it so.” - -The waiter gave an impudent, almost familiar grin, but the door was -open during the rest of the dinner. - -As Dido Morgan sat opposite Dick eating daintily but appreciatively, -the color came into her dark, creamy cheeks, and her brown eyes -sparkled like the reflection of the sun in a still, dark pool. Her -loose, damp hair, hanging in little rings about her broad brow and -white throat, was very appealing to the artistic sense. - -And her look--it was so frank, so sincere, so trusting, and her eyes -had such a way of looking startled, that Dick felt a warmer thrill of -interest invade his soul than he ever thought possible for any other -girl than Penelope. - -Before dinner was finished Richard had called her “Miss Dido,” and -“Dido,” and she had not even thought of resenting it. - -There are a great many false ideas that are forgotten in such moments -as these. - -The one had seen the other face death, and a human feeling had for the -time swept all false pretenses and hollow etiquette away. - -They drove down to Mulberry Street in a coupé, and if such a thing was -unusual to the young girl whom Richard rescued, it was well hidden -under a manner of ease that suggested familiarity. - -“There is where Maggie Williams lived,” she said, as they turned down -Mulberry Street. Richard leaned forward, but in the semi-light got -little idea of the appearance of the place. - -“She may have gone from there by this time,” Dido continued, showing -a slight hesitation that threatened to shake Dick’s not over-strong -confidence in her. “She lived there when I went away, but so many -things happen in such short time among the poor.” - -“Don’t stop the driver,” she said, quickly, as Dick pounded on the -glass with the head of his walking-stick. “Drive on to the corner. It -is such an unusual sight to see a carriage stop before these houses, -that it would likely attract a crowd, and you don’t want to do that.” - -“Why?” asked Dick, curiously. When he could not see her face he liked -her less. - -“Well, you look so unlike the people who live in this neighborhood, and -if you attract notice, you might find it a very uncomfortable place for -an elegant young man to be in at almost midnight,” Dido Morgan said, -with a light laugh; then, taking matters into her own hands, she opened -the door of the coupé, and called the driver to stop. - -Richard had no sooner dismissed the driver than he regretted it. He -again felt the old mistrust of the strange girl, and recollections of -tales he had read of female trappers and the original snares they lay -for their victims returned forcibly to his mind. - -He felt he was a fool to come here at night, but he was ashamed to -go back now. The night was warm and the heat had driven many of the -people out of the tenements in search of a breath of air, and the dark -groups of silent men and women who filled the door-steps and basement -entrances and curbstones, and the ill-favored people who passed them -offered Dick little hope for succor, if indeed he was the victim of a -plot. - -There were no policemen to be seen anywhere, although Dick knew the -police headquarters were not far distant. - -Quietly he walked beside the girl, who, too, had grown silent. He -scorned to confess his fears, and he felt a determination to meet what -there might be waiting for him, even if it be death, before he would -weaken and retreat. - -The girl entered the doorway of a dark, dilapidated house, the only -doorway which had no lounger, a fact in itself suspicious to Dick. He, -with many misgivings and a decided palpitation of the heart, stumbled -on the step as he started to follow. - -Had he done right and was he safe in trusting and following this clever -girl? - -Before he had time to decide she caught his hand and led him into the -dark hall. - -A little weak thought, that doubtless holding his hand was part of the -plan to give him less chance for self-defense, flashed through his -mind. - -Gropingly he put forth his other hand, and a thrill of horror shot -through him like an electric shock as it came in contact with a man’s -coat and a warm, yielding body. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -MR. MARTIN SHANKS: GUARDIAN. - - -“Did you run against something?” asked Dido, as she felt Richard start. - -“It’s only me,” said a deep bass voice, which had such an honest and -harmless ring, that Richard’s fear and nervousness dropped from him -like a cloak. - -“It’s all right,” Dido responded cheerfully, as she stopped and knocked -on a door. - -Dick knew it was a door from the sound, but he was unable to -distinguish door from wall in the darkness. - -It was opened by some one inside. Dick saw the outlines of a -girlish figure between himself and the light, and heard a surprised -exclamation: “Why, Dido!” - -They stepped in, and the girl closed the door and hastened to set -chairs for her visitors. - -“Mr. Treadwell, this is Margaret Williams,” said Dido; then turning to -Maggie she added, simply, “Mr. Treadwell has been kind to me.” - -“We were frightened about you,” Maggie said, her eyes beaming warmly -on Dido. “I heard you got in trouble ’round at the shop. I went out to -look you up, but I couldn’t find out anything about you either at the -station-house or at your house.” - -“I s’pose you know,” she added, “that the girls went in? Yes, the -strike is off. They wouldn’t take me back, so I’m doing what I can for -Blind Gilbert, and he pays rent and buys what we eat.” - -Dido, in a few simple words, frankly told Maggie all that had befallen -her since her arrest. She did not omit her rash attempt to commit -suicide, and Richard’s timely intervention. - -Meanwhile Richard had taken a glance about the little bare room. - -A plain, single-board table, covered with a bit of badly worn oilcloth, -had been pulled out into the room, and they now sat around it. A little -low oil lamp, with a broken chimney--which had been patched with a -scrap of paper--was the only light in the room. Dick carefully slipped -a paper bill under the newspaper which lay on the table where Margaret -had flung it when she came to open the door for them. - -A small stove stood close to the wall, and on it was a tin coffee-pot -and an iron tea-kettle with a broken spout. - -Above the stove was a little shelf, which held some tallow candles in -a jar, and some upturned flat-irons. - -The bed looked very unsafe and uncomfortable. It was covered with a -gayly colored calico patchwork quilt. The patchwork was made in some -set pattern, which was unlike anything Richard had ever seen or dreamed -of. - -Several pieces of as many carpets lay on the floor, and a much worn -blanket was hung on two nails over the window, to take the place of a -shade or curtain. - -Dick’s heart ached at the evident signs of poverty, and a warm instinct -of protection possessed him. - -“I hope you will allow me to be of some assistance to you,” he said, -when the girls, having finished their confessions, became silent. “I -think I can, in a few days, assure Miss Dido of a better position than -the one she has lost.” - -As he spoke, there came a timid knock on the door, and Maggie sprang to -open it. - -“I jest thought I’d drop in tew see how you wuz gettin’ along, Maggie,” -said from the darkness the same deep bass voice that had restored -Richard’s courage in the hallway. - -It was followed by a tall, lank man, who awkwardly held a black, soft -felt hat in his big red hands. His rough clothes seemed to hang on him, -and he held one shoulder higher than the other in an apologetic manner, -as if to assure the world that his towering above the average height -of people was neither his fault nor desire. His bushy and unattractive -dust-colored hair seemed determined to maintain the stiffness which -its owner lacked. His red mustache and chin-whiskers were resolved to -out-bristle his hair. His shaggy eyebrows overhung modest blue eyes -that looked as if they fain would draw beneath those brows as a turtle -draws its head under its shell. - -He bashfully greeted Dido, and she introduced him to Richard as “Mr. -Martin Shanks, who boards with some friends upstairs.” He held out his -big hand to Dick, saying: - -“Glad to make yer acquaintance, sir!” all the while blushing vividly. - -“We ran against you in the hall, I think,” ventured Dido. - -“Yes, I was standin’ there when you came,” he answered, slowly, -shooting a glance from under his brows at Maggie. - -Maggie looked down, and Dido was surprised to see her blush. She would -have been more surprised if Maggie had told her that this great, big, -hulking man had stood guard at her door every night since her mother -died. - -“I should jedge you don’t belong to this yer neighborhood,” he -remarked to Richard, shooting forth a jealous look. - -“You are correct,” replied Richard, pleasantly. - -“What might yer business be?” he demanded further, nervously turning -his hat. - -“Down here, or my professional employment?” asked Richard, waking up. - -“What do ye do fer a livin?” - -“Oh! I see. I’m a lawyer,” Dick replied, glibly. - -“A lawyer, eh? An’ I take it as yer not a married man, else ye wouldn’t -be payin’ attentions to this ’ere orphan girl.” - -“You don’t understand,” Maggie interrupted, startled. “Dido was in -trouble and Mr. Treadwell found her and brought her here.” - -“Martin should mind his own business,” exclaimed Dido, indignantly. “If -this was my house I would show him the door.” - -“Not on my account,” interposed Dick, warmly. “If Mr. Shanks is a -friend of the family he has a right to know the reason of a stranger -being here.” - -“These young girls ’ere, sir,” explained frightened Martin Shanks, -“have no parints to take care on them, an’ I says to meself, when Mis’ -Williams wuz a lyin’ dead here, that I’d see no harm come aninst them -while I wuz about.” - -“That was very good of you, Mr. Shanks,” cordially replied Dick, and -then, bidding the girls good night, he left. Martin Shanks, wishing to -see the stranger well out of the neighborhood before he quit his post -of guardianship for the remainder of the night, accompanied Dick as far -as Broadway, and Dick was not sorry to have his escort. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE MISSING STENOGRAPHER. - - -When next Richard went to Mulberry Street, it was to notify Dido Morgan -of a position he had secured for her with a prominent photographer. Her -duties would be light and not unpleasant, as she was merely required to -take charge of the reception room. - -Dido was delighted; nothing could have suited her better. Before -her father died, she had devoted a great deal of time and study to -sketching, and now this work seemed as though it might lead her nearer -to her old life. - -While Richard was talking to the girls he heard a scraping noise in -the hall, and presently the door opened, and an old man, with such -a decided roundness of the shoulders that it was almost a hump, felt -with his cane the way before him and apparently finding everything all -right entered and closed the door. A little, short-tailed, spotted dog, -with a world of affection bound up in his black-and-white hide, slid in -beside the man’s uncertain legs, and now stood wiggling his body with a -wiggle that bespoke affection for the man. - -“Maggie, is you ready for me and Fritz?” he asked, timidly. - -“Yes, Gilbert,” she replied, gently, and she went to him and guided his -uncertain feet to a chair which stood before the table. - -“The young gentleman who was so good to Dido is here,” she explained, -and he lifted his head quickly as if he would like to see. At this, -Richard very thoughtfully came forward and taking the old man’s shaking -hand, gave it a warm pressure. - -“I’m glad to know you, sir,” Blind Gilbert said, deferentially. “May -be you know me, sir. It’s sixteen years this coming August since I’ve -had a stand on Broadway. I don’t do much business, but I’m thankful for -all I have. The Lord, in all this mercy, seen fit to afflict me, but he -never let old Gilbert starve.” - -“How did you lose your sight?” Richard asked awkwardly, not wishing to -express any opinion concerning the mercy of making a man blind. - -“Well, it came very sudden like. I had a little shop in this very room, -sir, and I lived in the one back, where I’ve lived ever since I lost -my shop. I done a good business, as I had done ever since me and me -old woman came out from Ireland, these forty years ago. Me old woman -fell sick and after running up a long doctor bill, she died, the Lord -bless her soul, for if we had our fights, she was a good woman to me. -One mornin’ after she had been put in her grave, I started out to go -across Mulberry Street. The sun was shinin’ bright when I started out -the door and it was as fine a mornin’ as I ever seen. When I got to -the middle of the street, everything got as dark as night and I yelled -for help. They took me to the doctor’s but he said I had gone blind -and nothing could help me. Then they took me to a hospital, and after -a while I could see some light with one eye, but then it left and they -said nothing could be done. I couldn’t stay shut up, so I came back. -Me little shop was gone and everything I owned, so I got a license and -went on to Broadway and begged until I got enough to rent the back room -again and there I’ve lived ever since.” - -“Does what you get pay all your expenses?” Richard asked. - -“The city gives me forty dollars a year, and I manage to make enough -with that to keep me.” - -Maggie took a newspaper off the table which disclosed beneath it the -table spread for a simple meal. She took a bit of fried steak and some -fried potatoes from the oven and set them before Gilbert. - -Richard felt somewhat embarrassed and started to leave, but they all -urged him so warmly to stay that he sat down again. When Maggie poured -out Gilbert’s coffee, she offered a cup of it to Dick. He, fearing to -hurt her feelings by refusing to partake of what she had made, accepted -the great thick cup. It was the worst dose Dick ever took. He tried to -maintain an air of enjoyment, but he found it impossible to prevent his -face drawing very stiff and grave when he tried to swallow the horrible -stuff. - -“Won’t you have some more coffee? This is warmer,” Maggie asked, as -Dick at last set the cup down. - -“No, no,” he answered, thickly, but most decidedly. - -Maggie gave him a startled, inquiring look, and poor Richard felt -himself blush as he endeavored to swallow the mouthful of coffee-grains -he got with the last of the coffee. Finding this unpleasant as well as -impracticable, he disposed of them as best he could in his handkerchief -and hastened to reassure her. - -“I never, never drink coffee until after dinner,” he said, earnestly, -“and only broke my usual rule on this occasion because you made it.” - -He gave her a smile with this pretty speech; while it was not exactly -what his pleased smiles usually were, it made Maggie blush with -pleasure. - -The spotted dog, having swallowed his food after the manner of people -at railway stations, came rubbing and sniffling around Richard’s knee -in a very friendly spirit. - -“Fine dog, sir, Fritz is,” Blind Gilbert said, hearing the dog’s -sounds. “Gettin’ old, though, like the old man. Now, Mag’, -child,--she’s me ’dopted daughter, sir, I never had no children of me -own--if you’re ready, me girl, we’ll start for me place of business.” - -Maggie put on her hat and fastened a chain to Fritz’s collar, and then -giving Richard a little smile, took blind Gilbert by the hand and led -him out. - -“Maggie is very wretched about her sister Lucille,” said Dido, -confidentially, when left alone with Dick. “She went away two weeks -before Mrs. Williams died, and she hasn’t come back yet.” - -“Did she say that she would be away for any time?” Richard asked, with -a show of interest that he was far from feeling. He was rather weary of -troublesome girls just then. - -“No, that’s it,” eagerly. “They hadn’t any idea that she wasn’t coming -home.” - -“Indeed! Where had she gone?” - -“They don’t even know that. She said she was going out to do some extra -work.” - -“What kind of work?” - -“She was a typewriter and a stenographer,” Dido explained, “and in the -evenings she used to get extra work. This night she went to work, but -she did not come back, and Maggie worries over it.” - -“I should think she would,” Richard replied kindly. “Why didn’t Maggie -go to her sister’s employer? Probably he could throw some light on the -subject.” - -“She did go to him, and he said Lucille had asked for two weeks’ -vacation, which he had given her, and Maggie didn’t want to tell him -that Lucille had gone out to do some extra work, for fear he wouldn’t -like it. He paid her by the week, and didn’t know she did outside work. -Maggie thought then she would be back, but now it is five weeks and she -hasn’t come back yet.” - -“And poor mother loved her so,” added Maggie huskily, as she re-entered -the room, having left Blind Gilbert on his corner. - -“Do you think we could do anything towards finding her?” Dido asked -eagerly. - -“I hardly see what you could do, unless you notify the police and -advertise for her,” Dick replied, listlessly. He had enough girls on -his mind now, with Penelope, the Park Mystery girl and Dido, and he did -not feel anxious to add another to his already too large list. He felt -satisfied to look after Penelope, and was desirous of assuming sole -charge of her, but did not want any more. - -“I should say that she had received a better position somewhere, and -that you will hear from her before long,” Dick added, encouragingly. - -“Oh, she would surely send for her clothes if she had,” Dido said, -earnestly. “If you will tell us what to do--what is the best thing--we -will try to do it; Maggie is so anxious to find her.” - -“I can easily do for you all that can be done,” Dick replied. “If you -can give me a description of her, I will send it to Police Headquarters -and have them search for her.” - -“She was slender, and had a lovely white complexion and blue eyes, and -black hair,” Dido began, Richard writing it in a little notebook. - -“Was she tall or short?” he asked, pausing for a reply. - -“About my height--don’t you think so, Maggie? I’m five feet four and -one-half inches.” - -“How was she dressed?” - -“She had on her black alpaca dress, and wore a round black turban, with -a bunch of green grass on the back of it,” said Dido. - -“And she carried her light jacket along to wear home, ’cause mother -thought it would be cold,” Maggie said, helping Dido along. “Lucille -always had nicer dresses than I had. She was twenty-one, though she -didn’t look it. I am older than she is.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -THE STRANGER AT THE BAR. - - -Richard Treadwell sent a description of Maggie Williams’ missing sister -to the police authorities, and also inserted a cautious but alluring -personal in all the leading newspapers; still the missing Lucille did -not return, and nothing was heard of her. - -“My God, what it is to be poor!” Richard mused one morning as he -walked up Broadway. “Why, the glimpses I get during my visits to -Mulberry Street, of the trials and privations the poor endure, makes -me heartsick. There’s Gilbert, blind and helpless, forced to spend his -time on a Broadway corner begging his living. Sitting there waiting -for people to give him pennies, and yet he doesn’t want to die. Why, he -clings to life as if he had the wealth of Monte Cristo. And all those -untidy, unhappy women down there, with peevish, crying, dirty children, -live on in their garrets and cellars, for what? - -“They have no pleasures, no happiness, no comfort, and they are raising -families to live out the same miserable existence. Ugh! - -“And there are Maggie and Dido! They live in that miserable, -God-forsaken room, and haven’t a decent-looking dress to their backs. -There are no drives, no jewels, no pretty dresses, no fond petting for -them, yet, bless their brave hearts, they are more cheerful than most -girls I know who live on the Avenue. Dido is happy now that she has -work, and Maggie would be happy if it wasn’t for her absent sister. -By Jove, I respect those girls. I admire their spirit, and if I don’t -find Maggie’s sister it won’t be my fault. It’s just as easy to solve -the mystery of two girls, as it is to solve the mystery of one,” he -thought, with grim humor, as he had made no progress in either case. - -“I haven’t the least doubt that Maggie’s sister, tiring of the poverty -at home, found snugger quarters and is sticking to them. If I only -knew what she looked like I would likely run across her in some of my -rounds. New York is a very little place to those that go about. I’ll -wager if I knew that girl, and she was running around, I’d meet her -inside of three evenings. If I could only identify her----By Jove! I -have it. I’ll get Dido, who knows the girl, and I’ll take her to the -places where we are likely to meet the missing sister. Whew! Why didn’t -I think of it before? If I don’t know all about her inside of a week -I’ll think--well, I’ll find the little scamp, that’s all.” - -Delighted with his new scheme, Richard cut across Twenty-fourth Street -and went into the Hoffman House bar-room. Without stopping he went -through to the office, where he wrote and sent a note to Dido, asking -her to take dinner with him that evening. Then he walked back to the -bar to congratulate himself--after the manner of his sex--for taking -the road, whose way, he thought, led to success. - -Richard stood before the famous bar and marvelled how daylight seemed -to rob the room of half its fascination. The men of the world, the men -of fashion, the outlandish youth of dudedom, the be-diamonded actor and -bejewelled men whose modes of life would ill bear investigation, had -all fled with the night. - -The Flemish tapestry looked dull, and the exquisite Eve was a less -glaring white, and seemed to have lost expression in a newfound -modesty, and the nymphs and satyr looked dull and tired. How different -from the hours when the gas brought beautiful colors into the cut-glass -pendants on the chandeliers, and everything seemed awake and alive -where now they slept. The bartenders looked dull and uninterested, and -a man who stood alone at the bar drank as if he had nothing else to do. - -He was a low, heavy-set man, dressed handsomely. He wore a black beard -and mustache, and his small, black, bright eyes critically surveyed, -across his high nose, the handsome and genial Richard. He set down an -empty whiskey glass from which he had just been drinking, and, after -taking a swallow of ice water, he remarked, in a voice perfectly void -of emotion: - -“I beg your pardon, but do you know that you are being ‘shadowed’?” - -“I knew they were after me some days ago, but I thought they had given -me up,” Dick said, laughingly. “What do you know about it?” - -“I saw a man dog after you to the office when you first went through, -and when you returned he came after you and went on out the side door. -He’ll be on the watch for you when you go out,” he continued, in that -even, passionless voice. - -“You are very kind,” Dick said, gratefully, “to warn me of the fellow.” - -“The game was too easy, if you didn’t know,” he said, with a malicious -grin. “I only wanted to give the fellow some work--make him earn his -money. You can both work at the same game now.” - -“You are very kind,” Dick repeated, mechanically. He had a faint -impression that the stranger had warned him of his followers more with -malicious motives than with any feeling of good will, still the next -moment he felt ashamed of harboring such a thought against the man. - -“If you care to know the fellow, I’ll walk out with you and point him -out,” the man offered gruffly, still with a gleam in his eyes which -showed that the expected discomfort of the two men afforded him if not -exactly pleasure, at least, amusement. - -“Thank you. Won’t you join me first?” asked Dick. “What will you have? -Whiskey”--to the bartender. “I am very much obliged for your kindness, -and if I can ever be of any service to you, command me,” and the -impulsive Dick took his card case from his pocket and handed one of -the rectangular bits of pasteboard to the man just as they both lifted -their glasses. - -The stranger glanced at the name and turned ghastly pale. His glass -fell from his nerveless fingers to the floor with a crash, and he -leaned heavily against the mahogany bar. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -TOLMAN BIKE. - - -One evening Mr. Richard Treadwell found the following letter awaiting -him when he went to his rooms to dress for dinner. - - “Washington, _June Third, 18--_. - - “Dear Dick: - - “I am glad to say our prolonged visit has drawn to a close, and - to-morrow we return to dear old New York and--Dick. I wonder how much - we have been missed. You cannot imagine how anxious I am to see you. - I feel sure that you are ready to tell me all about the poor dead - girl. - - “You can’t imagine how I feel about her. Auntie says I am morbid and - depressed. When I go to bed at night and close my eyes I can see her - again lying before us, her masses of golden hair, her pretty little - hands, her delicate clothes, and I can’t go to sleep for wondering - whose darling she was and how she came to stray so far away from home - and that they never found her. - - “I firmly believe she eloped with some rascal who tired of her at - last and murdered her to free himself. - - “When will you solve this unhappy mystery? - - “Your short, unsatisfactory letters, I have felt all along, were a - mere blind to keep me from suspecting the surprising story you have - in reserve for me. - - “If you have been wasting your time in being devoted to some of the - many girls who used to attract your attention, and neglecting the - Park mystery case, I feel that I can never forgive you. - - “I forgot to tell you in my last that we met Clara Chamberlain and - her mother here. They came over for a day to arrange with their - lawyers something about Clara’s Washington property. Clara confessed - to me that the report which was published awhile ago concerning her - engagement was true. You remember none of us credited it at the time. - Well, it is true, and the wedding is to be celebrated privately on - the seventh. Auntie is to go and I promised Clara I would be there. - Will this not be rather a blow to your friend Chauncey Osborne? - - “Her fiancé, I believe, is quite unknown in our set. You know how - very peculiar dear Clara always was! She, of course, says that he is - charming and a man of culture and ability, a prominent politician and - bound to make a stir in the world. - - “Auntie met an old friend here, Mr. Schuyler, who went to school with - auntie. They have been living their school-days over again--it seems - they were boy and girl lovers--and to hear them laugh over the things - they used to do makes me laugh from very sympathy. - - “Do you know, girls don’t have half the fun now that they did in - auntie’s day. I will never be able, when I get to be an old woman, - to sit down and recall with a playmate the funny scrapes we got into - when we were children. When I hear auntie and Mr. Schuyler talk, I - feel so sorry that my life has been so common-place. - - “But there--I have written four times as much as you did in your - last. Mr. Schuyler is going over to New York with us, and we are - going to show him about. He has not been there since he was a boy. - - “Hoping you have been a good boy during my absence, I am, - - “Very sincerely your (s), - “PENELOPE.” - - To - - “RICHARD TREADWELL, Esqre., - “‘The Washington,’ - “New York City.” - - “I forgot to say that Clara’s fianceé, I have been told, is the sole - proprietor of some kind of a factory downtown which assures him quite - a nice income. His name is Tolman Bike. Did you ever hear of him?” - -“The name sounds familiar to me,” thought Dick, as he folded the letter -and put it in his pocket. “Still I do not remember ever knowing such a -person. Probably I recollect it, from reading that notice of Clara’s -engagement, although I had forgotten the whole matter.” - -Dick Treadwell was not feeling very easy. He longed for Penelope’s -return, yet he dreaded it, knowing that he had no progress to report in -the task she had imposed upon him. He had thought she would be pleased -with his conduct in regard to Dido Morgan and Maggie Williams, but -when she had expressed a hope that he had not been devoting himself to -girls and wasting the time that belonged to the work he had undertaken, -he felt a little dubious as to the way in which she would receive any -account of the part he took with the poor girls whom he wished to -befriend. - -“Isn’t the matter of likes and dislikes a strange thing?” Dick asked, -when, an hour later, he and Dido Morgan were dining together. He -refilled the glasses which stood by their plates. “This is very good -wine, don’t you think? Let me help you to some spaghetti. I have often -wondered why at first meeting we conceive a regard for some people and -a dislike for others. - -“You remember the incident I related to you the first, or rather the -second time you dined with me, of the man I met in the Hoffman House -who warned me that I was shadowed. Well, I have run across him several -times since. I have the strangest feeling for him, and he apparently -dislikes me. I can’t say that I like him, but I have such a desire to -be with and near him that I can’t say I dislike him either. By Jove, -I was surprised when he fell against the bar that day and looked so -miserably ill. I thought at first it was the sight of my name that -affected him, but he assured me that it was a spasm of the heart, a -chronic complaint of his.” - -“What was his name?” asked Dido, breaking off a bit of bread. She was -growing prettier every day since Richard had secured a position for -her, and to-night she was bewitching in a new gray cloth gown. - -“Clark, he said; I think I asked him for it,” said Dick, laughing. - -“You don’t seem to have tired of going around to all sorts of -restaurants,” he continued, noticing the happy expression on Dido’s -pretty face. - -“Tired of it!” - -Her tone but faintly expressed what untold happiness those evenings had -been to her. - -“I thought you would be disgusted with our search before it was half -finished,” he said, looking admiringly into her soft brown eyes that -had given him one of those startled glances which half bewitched him. - -“It has been heaven!” she said, with a sigh of rapture. “I love the -bright lights, and the well-dressed, happy people, and the busy, silent -waiters, and the white linen and the fine dishes. Oh, I think people -who can take their dinners out all the time must be very, very happy.” - -“You would not think so if you were a poor, forlorn man,” he said, -smiling at her enthusiasm, “and had to dine out three hundred and -sixty-five times a year, not counting breakfast and luncheon. I’ve -started out evenings and I’ve stopped on Broadway and wondered where -on earth I should eat. Delmonico’s, St. James, Hoffman, all are old -stories, clear down the list. Here I had luncheon, there probably I had -breakfast, the other place I dined last night or the night before, and -at last I turn down some cross street, and go into a cheap place where -a fellow can’t get a mouthful that it doesn’t gag him, so I’ll have an -appetite to-morrow. I hate the sight of a bill of fare and I get so -that I’ll fool around for half an hour until some man near me orders, -and then I order the same thing. I tell you it’s dreadful not to know -where to eat.” - -“I suppose that is the reason some men marry?” she asked, brightly. - -“Well, not exactly,” he said, flushing slightly. - -“Do the people you see in the restaurants never interest you?” Dido -asked, seeing he had become silent. - -“No, I never notice them unless it is some one with loud dress or -manners, and then I watch them as I watch a lot of monkeys in a cage.” - -“Every place I go I see some one interesting,” Dido said, slowly. “Look -at that fat woman over there, in the cherry-red dress and hat. See how -proud that little dark man looks of having such a woman with him. I -have heard her tell him of her former great triumphs as an actress, and -I can imagine a story of her life. See that slender, pretty, dark-eyed -girl, with very white brow, and very red cheeks, and very dark shadows -about her eyes, and very, very golden hair. See her smile and talk -to that insipid-looking man, with an enormous nose and bald head and -eye-glasses, whose ‘villain’s mustache,’ carries a sample of everything -he had for dinner. Now can’t you picture that pretty girl is some -ballet girl ambitious to rise. He, a man of means and influence, and -she forgets his looks and that he talks through his nose, and tries to -impress him with her ability.” - -“Hum!” said Richard, giving Dido a strange smile. “I’m afraid my -imagination is not as great or as charitable as yours. Tell me what you -think of the party to our left.” - -“That poor little man without legs?” asked Dido, quick tears coming -to her eyes. “He has a bright, happy face though, and he has -diamonds--many of them, on his fingers. I think that large woman who -sits beside him and looks into his eyes so affectionately, loves him -very much because of his affliction. I’m sure I would. And that man and -woman opposite, though I don’t like their looks, seem to heed every -word he says and to be very fond of him.” - -Richard laughed softly. - -“Well, Dido, I don’t want to spoil your dream, but that little man has -a brain that is far out of proportion to his weak and dwarfed body. He -stands at the head of his profession, and has accumulated wealth by -his industry and ability. Quite a reproach to us worthless fellows, -who were born with legs. I have a great admiration for him, but those -people with him neither care for him for his ability or his affliction. -They are not of that kind.” - -“What then?” asked Dido, in distress. - -“Money--money, child. It’s the story you could read at almost every -table here. That’s why I don’t allow my imagination any liberty in -restaurants. Your eyes have not yet tried the worldly glasses which -experience has put on mine. And now, while we drink our coffee, let us -talk about Maggie’s sister.” - -A girl came through, trying to sell some badly assorted flowers, and a -black and yellow bird in a cage, high above their heads, thrusts his -long beak and head through the wires and, impudently twisting his head -to see what was taking place below him, gave vent at intervals to a -shrill, defiant cry. - -Meanwhile, Richard lighted a cigarette and resumed the conversation. - -“I think it is useless to hunt for Maggie’s sister any longer. We have -made a pretty thorough search of the resorts where I thought we were -likely to meet her. I confess I am disappointed. I was sure we would -run across her somewhere, and that you would recognize her. Do you -think it is possible for you not to recognize her?” - -“No, indeed! I’d recognize Lucille Williams anywhere,” Dido replied, -earnestly. - -“My private opinion--don’t tell Maggie--is, that she tired of her -family and home and that she took herself to better quarters and means -to keep them in ignorance of her whereabouts, fearing they would ask -her to give towards their support.” - -“I hardly think Lucille was as heartless as that,” thoughtfully replied -Dido. “She was vain and fond of dressing, but I don’t think she would -be as mean as that.” - -“What were her habits?” asked Dick. - -“Habits? What she did regularly? Well, she used to go to Coney Island -and Rockaway and such places in the Summer, with some boys she met in -the places she worked, but after she got work in the office at the -factory where we worked, she got very steady and she wouldn’t go out -with anybody any more. The nights she went out she went to do extra -work.” - -“How did she get along with your employer? You gave me the impression -that he was very brutal,” Dick said, musingly. - -“Oh, Lucille got along splendidly with him. I always thought he -was horrible, but she never said anything about him. She was very -easy-natured, anyway, and I have a bad temper,” said Dido, in a -shamefaced way. - -“How did he like her, do you know?” - -“Who? Tolman Bike?” asked Dido, quickly. - -“Tolman Bike? Why”--stammered Dick. - -“He was the proprietor, you know, and Lucille was his stenographer,” -exclaimed Dido. “I don’t know what he thought of her, for Lucille -didn’t talk much; but she seemed to get along well enough.” - -Dido became silent, as Richard was intent on his own thoughts. - -Tolman Bike was the name of the man who was to marry Clara Chamberlain. - -Tolman Bike was also the name of the employer of Lucille and Maggie -Williams and Dido Morgan. - -Tolman Bike, Miss Chamberlain’s fianceé, was the proprietor of a -downtown factory, so it must be one and the same man. - -Well, and if so, could it be possible that Tolman Bike, the man who -was engaged to marry a banker’s daughter, could have been in love with -Lucille Williams, a poor stenographer, and persuaded her to leave her -home for him? - -Richard was a young man, and the idea was not a surprising one to him. -According to what he could learn, the dark-haired stenographer was fond -of the things she could little afford to possess, and it was likely -that her employer, knowing her desires, made it possible for her to -gratify them. - -Now that he was to marry, he would not be likely to hold out any -inducement for the girl to stay with him, and if they should happen -across her now it was possible that she would gladly return to the -humble home of her sister. - -Still, supposing Tolman Bike had found no attraction for him in the -stenographer? It was a very delicate thing to handle, considering that -Richard’s knowledge was mostly supposition. - -“Do you think that Maggie’s sister really worked those nights she was -away from home?” Dick asked Dido. - -“She always brought extra money home, which proved she did,” Dido -replied positively. - -“Did she ever talk about Tolman Bike?” - -“Never, except when she mentioned that he had dictated more work than -usual, or something of that kind.” - -“Well, I believe that Tolman Bike can tell me something about Maggie’s -sister,” Richard said. Dido looked at him with a smile of doubt. “If -she is not with him, he can tell me who she is with, and that is just -as well. I must see him immediately. I have no time to lose, for three -days from to-morrow he is to be married.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -WHO WAS THE MAN THAT BOUGHT THE GOWN? - - -But Tolman Bike was not easily found. - -Richard Treadwell got up early and went to the box factory, only to be -told that Mr. Bike, suffering from ill-health, had gone out of the city -for a time. - -The people in charge of the shop either feigned ignorance or did not -know when he was to return, but Dick knew, in view of Mr. Bike’s -approaching marriage, on the evening of the 7th, that he could not be -absent from the city more than two days at the very most. - -But one thing he determined on. He would see Tolman Bike before his -marriage to Miss Chamberlain, and for Maggie Williams’s sake he would -know the whereabouts of her sister. And also for Maggie’s sake would he -do what he could for the sister to induce her to return to her home. - -In the meantime Richard intended to make an extra effort to learn -something about the Park mystery girl. - -He drove to the Morgue, and after some persuasion he got the bundle of -clothes the pretty dead girl had worn when found in the Park. - -He took the gloves and gown and left the remaining articles with the -keeper. - -He decided from the appearance of the dress that it had been made at -some expensive establishment. He further decided that he would make a -round of the fashionable dressmaking places and see if some one in them -would not be able to recognize the work. - -If they recognized the work, tracing the owner home should be very -easy, he thought. - -He took the gloves also, but like the dress, they had no mark that -would assist him in his search. - -After trying several glove stores he abandoned this as impracticable, -for no one claimed the gloves as having been bought from them, and even -if they had known the gloves were from their stock, it would have been -impossible to tell who bought them. - -Carefully he made a tour of the fashionable dressmakers. He felt -dreadfully embarrassed as he entered the different establishments -with the large parcel in his arms. The women in waiting, as well as -the women customers, looked at him curiously, and when he asked, in a -hesitating way, to see the proprietor or the forewoman, he could hardly -endure the amused smiles of those who were eagerly listening to hear -him state his business. - -He thought all sorts of things which made him uncomfortable. First, -the idea came to him that they would think he had brought a dress to -be made to wear in amateur theatricals, or at a masquerade. But that -was not half as bad as to imagine they thought he had a wife who was -displeased with a dress which she had returned by him. - -The worst part of all was, when he showed the crumpled gown to the -persons in charge and inquired if they had made it, to have them first -show surprise at the unusual proceeding, then quiet indignation when -they found that if Richard had a secret concerning the gown he meant to -keep it, and when he guarded well his reasons for such a strange visit -they bowed him out with such an air of injured dignity that Richard -felt very small and unhappy. - -There were a few that instead of assuming an injured air, laughed at -Richard, and one familiarly asked him if his wife refused to tell where -she got it. - -The majority of the dressmakers denied the gown so emphatically that -Richard began to have a dim idea that the workmanship was not so fine -as had been thought and that the dress had come from a humbler shop. -He, not being a woman, did not know that one dressmaker never saw any -good in another dressmaker’s work. - -When he reached the last establishment of any note and importance -it was almost dinner time. There were no customers about, and the -employees were making preparations for closing the shop. A girl came -forward and politely asked Richard his business. - -He told her he wished to see whoever had charge of the place. -Requesting him to be seated she left soon to return with a man. - -Richard felt more comfortable than he had all day. He explained to the -man, who listened kindly and politely, showing neither surprise nor -curiosity, that he wished to find the persons who had made the gown he -had with him, in order to find out who had paid for the dress and where -it had been delivered. - -The man took the gown and went to the workroom. Later he returned and -went inside the small office. - -Richard waited impatiently, and for the first time a hope of solving -the mystery of Central Park entered his heart. Surely when the man took -so much time he had discovered something. - -Still Richard tried to keep his expectations from running away, lest he -be compelled to suffer a severe disappointment; so when the man came -towards him with the crumpled gown flung across his arm Richard offered -the consolation to himself that he had still left for his inquiry the -less fashionable dressmakers. - -“The dress was made here,” the man said. Dick’s pulse started off at -a two-minute gait. “A letter was sent here containing an order for a -dress. The measurements were inclosed and with them over half the price -of the dress in bills. The letter stated that the person for whom it -was intended was out of town, and that in ten days the dress would be -called for. - -“We often have customers order dresses from a distance,” the man -continued, “and we make them from measure. Ten days afterwards a -messenger boy came in with an order for us to receipt for the price of -the dress and a $100 bill, from which I took the rest of the price and -gave him the dress and the change.” - -“Have you the letter that was sent you with the measurements and -order?” asked Richard, with a calmness that covered his excitement. - -“No. The boy said he must have the letter containing the measurements, -and I sent up to the forewoman in the workroom. She had transferred -the order to her book, but had the letter pinned to the same page, so -she sent it down and I gave it to the messenger.” - -“Have you not even the name and address of the person who ordered the -dress?” asked Dick, very much cast down by the turn things had taken. - -“The name we have--it was Miss L. W. Smith--but there was no address. -It was an unusual thing for us to do, but as I told you, we have many -customers who send us orders for dresses when they are away from town, -and ladies are not always careful and exact about addresses. They are -liable to fall into the error of thinking that if we have once made a -garment for them, by merely signing their name we are sure to recall -their address and histories. We keep very satisfactory books, which -contain little histories of every garment we make, so we always refer -to that when a lady forgets to write us as much as is necessary for us -to know.” - -“Had you ever made a dress for Miss Smith before?” Dick asked, still a -faint hope stirring his pulses. - -“We thought so, but on consulting our books found the measurements -showed that one was for a large woman and the other woman must have -been slender.” - -“I suppose it is absurd to ask if you have any idea of where the -messenger was from,” Dick said, rather faintly. - -“I do not know, of course, but there is a messenger office on the block -above, where you might inquire. It is almost useless, though, for the -lady doubtless got the boy in her district, and as you are aware, this -is not a district of residences. Still, you would not lose anything by -asking. They may be able to offer you some assistance. I can give you -the date the boy called for the gown and I am very sorry I cannot do -more for you.” - -The man had the gown put in a box for Richard, who left the -establishment feeling happier than he had since he and Penelope had -found the dead girl. He was on the track of her identity at last, and, -though it was a faint clue he possessed, he felt it a very sure one. - -They did not show much inclination to help Richard at the District -Telegraph office. At first they said it was impossible to tell which -messenger it was, even if he had been from that place, and then, after -a fashion, they did make a search, but with no success. - -“I know it,” said one of the messengers, who was standing at the -counter. “I had stopped out front to scrap with Reddy Ryan, who was -takin’ a basket of clothes home, and a duffer drove up in a carriage -and asked if I’d do a job for him, ’n I told him I’d been sent on -a call, so he said he’d give me a dime if I’d run an’ get him a -messenger. I came, an’ Shorty, No. 313, was sent out. I remember it -’cause he told me the man just sent him into Moscowitz’s to get a dress -an’ pay a bill, an’ gave him a dollar for doin’ it.” - -“Where is No. 313?” asked Dick, his spirits rising fifty per cent. - -“He’s off on a call. No, here he is,” said the messenger who knew -something. “Come here, Shorty, you’re wanted.” - -Shorty was a red-headed boy with a freckled face and one eye. The other -messenger recalled the circumstances to him, and he sniffed his nose -and said he remembered. - -Richard then asked if there was a lady in the carriage, but No. 313 -thought not. Then Richard asked him what the man looked like, but No. -313 could not say, except that he had a mustache and wore a soft felt -hat. No. 313 had no opinion as to whether the carriage was private or -hired, but he “guessed” it wasn’t a livery hack, “cause the harness -jingled.” - -The other and brighter messenger said the man was young, denied the -soft felt hat and pronounced the carriage a hired one. - - * * * * * - -Richard hurried through his dinner, possessed of an unusual feeling -of happiness, and went for Dido Morgan to spend their last evening in -their peculiar search for Maggie’s sister. - -To-morrow Penelope would be home, and he had learned something. If ever -so little, still it was something, and now that he had made such a -successful start he began to feel hopeful of a final success. He knew -now where the dress had been made and he knew a man had called for it. -He had engaged the two messenger boys, and with them he intended to -search the town over for the man who got the dress which the dead girl -had worn. Once he found the man, then the rest would be easy. - -Richard took Dido to the Eden Musée, and after she had seen all the -figures that interested her, Dick took her up to the cosy retreat above -the orchestra, where the tall green palms cut off the glare of the -electric light. He ordered some ice cream for Dido and some Culmbacher -for himself, and lighting a cigarette he gave himself up to the -influence of the beautiful Hungarian music and dreams of Penelope. - -The music sobbed and sighed, and Dick drifted on dream-clouds and was -lazily happy. He would solve the mystery, he felt sure, and then what -years of happiness with Penelope stretched before him. What a great -thing it was to be happy; life is so short, why should people allow -themselves to be unhappy for a second if they can possibly avoid it? An -unusual tenderness filled his heart, a peaceful happiness stole over -him, making him very gentle. - -And poor little Dido, how dreary life loomed up before her! Dick’s -heart swelled with pity, and he sympathetically took the girl’s hand in -his and looked tenderly into the soft, brown eyes that looked at him so -trustingly. - -There was so much happiness and love in waiting for him and Penelope, -but what did life offer to poor, lonely Dido? - -And as the sobbing music ended in one long thrill, Richard, raising -his eyes from the richly tinted face of this sweet girl companion, saw -standing before him, with white face and stern eyes-- - -Penelope. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -ONE AND THE SAME. - - -At the sight of Penelope Richard was dumbfounded. - -He stifled a first impulse to spring to his feet and greet her when -he saw her stern, white and reproachful face, and sitting still tried -slyly to drop Dido’s hand. - -With an almost imperceptible bow of recognition, Penelope went on after -her aunt and a gentleman who, unnoticed, had in advance passed Dick and -his companion. - -“D---- it!” said Dick, warmly, in an undertone, and then he thought: -“I’m in for it now. Penelope will never believe that thinking of my -love for her made me feel a great pity for this lonely girl. She will -say I was making love to her, because I held her hand, and she will -never forgive it. What an ass I am to risk a life-time of happiness -with Penelope, just to sympathize with a girl whose life is lonely, -and yet, poor little devil--It’s all up with Penelope, I know. I can -tell by the look on her face that she will not forgive or believe me. -I’ll give up. It’s no use now trying to solve the Park mystery--no use -trying to do anything.” - -Dido looked uneasy. She had seen all and she partly understood. She -said, in a little strained voice: “I am very sorry.” - -“I wish some man would tramp on my toes or punch me in the ribs. I’d -just like a chance to knock the life out of somebody,” Dick said, -savagely. - -Dido laughed softly at Dick’s outburst, but she delicately avoided the -subject of the lady who looked so angry. - -“I forgot to tell you,” she said, at length, in an effort to change the -subject, “that it’s all arranged at last.” - -“What?” asked Dick, curiously, the current of his thoughts leading him -to think it was something about Penelope. - -“Why, the affair between Maggie and Martin Shanks. Why, didn’t you -know?” in great surprise. “Why, I saw it all the first night you -brought me back.” - -“I didn’t notice anything in particular, but I recall plainly feeling -Mr. Shanks in the dark,” Richard replied, grimly. He always felt a -little disgust at the remembrance of his fears that night, and he -cherished a grudge against lanky Martin Shanks for waiting to be run -over in the hallway. - -“Well, Maggie and Martin are in love,” exultingly. - -“Possible!” - -“Yes, and last night he proposed and was accepted, and Sunday they are -going to be married, and they are going down to Coney Island to spend -the first day of their honeymoon,” and Dido sighed in ecstasy. - -“Lucky Martin, I’m sure; I wish I were in a like position,” Dick said, -half enviously, as the sad thought came that it was all over between -him and Penelope. “I must get a nice present for Maggie.” - -“It was all so amusing,” said Dido, with a rippling laugh. “I’m half -sorry the courtship ended so soon. Martin was so faithful, so bashful, -and so desperately in love. The only time he ever showed the least -spirit was the night you took me home.” - -“I remember it quite well,” Dick said, drily. - -“I thought he was very insulting that night, but it’s just his way, you -know. He has liked you ever since then. You know he always stood guard -in the hall; every night I was out, I would stumble over him, yet he -couldn’t be coaxed to come in. When Maggie took Blind Gilbert out to -his stand, Martin always followed, so as to protect her coming home. -Still, if she looked at him or spoke to him, he was so embarrassed that -he couldn’t answer.” - -“He gave her some flowers once, and when she thanked him, he was so -broke up that he stammered that he had found them on Broadway and -thought she might as well have them, and the great simpleton had bought -them expressly for her. Next he bought some cloth for a dress, and when -Maggie said she couldn’t take it, he said he didn’t want it, that he -couldn’t make any use of it. Just fancy Martin Shanks wearing a dress!” - -Richard smiled at the picture presented to his mind of lanky Mr. Shanks -in a gown. - -“His proposal was the funniest thing,” Dido continued, with a chuckle. -“There came a loud knock on the door. Maggie opened it, and there -before her was a work-basket. She picked it up and lifted the lid and -there lay a plain gold ring.” - -“Martin,” she said, going out to where he was standing in the hall, -“you are too good to me. I can’t take these things.” - -“I had an idee you’d let the parson, who brings us tracts, put that -there ring on yer finger, and then you’d have the right to do me -mendin’. It was an idee, maybe I’m wrong?” - -“‘Then Maggie said gently, ‘Come in, Martin,’ and he replied, ‘If yu -air wid me, Maggie?’ and she blushed, and said, ‘Yes, Martin,’ and he -stepped into the room, saying, ‘I’ll come in to settle accounts.’ - -“When he went out again all arrangements had been made for a speedy -marriage. Martin said it was no use to waste time in being engaged, so -they are to be married Sunday. They are the happiest couple you ever -saw,” and Dido sighed enviously. - -“And what is to become of you and blind Gilbert? Are you to have no -share in their Eden?” Richard asked. - -“Oh, yes. Maggie says they are going to rent a flat further uptown, and -one room is to be for me and Lucille when she comes back, and Gilbert -is to stay with them also. It’s a pretty big family to begin with, but -we’ll all give what we can to pay expenses. I don’t think Gilbert will -go, though. He likes Maggie as though she was his daughter, but he’s -been so many years in that house on Mulberry Street that I don’t think -he will leave it.” - -“Well, this is our last evening to search for Maggie’s sister,” Richard -said, with half regret, “and we have had no success whatever. I’m -sorry, for Maggie’s sake, though personally I feel it is just as well -for her if her sister never returns to be a burden on her.” - -“I intend to see Tolman Bike before his marriage and learn from him -where the sister is. Then, if we think it advisable, we can still -persuade her to go home, but I have another important matter that will -take all my time, so I cannot do much, for a while, at least, about -Maggie’s sister, unless Bike tells me where she is when I see him, as I -intend to do to-morrow. I expect to be too busy working on an important -case to see you for a while, but I hope your good luck will still -continue, and you can congratulate Mr. Shanks and Maggie for me.” - -“It is useless for me to try to thank you for your kindness and help to -me,” Dido said, brokenly. - -Dick’s blue eyes beamed kindly on Dido as he replied, quickly: “There’s -a good girl, don’t let us talk about that. I’m a useless fellow, and if -I have been of the least service to any one, the gratitude is all on my -side. I am grateful to you for allowing me to imagine I have been of -service to you.” - -“You have been better to me than any one on earth,” she said, -vehemently, her eyes burning into his. “You have often said there was -no gratitude in the world, so I won’t say I would like to prove my -gratitude to you, but some day--I’ll wait. The day will come when I can -show you what I feel.” - -“My dear child,” he said, softly, his eyes moist, for he was much -touched by the girl’s words, “only be happy and that knowledge will -make me happier.” - -Dido looked down and was silent. Presently two tears chased each -other down over her cheeks and splashed on her slender hands, folded -pathetically in her lap. - -“Why, Dido, child!” Dick said, startled. - -She raised her brown eyes, wet with tears, to his frank blue ones, and -her lips were quivering pitifully. He took her hands, patting them -soothingly, not daring to say a word. - -“T-they _would_ come,” she faltered, her mouth bravely smiling -while her eyes were filling with tears. “I--I could not help it.” - -He still said nothing, but kept on patting her hands, half embarrassed -now. - -“I was so--so wretched until you found me, and I’ve been so happy -since, that--that I couldn’t quite bear--your words.” - -“I hope I did not speak roughly,” poor, blind Dick said, hardly -understanding her grief. In his separation from her he was losing -nothing, but she--poor child--she was losing everything. - -“No--that’s it. You are so kind,” she faltered. “Don’t, please, don’t -mind me. I am so foolish. I am always crying, don’t you think?” - -She looked up at him with a sad, little smile that made his heart ache, -he hardly knew why. - -“Will you promise me something, Dido?” he asked, suddenly. - -“Yes,” she answered, simply. - -“Promise that you will try to be happy; that you will never cherish -blue thoughts, no difference what happens. Let ill-luck frown on you -all it wishes. Laugh at it; laugh in it’s face until your laughter -makes it smile. Promise me to do this?” - -“Is that what you do?” she asked, evasively. - -“Well, I don’t know. But what difference! I don’t get as low in spirits -as you do. Won’t you promise?” - -“You have brought me happiness. I promise if I get blue to think of -you. Will that do?” she asked, seriously. - -“I don’t know,” he said, half provoked, but he urged no further. - -And these two young people, whose barks had floated side by side on the -stream of life for a brief time, were drifting apart. Mentally they -were taking farewell, for they knew that, if even for a few days, they -remained yet in sight or call, still their course lay so widely apart -that they might never hope to float near each other again. - -So they silently left the place where they had spent their last evening -together and went out on the street into the cool quiet night. - -A few gas jets dimly lighted up Twenty-third Street, and the stores -that lined the opposite side frowned dark and gloomy upon the few -people who occasionally made their appearance as they walked from the -darkness into the light of the street lamps, and then disappeared again -into the shadows beyond. - -Coming towards the young couple from Sixth Avenue was a man, -thoughtfully walking along, as if, unable to sleep, he had sought the -quiet streets to think. - -Richard noticed him, and pressing Dido’s arm, he whispered: - -“Look at this man.” - -“Yes, yes,” she said, excitedly. - -The men exchanged glances, and the stranger raised his hat stiffly in -response to Richard’s cordial greeting. After they had passed, Richard -said: - -“Why do you tremble so? I merely wanted to call your attention to him. -That is Mr. Clarke, the gentleman I had the experience with in the -Hoffman House bar.” - -“Mr. Clarke!” cried Dido, in amazement. “_Why that is Tolman -Bike!_” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -A LOVERS’ QUARREL. - - -“Why!” as if unpleasantly surprised at his visit, “how do you do?” - -Such was Penelope Howard’s greeting to Richard Treadwell the morning -following the meeting in the Eden Musée. He could not stay away from -her, so he decided to try to explain all about Dido. He wished now he -had not been so anxious to keep the affair a secret until Penelope’s -return. It made things look all the blacker for him. - -Penelope was a clever girl. She was bitterly hurt, but she had no -intention of quarreling with Dick. If she experienced any jealous pangs -he should not have the satisfaction of knowing it. She would merely -maintain a cold indifference and make him feel that, do as he pleased, -it was nothing to her. She would smile, but indifferently, and not with -the smile of affection with which she had always greeted him. She would -treat him in a manner that would show her displeasure and utter lack of -affection for him, but she would not quarrel and so give him a chance -to offer an apology or explanation. - -“You don’t seem very glad to see me?” Dick ventured, with a forced -smile. - -Penelope looked with well assumed amazement and surprise at his -audacity, and, raising her eyebrows, said with a slightly rising -inflection, “No?” - -Richard felt very ill at ease. - -“You don’t understand,” he continued, helplessly. “I hope at least you -will allow me to explain the scene which you witnessed last night.” - -She said, with a cold smile: “Really, you must excuse me. I have no -right or desire to know anything about your personal affairs.” - -“Confound it, Penelope. Don’t be so infernally indifferent,” exclaimed -the young man with exasperation. - -She simply looked at him. Scorn and disdain was pictured on her -expressive countenance now. - -“I hope Mrs. Van Brunt is well?” he said awkwardly, hoping to bridge -over Penelope’s anger. - -“Quite well, thank you,” looking idly out the window. - -“Is she at home?” - -“No; she has just gone out with Mr. Schuyler,” Penelope replied, -picking up a book and aimlessly turning the leaves. - -“I hope I may be permitted to call and pay my respects to her?” he -said, indifferently. - -“Auntie will doubtless be pleased to see you,” was the reply, with a -marked emphasis on the noun. - -“How long are you going to keep up this nonsense, Penelope?” - -She shrugged her shoulders impatiently and pouted her lips, but made no -reply. - -“Do you know you are a very foolish girl sometimes? You cheat yourself -and me out of happiness. You know down in your heart you never doubt -my faith to you. What pleasure you get from pretending that you do, I -can’t imagine. Come, be reasonable. Don’t cultivate a bad temper.” - -“Hum! I should not think you would care what I did if I am -unreasonable, bad tempered, foolish, suspicious--is that all?” -mockingly. “I am glad to know your honest opinion of me. Doubtless, -that cheap looking girl you were with last night is more amiable.” - -“I imagine she is, Penelope,” Dick said, dejectedly and out of -patience. “I have loved you devotedly, and I have meekly endured all -your caprices, and if you want my devotion to end in this way I can -only obey. If you ever regret it, Penelope, remember it was your own -doing. You sent me away and I shall not return.” - -And Richard, a very wretched young man indeed, walked hastily from the -room. - -Penelope never moved until she heard the hall door close. She thought -that he would come back; he always had, but when she realized that he -had really gone she was surprised and a little frightened. - -Richard was very good-natured, but she felt she had gone just a little -too far, and that if she wanted him back it would be necessary to -humble herself. - -She could not recall a time before that she had so forgotten herself, -and allowed her temper to take such a hold of her. She could hardly -recall all she had said, but she felt very small and ungenerous. - -Now that she had lost him she reviewed her own conduct, and felt that, -although Richard had done wrong, she had been unnecessarily harsh. He -deserved some punishment to teach him not to err again, but she had -been too unforgiving. - -Wasn’t Dick always gentle and kind to her, and did he not always -manfully and tenderly overlook her little mistakes and pettishness? -Besides, was she not sure he loved her better than any girl in the -world? Then why should she be jealous if he amused himself with those -other women who are always so ready to “draw men on.” - -A woman in love always reproaches herself with being the cause of every -lover’s jar. - -A woman in love invariably blames other women for all the slips made by -the man she loves. - -And they will do it to the end of the world. - -While Penelope was spending the day racked with unhappy thoughts, -Richard was busy trying to see Tolman Bike and managing the messenger -boys in their search for the man who paid for the dead girl’s gown. - -Richard called at Mr. Bike’s office, only to be informed that Mr. Bike -was still absent from town. But he knew to the contrary this time; so, -obtaining the address, he called at Tolman Bike’s bachelor apartments -in Washington Square. - -Mr. Bike was in town, this servant said, but he did not expect him in -until it was time to dress for a 7 o’clock dinner. He did not know -where Mr. Bike was to be found, so Richard was forced to rest content -with this meagre information until a later hour. - -Richard first consulted a directory. He found quite a list of Smiths, -but no Miss L. W. Smith, and he concluded if nothing more feasible -offered he would select the Smiths who lived in the best neighborhoods, -and personally visit every family until he found the right one, or -knew positively no such Smith lived in New York. He had inserted a -personal advertisement in all the morning and evening newspapers asking -for information concerning the relatives of Miss L. W. Smith, and he -expected by evening to have some definite clue to work on. - -His disagreement with Penelope, instead of killing all desire to try -further to solve the mystery of Central Park, infused him with new life -and energy, and he was resolved to solve the mystery, and by doing so, -make Penelope regret her unreasonableness. - -Accompanied by the messenger boy, Richard Treadwell tried his original -plan of walking about to meet people in the busy parts of the city. - -“When you see a man that you think resembles the man who got the -dress, I want you to tell me,” he instructed the boy, and so in hopes -of knowing at least what the man looked like, Richard spent the day -wearily travelling around. - -“There goes a fellow that looks just like the other duffer,” the boy -announced, as he and Dick stood watching the passers-by on Broadway. - -Richard started to follow the man who, in company with a red-headed -florid-faced man that carried about with him one hundred and fifty -pounds of superfluous flesh, was going down Broadway. - -The man pointed out by the boy had a light beard, a high nose and sharp -eyes. Richard recognized him as an Albany assemblyman. - -“That looks totally unlike the man I pictured from your description,” -Richard said, crossly, as they followed the two men into the Hoffman -House. - -“Well, his face looks like the other fellow, only the other one had -black whiskers, and this here one’s is red.” - -“Bleached, doubtless,” Dick said ironically. - -“Well, he looks the same, anyway,” the boy protested, as Dick seated -himself in the bar-room and made a pretense of reading a letter. - -The two men went to the bar and ordered drinks, and as the thinner one -(they were neither on the lean order) raised a glass to his mouth, -Richard started and looked more closely at him. - -Surely his face looked familiar then! - -“I am tired; you can go to your office now and come to me in the -morning,” Dick said to the messenger, who gladly started off. - -Richard sat there with serious face watching the man at the bar whom -the boy had pointed out, until he and his heavy companion went out; -then Dick fell into deep thought. - -A wild, improbable suspicion had come to his mind, so improbable, so -wild, that he felt ashamed to dwell on it. The likeness was familiar; -so unlike, and yet so strangely like, that Dick hardly knew what to -believe. - -“Poor devil! Why should I allow a chance resemblance to make me accuse -him of a thing so bad as that. He has enough to bear and answer for -now, yet--yet--But it’s too wild, too improbable. I’ll forget it, I’ll -dismiss the thought from my mind; the messenger was surely mistaken, -and I’ll devote my evening to seeing about Maggie’s sister. Here’s to -an evening free from all thoughts of that dead girl. And yet--it’s -very strange--I half believe”--Then, shrugging his shoulders, Dick -impatiently drained his glass and started for Washington Square. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -“GIVE ME UNTIL TO-MORROW.” - - -As Richard was early, he stopped for a moment to see Dido Morgan, and -finding her ready to start home, asked her to walk a little way with -him down Fifth Avenue. - -She was looking quite wan when he went in, but she brightened up and -flushed with pleasure at the prospect of seeing him for a little time. - -“I had an offer from a manager to-day to go on the stage,” she said, -quietly. - -“I hope you did not accept it,” Dick replied, quickly, looking at the -girl’s downcast face, which seemed strangely altered since last night. - -“Not yet.” - -“And you won’t, Dido?” he said, pleadingly. - -“I don’t see why not, Mr. Treadwell.” - -Dick started unpleasantly. He had not before noticed that she never -called him by any name when addressing him, and now it seemed to -suggest that there was a difference between them, and he vainly -wondered what it was. - -“I should be very sorry, Dido, to see you go on the stage. In the first -place you don’t know anything about acting, and it would take you years -before you could hope to attain any position.” - -“I FEEL that I can act,” she said deeply. “My nerves seem so tight that -I long to get up and act some life. I want to act love, and then hate, -and then murder.” - -“Why, Dido?” Dick asked, coolly and curiously, although he felt the -deep emotion underlying her words. He recalled what an old club-man -said to him once, that every woman disappointed in love wanted to act, -and he half wondered if Dido had been falling in love with some of the -handsome men who frequented photograph galleries to have reproduced the -being they love most of any on earth, but he put away the thought as a -wrong to Dido. - -“I _feel_ it, I tell you I feel it. I can’t endure a monotonous -life any more. I must have some excitement,” she said, passionately. - -“I tell you what you want--exercise! You want to walk and you want to -swing clubs and you’ll soon be all right. You are so confined that you -have a superfluous energy which your work does not exhaust. If you -spend it on exercise, it will make you a happier and stronger girl.” - -Dido showed a little resentment. It always disgusts a woman to have her -romantic feelings dissected in a matter-of-fact manner. Having reached -Washington Square, she bade Richard good-bye and went on her way to her -humble home. - -Richard walked along North Washington Square until he came to the house -where he expected to find the man who had taken Lucille Williams from -her home. He went up one flight of stairs to Tolman Bike’s apartments, -and knocked on the door on which was tacked Mr. Bike’s visiting card. - -In a moment the door was opened, and the man he knew as Mr. Clarke -stood before him. - -“Mr. Bike,” said Richard, with emphasis on the name, “I must speak with -you alone.” - -Richard spoke imperatively and at the same moment stepped inside. - -Mr. Bike looked as ill as the day he fell against the Hoffman House -bar. He silently motioned Dick to enter the first room leading off -the private hall in which they stood. Closing and locking the door he -followed. - -Richard seated himself in an easy chair, unasked. Mr. Bike sat down -before a richly-carved desk, littered with packages of letters and -photographs, which apparently he had been engaged in assorting and -destroying, for bundles of them were slowly smouldering in the open -grate. - -The room was very handsome, and Richard viewed it with appreciation. -There was a large open grate and above the low, wide mantle was a -cabinet containing, in the centre, a French plate mirror, and on the -brackets fine bits of bric-a-brac. The floor was richly carpeted, the -walls were hung with fine paintings, while near the portieres, draped -just far enough back to give a picturesque perspective view of a suite -of rooms as cosy in the rear, was an alabaster statue of The Diver and -another of Paul and Virginia. - -A Mexican _serape_, quaintly colored, was thrown over a low -lounge, before which lay a white fur rug. At one side was a little, -square breakfast table, with curiously turned legs, and near it a half -side-board, half cabinet, attractively filled with exquisite dishes, a -few solid silver pieces and crystal glasses, backed up by long-necked -bottles of liquids to fill them. - -Mr. Bike had removed his coat and waistcoat and had on a little -embroidered jacket. He did indeed have an unhealthy pallor, and Dick -noticed that the hand with which he toyed with a carved paper-cutter -shook violently. - -“How this man loves life and its good things,” Dick thought, -sympathetically, as his gaze wandered from one article of luxury to -another, and on to another room, where, just through the portire, he -could see a brass cage, in which a yellow canary was jumping restlessly -about, and a small aquarium, up through which came a spraying fountain. -He could even see goldfish swimming about and a little dark turtle run -its head out of the water and then dive down again to the bottom of the -basin. - -“I suppose you know why I came to see you?” Dick said at last, when he -saw Mr. Bike would not introduce any subject. - -“No, I can’t say that I do,” Mr. Bike responded, with affected -indifference. - -“Well, I want to know all about Lucille Williams,” he said abruptly. - -“What right have you to come to me for such information?” Mr. Bike -asked coldly. - -“Because you induced the girl to leave her home,” Dick replied -positively, “and I want to know all you have to tell about the rest of -it.” - -“I have nothing to tell,” Mr. Bike said, with a slight, sarcastic smile. - -“Well, sir, if you won’t tell, I’ll find a way to make you,” Richard -said, angrily. - -“Ah! Indeed!” Mr. Bike ejaculated, still cool and unconcerned. - -“Yes, sir; if you don’t tell me what I want to know before I leave -here, I will go to Miss Chamberlain, your fiancée”--Mr. Bike started -uneasily--“I’ll tell her a story you would not like her to know.” - -“And you flatter yourself that she would believe you?” sarcastically. - -“I know it. I can prove what I have to say,” Dick replied in a manner -that was unmistakable. - -“All right, go to her. See what you can do.” - -“By Jove, I will. I will go to the newspapers too, and I’ll tell them--” - -“What?” Mr. Bike asked, rather uneasily. - -“You know _what_! Disabuse your mind of any idea that I don’t -know some chapters in your life, that, if made public, will end your -devilish career.” Richard hinted darkly, the suspicions which had come -to him before that day sweeping over him with full force. - -Tolman Bike was thinking intently. Richard saw that his last bluff had -gone home and he determined to follow it up with more of the same kind. - -“Be as unconcerned as you please, Mr. Bike. To-morrow, when your -marriage is postponed, and you are called on to answer to the serious -charge I shall bring against you, you will be sorry that you didn’t -take the easier course, and give me the information I asked for.” Dick -said this as if his patience had run out. - -“I have no information to give,” Mr. Bike said, in a tone which showed -he was beginning to weaken. - -“Say, it’s wasting time to pretend to me. Either you will, or you will -not, do as I have asked you. If you don’t, the consequences be on your -own head.” - -“And would you--do you mean--” hesitated Tolman Bike, losing confidence -at sight of Dick’s undiminished determination. - -“Yes, sir; I mean every word of it.” Dick had risen and he looked very -angry and capable of doing all the bad things he threatened. “I have -given you a chance, and you refuse to accept, so--” and he shrugged his -shoulders as if his responsibility ended there. - -“And if you get the information, what use will you make of it?” asked -Bike, as if longing for some hope to be held out to him. - -“You know what I want. It is not to bring any credit to myself, but to -relieve the suspense of a heart-broken sister.” - -“And would you, if I tell you all, be man enough to show some mercy?” -he asked, in a hopeless way. - -“I hold out no promises. I am determined to have a confession from you -before your marriage. If you don’t give it, you don’t marry, and you -can put that down for a certainty,” Dick said doggedly. - -“And if I tell you,” in sudden hope, “will you let my marriage go -on without telling Clara? Promise to let us get away on our wedding -tour and then you can do as you wish. Only give me that much,” almost -pleaded the now trembling man. - -“And let you wreck the life of the innocent, unsuspecting woman who -becomes your bride? What sort of a man do you think I am?” Richard -asked in scorn. - -“My God, man! Have some feeling. Haven’t I suffered enough already? You -are a man, you can understand how a man will sell his soul to hell for -the sake of a woman,” he said bitterly. “Have some feeling!” - -“Can’t you understand it?” he continued, desperately, in vain effort -to wake compassion in Richard’s breast. “She was pretty, she had -no friends to make any trouble about it, and I lost my head. I have -suffered for it. I have regretted it.” And Tolman Bike put his hands -over his face, and Richard heard a broken, husky sob. - -This was more than he could endure. His sternness fled at that sound, -and he could hardly refrain from attempting to console the wretched -man. Only thoughts of the poverty-stricken little sister helped him -maintain an air of unrelenting sternness. - -“Well, what do you ask of me?” Richard asked with a roughness that -covered his real feeling. Now that he had conquered the man his -suspicions fled. He felt sorry for Bike’s suffering and had a guilty -feeling that he was the cause of it. - -“Only give me until to-morrow and I’ll swear to you that you shall know -what you want to before ten o’clock. Give me until then. If I fail, -you have yet time to stop my marriage in the evening. You are a man, -but if you won’t spare me for a man’s follies, spare me for the sake -of the woman I am to marry. I’m sick! I can’t talk! Only give me until -to-morrow.” - -“---- it, Bike,” Richard said, feelingly, “if it wasn’t for the girl’s -sister, I’d fling the whole thing over.” He little knew what it meant -to him. “I believe your promise. I’m a man, reckless, indolent, -careless as the worst of them, and, confound it, I’m sorry for you. -There’s my hand.” - -“Thank you, thank you,” Bike said, his deep emotions showing in the -painful twitching of his pale face. He clasped Dick’s firm hand in his -own dry, feverish one, and gave it a grateful pressure. - -“Until to-morrow, then?” - -“Until to-morrow,” echoed the unhappy man, looking into Dick’s face -with an appealing look of agony that Richard never forgot. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -“TO RICHARD TREADWELL, PERSONAL.” - - -It was ten o’clock when Richard Treadwell in gown and slippers, sat -down in a high-backed chair to partake of a light breakfast. - -The dainty table was spread with its burden of light rolls and yellow -butter, with a bit of ice on it, and crisp, red berries. The odor of -the coffee was very appetizing, but Richard ate and read the morning -paper at the same time. - -The awnings lowered over the windows shut out the glare of the morning -sun. A light breeze moved the curtains lazily, and a green palm on -the window-sill waved its long arms energetically, as if to hurry -the indolent young man who was missing the beauty of Summer’s early -morning. - -Richard Treadwell’s rooms were as unlike the elegant apartments of -Tolman Bike, as a violet is unlike a rose. One, like a laughing, -romping child, denoted health and cheerfulness; the other, unhealthy in -tone and coloring, spoke of dreams and selfish gratification. - -Here were copies of Rosa Bonheur’s master-pieces of animal life, -pictures of racing horses, photographs of serious-faced dogs in comical -positions, a stuffed fish’s head, with wide open mouth, mounted on -a plaque; boxing gloves, clubs and dumb-bells, lying where they had -fallen after this young man had taken a turn at each of them. There -was an unsorted jumble of walking-sticks, whips, fishing tackle and -firearms. The furniture was light, the curtains were thin and airy, the -carpet was bright and soft. - -Richard ate and read unmindful of the wrestling match between a -bow-legged pug and a saucy black-and-tan, whose little sharp ears -stood stiffly erect, expressive of cool amusement at the fat pug’s -futile attempts to throw him. - -As Richard pushed his chair back and lighted a cigarette, a man-servant -entered quietly and put a large envelope and a smaller one on the -table before him. Richard took the larger envelope and read the -superscription. - - .................................. - . TO . - . RICHARD TREADWELL, ESQ^{RE.} . - . FROM _PERSONAL._ . - . TOLMAN BIKE. . - .................................. - -He hastily tore it open with his thumb. The letter began without any -preliminaries: - - In writing this I place my life at your disposal. I neither expect - mercy nor ask it. - - I have been so wretched for days that life is a burden I little care - to bear. - - Do what you please with this, but if you possess an unheard-of - generosity I would ask you, after clearing yourself, to spare me as - much as possible. - -“My wild, improbable suspicions were correct!” Dick exclaimed, in -surprise. The black-and-tan, hearing his voice, came and jumped -inquiringly against his knee, but receiving no attention returned to -finish the English Kilrain on the rug. - - I first met Lucille Williams when she came to my office in answer - to my advertisement for a typewriter and stenographer. Of the many - who applied I selected her. Not because she was the most proficient - worker, but for a man’s reason. - - She had a pretty face. - - Wonderfully pretty, I have had men tell me. She had large, clear blue - eyes and an abundance of wavy black hair, and a faultless pink and - white complexion that often accompanies the combination. Her hands - were small and slender. She was particular in the care of them, and - her remarkably small feet were always well shod. - - Life is dull at best during business hours, so I amused myself with - my pretty typewriter. It started first by my playfully putting my - arm around her chair when dictating. Harmless enough. Yes, but it - brought me so close to her that I began to wonder what she would do - if I kissed her. When I stopped in my dictation she raised her great, - blue, alluring eyes to me in such a way, that I wouldn’t have been a - man had I not felt a little thrill of temptation. - - I did kiss her at last. - - She was not much offended. She cried a little and wanted to know - what she had done that encouraged me to insult her. Her chief fault - was vanity, so I pleased myself and comforted her by taking her in - my arms and vowing that the sight of her red lips so close, and her - great eyes, so alluring and entrancing, was more than I could resist. - It comforted her and pleased me. - - Yes, I said something of love. - - It somehow seemed the only thing to say under the circumstances. I - think I called her “My Love,” and similar names. I am positive I did - not say that I loved her, although I recall coaxing her to say she - loved me. - - She said she loved me and I believed her. - - It was all very pretty and interesting while it had the charm - of newness. We soon spent our evenings together. I took her to - restaurants patronized by Bohemia, where, if one happens across an - acquaintance, he, on a similar errand, is just as anxious to keep it - a secret as you are. In the summer, when there was less chance of - embarrassing meetings, I took her to better places and occasionally - to the theatre. - - I found it interesting. - - Meanwhile, I learned that Lucille’s sister was employed in the - factory, and I threatened Lucille with an eternal parting if, by any - chance, her family learned of our intimacy. When the pretence of - seeing friends and persons about business would no longer serve as a - blind, I instructed Lucille to say she was engaged on extra work. She - very sensibly said she could not do this without money to show for - it, so I promptly made it possible. Thereafter that was her blind. - - Thus she deceived her family. - - Meanwhile I thought I would feel more comfortable if Lucille were - better dressed. You know how men feel on this subject. Most of them - would rather be seen in company with the lowest woman in New York if - she wore a Paris gown, than with a woman in rags, even if she were - as pure as a saint. A man is always afraid of being chaffed for being - with a badly dressed woman. - - For the world, looking on, judges only by the dress. - - I spoke to Lucille. I found she was as sensitive about her cheap - garments as I was, so I told her if she would buy an entire outfit - suitable for our wanderings I would pay for it. I made suggestions, - and the garments she bought were as lady-like and appropriate as if - it had been an every-day affair with her. - - Then came the question, Where to send the clothes? - - She could not send them home, for her mother and sister, though poor, - had Puritan ideas concerning morals and propriety. - - There is a way out of every difficulty. - - I had her send all her new articles to my bachelor apartment. Then I - gave her a key, so she could enter my rooms at any time to change - her cheap clothing for her new and vice versa. - - So I got her to my rooms. - - I don’t deny that it was my intention at first to finally take her - there, but I wanted to preserve the sentiment of the affair as long - as possible. She was very perfect to the sight, very lovable, and I - was eager for our evenings--anxious to drip out as slowly as possible - the intoxication of the affair, still breathlessly eager to drain the - cup. - - There is no need of going into detail. - - You know what bachelor apartments are; you know what opportunities - they afford. Lucille was timid at first; afraid to come in or go out, - but she soon grew bolder. She even grew to like the danger of it. - - I was very fond of her then. - - There is no use to be hypocritical and cry it was love of her that - led me on. Why men adopt such weak pleas, I never could understand. - - It was not love of her. - - A man never injures a woman through love of her, but through love of - self. I realized this all the time, but I was passionately happy, and - happiness is not so plentiful that I should slight it, result as it - might. - - I promised to marry her. - - It happened in a moment when I loved her best. I knew at the time, - I was doing a reckless thing. The next day I warned her to keep our - love secret, because there were reasons why, if it were known, it - would be injurious to me. She, appreciating the difference between - us, was as silent as I could be. - - By and by things began to pall. - - I was too well acquainted with her. I grew tired of her pretty face. - Her little vulgarities exasperated me. She was a woman of such little - variety, and she so weakly bowed to every demand I made that it - became unbearable. - - I have known homely women whose charms were more lasting. - - Her weakness maddened me. I grew to hate her. If she had only had - enough spirit to quarrel with me, but that was the secret of it; she - had no spirit until it was too late. - - Just before this I met Miss Chamberlain. I found that I had pleased - her fancy and I concluded to marry. - - It mattered little that I was not in love; I had long since learned - that love was merely the effect of some pleasing sensation, which - some persons, like some music, produce on us, that shortly wears - itself out. - - I thought it better to marry where there was no feeling than where - there was. For the sensation of love is sure to die, leaving an - unsupportable weariness caused by its own emotion. Where there is no - such feeling, there is no such result to fear. - - I never expected any trouble from Lucille. - - But I reckoned without my host. Although I endeavored to keep my - engagement secret, yet a line to the effect that I was to marry Miss - Chamberlain, reached print. Lucille, though hardly in society, always - read society notes. She read that one. - - She became a tigress--a devil. Isn’t it queer that a weak woman - always has an ungovernable temper? Expecting nothing more than a few - tears from her, I answered carelessly, and she grew infuriated. Of - course, I was astonished. She accused me of falseness and demanded - that I deny the report over my own name and marry her immediately, or - she would seek Miss Chamberlain and lay before her what she pleased - to call my baseness. - - I was determined to marry. - - It meant wealth, a better social position, power, and a wife that at - least I would be proud of. I had cherished such an idea of marriage - since I was a boy, and I was resolved that nothing should balk me now - that it was in my grasp. - - I was determined to take fate into my own hands. - - Finding I could not quiet Lucille, I concluded to rid myself of all - responsibility in her case. - - Call me base if you will! - - Was I doing more than hundreds of men are doing in New York to-day! - - Had I done more than hundreds--aye, thousands--of men have done in - New York? - - You are a man of education and means; denounce me if you have never - sinned likewise. - - Let any New York man of education, leisure and money denounce me, if - any there are who have not likewise blundered. - - It was only a matter of a few days’ amusement, harmless if it ended - quietly. - - But I slipped up on it--therein lies the sin. Not in what I did, but - in blundering over it. - - People may say what they will. I was not wrong. It is the system that - is wrong, the system that prevents people who care for each other - from being happy in that affection while it lasts. Had the system - been different Lucille would have been home to-day, happier and in - more comfortable circumstances than previous to our meeting, and I--I - would not now be writing to you. - - But there was nothing to save us. - - Tired and disgusted with Lucille, she further exasperated me with her - jealousy and unreasonable demands for a speedy marriage. Fearful of - losing the marriage which meant so much to me, I carefully planned - what seemed the only course to pursue. - - Yes, it was deliberate. - - Calming her anger for the day, I persuaded her to come to my - apartment--these very rooms where I sit and quietly write this - confession of my crime. - - Unsuspecting, aye, even gladly she came--came to meet her fate, which - waited for her like a spider in his entangling web for a fly. - -“If you please, sir, Miss Howard’s compliments, and would you come up -as soon as possible,” said a voice at the door. - -The little black-and-tan paused for a moment, with the pug’s ear still -between his little sharp teeth, to see where the voice came from, and -Richard responded, impatiently: “Very well, say I’ll be there,” and -returned to Tolman Bike’s letter. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -THE MYSTERY SOLVED. - - - The mockery of the thing amused me. - - I knew so well how it was to end, and when Lucille came cheerfully to - me, never thinking but that she would return to her home that night, - I laughed aloud. - - She wanted to talk about my promise of marriage, and I readily - consented. In very few words I gave her to understand that it was - impossible for me to marry her in her present condition, but if - she would be guided by my judgment, and bought suitable clothing, - we could then go away and be quietly married. To do this it was - necessary that she remain with me. - - She was more than satisfied. - - She was elated over her brilliant prospects. Still she was stubbornly - determined to notify her family, and only by threatening to abandon - the whole affair if it became known did I keep her from doing so. - I did, however, consent to her writing a note saying she had gone - out of town for a few weeks, and on her return would have a joyful - surprise for them. It satisfied her and did not hurt me. - - The letter was never mailed. - - Lucille’s presence was not unknown to some few. My servant, who slept - at home, knew I had somebody with me, but as he had served many years - in taking care of bachelor apartments, he was neither surprised nor - inquisitive. The waiters who served our meals knew I was not alone, - but to them, also, it was a story too old to merit comment. Still I - took precautions that they should not see Lucille. - - In the garments I had bought her I sent Lucille to a dressmakers - to get her measurements. I also sent her to a dentist to have some - decaying teeth filled, and so I started to work out my release from a - woman of whom I had tired. - - You might say that I could have taken a more simple way. I don’t see - how. I was afraid of losing my wealthy fiancée and so I would not - risk the least chance of Lucille’s telling. Of course I could have - claimed blackmail and been declared innocent, yet, knowing the nature - of the woman I was hoping to marry, I would not risk the effect it - would have on her. - - There seemed only one thing to do, and I did it. I had Lucille write - an order for a dress, from my dictation, inclosing the measurements - and stating that it would be called for on a certain date. Personally - I went to different stores and bought the garments necessary to make - a perfect outfit. I did not spare expense. I brought everything home - with me in the coupé. This relieved me of necessity of giving any - address or name, which made me feel sure the articles could not be - traced to their destination. - - During this time Lucille was very happy, notwithstanding her - imprisonment. She was constantly planning what she would do when we - were married. She dwelt in delight on the sensation her marriage - would create among those who knew her. She discussed the localities - most suitable for us to live in, and talked of things she intended to - buy for her house and the dresses she meant to get. - - It is useless to try to describe the emotions I labored under during - those days. I was conscious of a tiredness, underlaid with a stolid - determination not to be balked in my purpose. I felt no sympathy - for Lucille. I think I was absolutely without feeling one way or - the other. I only felt a desire to laugh at her air castles as she - told them to me. Not amused--no. I can’t say what the feeling was. - Even when she lay awake some nights and I knew she was painting her - future, I laughed aloud at the strangeness of it all. - - I counted the nights. Every one found my preparations nearer - completion. - - Carefully I removed all trade marks and names from every garment I - had bought her. The gloves and _Suéde_ shoes only bore their - size. I took the crown lining out of the hat, and before I brought - her dress home I removed the inside belt, which was stamped with the - name of the man who made it. - - The dress was the last article but one I brought to my apartment. - I did not even show myself at the establishment where the gown was - made. I drove near the place, and, hiring a messenger boy, sent - him in for the garment. In this way I preserved the secret of my - identity. - - The last thing I bought was a bottle of hair bleaching fluid. I told - Lucille that if her hair was golden to match her eyes I thought her - appearance would be much improved. She was quite anxious to make the - test, always being ready to do anything she thought would increase - her beauty. For two days, at different intervals, I brushed her hair - with the fluid, and it turned the most perfect golden shade I had - ever seen. - - It really transformed her. I have since then marvelled at the change - and have felt an admiration for her perfect beauty. Then I felt - nothing. - - I only had a desire to watch her. I watched her eat and wondered - at her appetite. I listened to her light talk and marvelled at her - happiness. I gazed at her while she slept, amazed, almost, at her - evident sense of security. - - Why did nothing warn her? I waited and watched for some sign that - would show that instinct felt the approaching end. There was no sign. - - The last night, I leaned on my elbow and watched her sleep. She - looked so perfect! Her soft, dimpled arms thrown above her head, her - pretty face in a nest of golden hair, her straight black brows, her - long, black lashes resting lightly on her pink cheeks, and all to - become nothing--nothing. To-morrow night it would be over; this was - her last night. Impulsively I leaned over her and whispered “Lucille! - Lucille!” but she merely opened her great blue eyes, and giving me a - little smile, as innocent and sweet as a babies, moved with a sigh of - perfect content close to my arm, which rested on the pillow, and so - went to sleep again. - - I lay down and tried to still the heavy, painful beating of my - heart. I was very weary, but I could not sleep. - - At breakfast something kept saying, “Her last! her last!” and it - gratified me to see her eat. At luncheon she complained of no - appetite, yet I almost compelled her to eat, while I ate nothing. - During the day I told my servant to take a holiday, that I would be - out of town and he could have several days to spend as he wished. Rid - of him, I ordered a dinner fit for a wedding feast; still I could not - eat. Lucille ate and I helped her joyfully. I had a desire to see her - happy. I have thought the jailer who feasts the condemned prisoner an - hour before the execution must feel as I felt this day. - - Late in the evening I laid her new garments, the finery that so - delighted her, out on the bed. I laughed when I did it, and then I - sat down and watched her dress. She was as happy as a child. She put - on one thing after the other, surveying each addition in the mirror - with little cries of delight. I laced her _Suéde_ shoes and - helped fasten her dress and buttoned her gloves. When all was done I - wrapped her in a gray travelling cloak and hid her pretty face under - a thick veil. - - I had told her we would take the midnight train for Buffalo, where - we would be married, and remain at Niagara for a few days before our - return to New York. She trusted me in everything, and asked me if - she could increase her wardrobe before the time for our return. We - were to start early enough to permit us to take a drive before going - to the station. Lucille had been confined so long in the house that - she welcomed this arrangement, and she was very eager and nervous to - start. - - I had ordered my horse and dog-cart to be ready at a certain hour. - I had a liking for late drives, so my orders were not considered - unusual. I walked out of the house, first telling Lucille to lock the - door and walk around the corner on Fifth Avenue, where I would get - her. - - Before starting, however, I asked Lucille to drink a glass of wine - with me. I put in hers a sleeping potion, and she raised it to her - lips, saying: - - “Here’s to our happiness.” - - I put my wine down untasted. - - Then she came to me in an affectionate way I had once admired, and - raising her veil, said: - - “Tolman, kiss your little one.” - - I folded her in my arms. My heart beat quickly, my breath came - painfully. I held her close to my breast, I kissed her soft, warm, - lips regretfully. - - “Lucille,” I said, pleadingly, “will you go back to your home and - forget you wanted to be my wife?” - - “I would rather die,” she answered me, angrily. - - I knew then it was too late. There was no way to retreat. Either I - must accomplish my purpose, or renounce all claim to Miss Chamberlain - and take Lucille as my wife. - - “We have been very happy these two weeks, haven’t we, Tolman?” she - said, with her arms about my neck. “Kiss your little one good-by, for - when she comes back here she will be your wife.” - - “Yes, when you come back,” I said, and I kissed her. With that there - flitted through my mind a picture of a little quiet home with her as - my wife. I thought of her beauty, but then came the thought that it - would cost me what I most longed for--wealth--position. No, it was - too late. - - I drove to the curb almost the instant she had reached there, and - only stopped long enough to get her in. I had a valise, which - Lucille thought contained a change of clothing, in the dog-cart. I - drove off quickly to the Park. - - We had not more than entered the Park when Lucille yawned and - complained of feeling drowsy. I drove on, listening intently for any - sounds that would indicate the presence of any one. Reaching a bend - in the road and finding everything still, I asked Lucille to hold the - reins until I could get out to see if something was not amiss with - the harness. - - Drowsily she took the reins. - - “Do you see anything coming, Lucille?” I asked, as I reached under - the seat and, drawing out a sandbag which I had made ready in advance - and concealed there, I rose to my feet as though to jump out of the - buggy. - - “No, Tolman; the way looks clear,” she replied, slowly, as she leaned - forward to look. - - With a swift motion I raised the sandbag and brought it down on her - head. - - She never uttered a sound, but fell across the side of the cart. I - caught her with one hand and, taking the reins from her limp fingers, - steadied the horse. - - I took her in my arms to the nearest bench. I listened for her - heart-beats. They were still. I removed the Connemara cloak and veil. - I had some difficulty, but at last managed to place her in an upright - position on the bench. Then I folded her hands in her lap, and as I - could not make her parasol stay on her knee, I left it where it fell - on the ground before her. - - I kissed her lips, still warm and soft, and closing her eyes, pulled - her hat down so it would prevent their opening. Taking the wrap and - veil and putting them and the sandbag in the valise I drove back to - the stable. - - I returned to my rooms and spent the remainder of the night in - destroying all the clothing which belonged to her. Early in the - morning, just about daybreak, I went quietly out and to the Gilsey - House, where I got a room and went to bed. I slept. It was afternoon - when I awoke, and while eating my breakfast I read in the first - edition of an evening paper an account of your finding Lucille’s body - in Central Park. - - In the smaller envelope I enclose a photograph of Lucille taken - before her hair was bleached. You will doubtless recognize it. I also - inclose the letter she wrote to her mother. - - You can understand now why I was frightened at the sight of Maggie - Williams’s tears; why I was horrified when I met in the Hoffman House - the man who was suspected of being guilty of my crime. My guilty - fears prevented my giving you my name, and when you came to my - apartment, seeking Lucille, I knew that my hour had come. - - I might have given you a fight and warded off the end for a while. - But what use. If the proof was not conclusive enough to hang me, - it was enough to imprison me, for the waiters, my servant and the - livery-man could have made out a case of circumstantial evidence. I - prefer death. - - It is morning. The morning of the day which was to have been - my wedding day. Oh God, I had some wild hope when I began this - confession. It has gone now. This is all. If you have any charity in - your soul, spare me all you can. - - TOLMAN BIKE. - - NORTH WASHINGTON SQUARE, - _June Seventh, 18--_. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE CLOUDS. - - -Richard could hardly dress quickly enough after he finished Tolman -Bike’s letter. The indolent young man had never been seen in such -frantic haste. The elevator seemed to him to creep. Rushing out to the -street, he jumped into the first cab, telling the driver to make the -best possible speed to Fifth Avenue. - -With a sad, penitent face, Penelope Howard was impatiently awaiting her -handsome lover in her own little room, her abject apologies all cut and -dried for use. But he gave her no time. - -“Penelope, the mystery is solved!” he yelled, and catching her in his -strong arms, he held her so close to his heart that she gasped for -breath. - -“I’ve the story right here, sweetheart,” and in the fewest possible -words, punctuated with Penelope’s exclamations of surprise and sorrow, -Richard related all that had happened since the night before she went -to Washington. - -“My dear--Oh, Richard. Good morning,” said Penelope’s aunt, as she -entered the room with bonnet on and a carriage-wrap thrown hastily -over a house dress. “Mrs. Chamberlain has sent for me. They have just -received news that Clara’s fiancée, Mr. Bike, was found dead in his -bathroom, shot through the head. They think it was accidental, and poor -Clara, who was to have been a bride this evening, is prostrated. I’ll -be back presently, dear. Richard stay with the child.” - -They let her go without a word of the information they possessed, and, -oblivious to all else, they read Tolman Bike’s confession. Woman-like, -Penelope was in tears, and had as much pity for the unhappy man as for -the luckless girl. - -“I knew he was the man,” Richard said. “When the messenger boy pointed -out the man in the Hoffman House as looking like the man who got the -gown, the resemblance struck me, though this man was fair and Tolman -Bike was dark. The moment the resemblance struck me, the whole thing -flashed before my mind. My ridiculous remark that probably the man was -bleached, suggested to me the possibility of Maggie’s sister having -bleached after she left home. Still, it was all so wild and improbable -that I tried not to think of it.” - -They decided only to tell the secret of the crime to those most -concerned. That done, they effectually saved the name of Tolman Bike -from deeper disgrace, little as he deserved it. - -When Mrs. Van Brunt returned from the house where the preparations for -wedding festivities had been turned into arrangements for a funeral, -Penelope, with her eyes red from weeping, drew her aunt into her own -little den where Richard was. Together they told the astonished woman -the story of the crime, and she was more determined even than they -were that the confession should be held sacred, since making it public -could benefit no one, and would only serve to hurt the family who had -expected to welcome him into their home as the husband of the daughter -of the house. - -They had intended to visit Maggie Williams that day and tell her the -story of her sister, but Mrs. Van Brunt, more thoughtful, told them to -delay the sad information until the girl was married, as Richard had -told them of her intended marriage Sunday. - -Tolman Bike was privately buried Sunday from the Chamberlain mansion, -while the girl who was to have been his bride, lay unconscious in a -darkened room upstairs. Mrs. Van Brunt, as an old and intimate friend -of Mrs. Chamberlain, went to the funeral. Penelope went with her aunt, -her heart divided in sympathy for the dead man, the dead girl, and the -stricken daughter of the Chamberlain household. If Tolman Bike had -lived, Penelope would have hated him for his crime, but because he had -strength to die, and when she pictured his lonely end, she felt sorry -for his wretched fate. - -Sunday evening they visited Maggie Williams, now Mrs. Martin Shanks, -and Penelope gently told them the story of the Mystery of Central Park, -omitting as much as possible that would pain the sister. Rough, but -kindly Martin Shanks comforted his bride. Dido Morgan mingled her tears -with Maggie’s, but she was shy and awkward, having little to say in -the presence of Penelope Howard, though Penelope did her utmost to be -cordial and considerate. - -The warm, frank feeling that had heretofore existed between Dido and -Dick was gone. Dick endeavored to be friendly and pleasant, but Dido -maintained a stiff silence that made him have a sense of relief when he -and Penelope finally took their departure. - -“Ah, Penelope, it’s true, as Tolman Bike said, happiness is not so -plentiful in life that we can afford to let it slip by when near -our grasp,” Richard said, sadly, as he and Penelope drove homeward. -Penelope merely sighed in response. - -“I did not solve the mystery as you expected and wished,” he continued, -taking her hand in his, “still I object to being cheated of my -happiness. When are you going to marry me?” - -“Oh!” Penelope tried to say in playful surprise, but her hand trembled. - -“This is the tenth. I will give you until the twenty-first to make -what little preparations you need for the wedding,” Richard said, -masterfully, yet tenderly. - -“Oh! If you talk that way I suppose I must meekly obey,” Penelope said, -as, with a sigh of content, she allowed Dick to take her in his arms. - - -THE END. - - - - - G. W. DILLINGHAM, Successor. - - 1889. 1889. - - [Illustration: G. W. CARLETON & CO.] - - NEW BOOKS - AND NEW EDITIONS, - RECENTLY ISSUED BY - G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher, - Successor to G. W. CARLETON & CO., - 33 West 23d Street, New York. - - The Publisher on receipt of price, will send any book - on this Catalogue by mail, _postage free_. - - All handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt backs suitable for libraries. - - -Mary J. 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(New) 1 50 - Gypsies and Detectives 1 50 - Spiritualists and Detectives 1 50 - Model Town and Detectives 1 50 - Strikers, Communists, etc 1 50 - Mississippi Outlaws, etc 1 50 - Bucholz and Detectives 1 50 - Burglar’s Fate and Detectives 1 50 - - -Bertha Clay’s Novels. - - Thrown on the World $1 50 - A Bitter Atonement 1 50 - Love Works Wonders 1 50 - Evelyn’s Folly 1 50 - Under a Shadow 1 50 - Beyond Pardon 1 50 - The Earl’s Atonement 1 50 - A Woman’s Temptation 1 50 - Repented at Leisure 1 50 - A Struggle for a Ring 1 50 - Lady Damer’s Secret 1 50 - Between Two Loves 1 50 - Put Asunder. 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