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CHAPTER XLV.
A TRIP TO EUROPE

While Alan Warburton, closeted with Mr. Follingsbee, was slowly lowering the crest of the Warburton pride, and reluctantly submitting himself to the mysterious guidance of an unseen hand, – Winnie French, sitting beside her mother, was perusing Leslie’s note.

It was brief and pathetic, beseeching Mrs. French to go at once to Warburton Place; to dwell there as its mistress; to look upon it as her home, and Winnie’s, until such time as Leslie should return, or Mr. Follingsbee should indicate to her a change of plan. Would Mrs. French forgive this appearance of mystery, and believe and trust in her still? Would she keep her home open for Alan, and a welcome ever ready for the lost Daisy, who must surely return some day? Everything could be arranged with Mr. Follingsbee; and Leslie’s love and gratitude would be always hers.

This note was somewhat incoherent, for it was the last written by Leslie, and her nerves had been taxed, perhaps, in the writing of the longer epistle to Mr. Follingsbee.

Brief and fragmentary as it was, it furnished to Winnie and her mother food for much wonderment, long discussion, and sincere sorrow.

“Oh, Mamma!” cried Winnie, choking back a sob, “some terrible trouble has come upon Leslie; and Alan Warburton is at the bottom of it!”

“My child!”

“I tell you he is!” vehemently. “And only yesterday Leslie would have told me all, but for him.”

“Winnie, compose yourself; try and be calm,” said Mrs. French soothingly.

“I can’t compose myself! I won’t be calm! I want to be so angry when Alan Warburton returns for me, that I can fairly scorch him with my contempt! I want to annihilate him!” And Winnie flung herself upon her mother’s breast, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing.

Sorely puzzled, and very anxious, Mrs. French soothed her daughter with gentle, motherly words, and gradually drew from her an account of the events of the past two days, as they were known to Winnie.

“And so, between his interruption and your refusal to listen to him afterward, you are quite in the dark as to this strange misunderstanding between Leslie and Mr. Warburton?” said Mrs. French musingly.

“Misunderstanding! You give it a mild name, Mamma. Would a mere misunderstanding with any one, bring such a look to Leslie’s face as I saw there when I left her alone with him? Would it leave her in a deathly faint at its close? Would it drive her from her home, secretly, like a fugitive? Would it cause Alan Warburton to address such words to me as those he uttered in his study? Because of a simple misunderstanding, would he implore me to judge between them? Mamma, there is more than a misunderstanding at the bottom of all this mystery. Somewhere, there is a monstrous wrong!”

But discuss the mystery as they would, there seemed no satisfactory, no rational explanation. The evening wore on, and the ringing of the door-bell suddenly apprised them of the lateness of the hour.

“It’s Alan!” exclaimed Winnie, starting nervously. “Mamma, we can’t, we won’t, go with him.”

But it was not Alan. It was a servant, bearing a message from Mr. Follingsbee. A matter of importance had suddenly called Mr. Warburton away. Mr. Follingsbee would wait upon the ladies in the morning.

It was very unsatisfactory, but it was all. And Winnie and her mother, after exhausting for a second time their stock of conjectures, were constrained to lay their puzzled heads upon their pillows, and to await in restlessness and sleepless anxiety the coming of morning and Mr. Follingsbee.

It comes at last, the morning, as morning in this world or another surely will come to all weary, restless watchers. And just as it is approaching that point of time when we cease to say “this morning,” and supply its place with “to-day,” Mr. Follingsbee comes also.

He comes looking demure, unhurried, without anxiety; just as he always does look whenever he has occasion to withhold more than he chooses to tell.

“I hope you have not been anxious, ladies,” he says, serenely, as he deposits his hat upon a table and extends a hand to each in turn.

But Winnie’s impatience can no longer be held in check. “Oh, Mr. Follingsbee!” she cries, seizing his hand in both her own, “where is Leslie?”

Mr. Follingsbee smiles reassuringly, places a chair for Mrs. French with old-time gallantry, leads Winnie to a sofa, and seating himself beside her, says his say.

To begin with, the ladies must not expect a revelation; not yet. It will come, of course; but Mrs. Warburton, for reasons that seemed to her good, and that he therefore accepted, desired to keep her movements, for a time, a secret. There had been a slight misunderstanding between Mrs. Warburton and her brother-in-law; but, fortunately, that was now, in a measure at least, adjusted. It was, in part, this misunderstanding, and in part, some facts which Mrs. Warburton thought she had discovered concerning the unaccountable absence of Daisy Warburton, that had caused her to adopt her present seemingly strange course. It was owing to these same causes that Mr. Warburton had suddenly determined to absent himself from the city – in fact from the country. Mr. Warburton had taken passage in the Steamer Clytie, for Europe. This movement might seem abrupt, even out of place at this particular time, but it was not an unwarrantable action; indeed, it was a thing of necessity.

Mr. Follingsbee said much more than this, and ended his discourse thus:

“And now, ladies, I solicit, on behalf of my clients, your friendship, your aid, and your confidence. While I am not at liberty to explain matters fully, I promise you that you will not regret having given your confidence blindly. I, who know whereof I speak, assure you of this. Alan Warburton, while at this moment he is an innocent man, is menaced by serious danger. Leslie has gone on a Quixotic mission. The trouble will soon end, I trust, and we shall all rejoice together. In the meantime – ” He paused abruptly and turned an enquiring gaze upon Mrs. French.

“In the meantime, sir,” said that lady, with quiet decision, “you desire our passive coöperation. You have it.”

“Oh, Mamma!” cried Winnie exultantly, “I was sure you would say that. I was sure you would not desert poor Leslie!”

“It will be an equal favor to Mr. Warburton,” interposed the lawyer, with the shadow of a twinkle in his grey eye.

To which Winnie responded only by her heightened color, and a half perceptible shrug.

And so Mrs. French and Winnie were escorted by Mr. Follingsbee to the bereaved and deserted mansion: were fully instructed in the small part they were to play; and were left there in possession, – knowing only that Leslie and Alan were both in danger, and menaced by enemies, that their absence was necessary to their safety, and might also result in the restoration of little Daisy.

In the face of this mystery their faith remained unshaken. They accepted Mr. Follingsbee’s assurances, and also the part allotted to them, the part which so commonly falls to women, of inactive waiting.

Meantime, Van Vernet, in a state of exceeding self-content, was perfecting his latest plan.

He had failed in overtaking and identifying the troublesome Organ-grinder, who, he was more than ever convinced, was a spy, though in what interest, or in whose behalf, he could not even guess. But he had failed in nothing else. His ruse had been most successful. He had been admitted to the sanctum of Alan Warburton; had seen his face, heard his voice, noted his movements. And his last doubt was removed; rather, the last shade of uncertainty, for he could scarcely be said to have been in doubt at any time.

Alan Warburton, and not Archibald, had been his patron on the night of the masquerade. It was Alan Warburton who, in the guise of a Sailor, had killed Josef Siebel on that selfsame night. There was much that was still a mystery, but that could now be sifted out.

Why had Alan Warburton secured his services to shadow his sister-in-law? He could not answer this question; but it was now plain to him that he had been summarily dismissed from the case, on the following morning, because Alan Warburton, having recognized him in the hovel, had feared to meet him again.

Why had he sought the Francoise abode on that especial night? And why had he killed Josef Siebel? These were problems to the solution of which he could now turn his attention – after he had secured his prisoner.

He had consumed some time in his hot chase after the Organ-grinder, and then he had hastened to set a fresh guard upon the Warburton house. And this guard had just reported.

No one had left, no one had arrived, until this morning, when two ladies, escorted by an elderly gentleman, had driven to the door. The ladies had remained; the gentleman had departed almost immediately.

Vernet was more than satisfied. He sent a messenger to summon to his aid his favorite assistants, made some other necessary preparations, and sat down to scan the morning paper while he waited.

His quick eye noted everything of a personal nature, births, deaths, marriages, arrivals, departures, social items. Suddenly he flung the paper from him and bounded to his feet, uttering a passionate imprecation.

Then he snatched up the paper, and, as if for once he doubted his own eyes, reperused the startling paragraph. Yes, it was there; it was no optical illusion.

Alan Warburton, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Archibald Warburton had taken passage for Liverpool, on board the Clytie. And the Clytie was to sail that morning!

In one moment, Vernet was in the street. In five, he was driving furiously through the city. In half an hour, he had reached his destination.

Too late! The Clytie had cleared the harbor, and was already a mere speck in the distance.

“So,” he muttered, turning sullenly away, “he thinks he has outwitted me. God bless the Atlantic cable! When my aristocratic friend arrives in Liverpool, he shall receive an ovation – from Scotland Yards!”

While Vernet thus comforted himself, Mr. Follingsbee, seated in a cosy upper room of his own dwelling, addressed himself to a gentleman very closely resembling Mr. Alan Warburton.

“So here we are,” he said, with a chuckle. “The Clytie has sailed before now; you are on your way to Europe. Mr. Vernet will head you off, of course. In the meantime, we gain all that we wanted, time.”

CHAPTER XLVI.
DR. BAYLESS

All the long night that followed Leslie’s appearance among the Francoises, Mamma was alert and watchful.

Often she crept to the door of the inner room, where Leslie slumbered heavily. Often she glanced, with a grin of satisfaction, toward the couch where Franz lay breathing regularly, and scarcely stirring the whole night through. Often she turned her face, with varying expressions, toward the corner where Papa slumbered uneasily, muttering vaguely from time to time. But never once did her eyes close. All the night she watched and listened, pondered and planned.

As morning dawned, the stillness of the inner room was pierced by a burst of shrill laughter, followed by words swiftly uttered but indistinct. Mamma hastened at once to the bedside of her new charge.

Leslie had broken her heavy slumber, but the fire of fever burned in her cheeks, the light of insanity blazed from her eyes; and for many days it mattered little to her that she was a fugitive from home, a woman under suspicion, and helpless in the hands of her enemies. Nature, indulging in a kindly freak, had taken her back to her girlhood’s days, before her first trouble came. She was Leslie Uliman again; watched over by loving parents, care-free and happy.

It was a crushing blow to Mamma’s hopes and ambitions, and she faced a difficult problem, there by that couch in the grey of morning. Leslie was very ill. This she saw at a glance, and then came the thought: What if she were to die, and just at a time when so much depended upon her? It roused Mamma to instant action. Leslie must not die – not yet.

Papa and Franz were at once awakened, and the situation made known to them. Whereupon Papa fell into a state of helpless, hopeless dejection, and Franz flew into a fury.

“It’s all up with us now,” moaned Papa. “Luck’s turned aginst us.”

“It’s up, sure enough, with your fine plans,” sneered Franz. “I’m goin’ ter take myself out of yer muddle, while my way’s clear.”

“If I wasn’t dealin’ with a pair of fools,” snapped Mamma, “I’d come out all right. The gal ain’t dead yet, is she?”

And then, while Leslie laughed and chattered, alone in the inner room, the three resolved themselves into a council, wrangled and disputed, and at last compromised and settled upon a plan – Papa yielding sullenly, Franz protesting to the last and making sundry reservations, and Mamma carrying the day.

Leslie must have a physician; it would never do to trust her fever to unskilled hands; she must have a physician, and a good one. So said Mamma.

“It ain’t so risky as you might think,” she argued. “A good doctor’s what we want – one whose time’s valuable. Then he won’t be running here when he ain’t wanted. He’ll come an’ see the gal, an’ then he’ll be satisfied to take my reports and send her the medicine. Oh, I know these city doctors. They come every day if you’ve got a marble door-step, but they won’t be any too anxious about poor folks. A doctor can’t make nothin’ out of the kind of talk she is at now, and by the time she gits her senses, we’ll hit on somethin’ new.”

This plan was opposed stoutly by Franz, feebly by Papa; but the old woman carried the point at last.

“I know who we want,” said Mamma confidently. “It’s Doctor Bayless. He’s a good doctor, an’ he don’t live any too near.”

At the mention of Doctor Bayless, Papa’s countenance took on an expression of relief, which was noted by Franz, who turned away, saying:

“Wal, git your doctor, then, an’ the quicker the better. But mind this: I don’t appear till I’m sure it’s safe. Ye kin git yer doctor, but when he’s here, I’ll happen ter be out.”

It was Mamma who summoned Doctor Bayless, and he came once, twice, and again.

His patient passed, under his care, from delirium to stupor, from fever to coolness and calm, and then to returning consciousness. As he turned from her bedside, at the termination of his third visit, he said:

“I think she will get on, now. Keep her quiet, avoid excitement, and if she does not improve steadily, let me know.”

He had verified Mamma’s good opinion of him by manifesting not the slightest concern in the personality of his patient. If he were, for the moment, interested in Leslie, it was as a fever patient, not as a woman strangely superior to her surroundings. And on this occasion he dropped his interest in her case at the very door of the sick-room.

At the corner of the dingy street, a voice close behind him arrested his footsteps: “Doctor Bayless.”

The man of medicine turned quickly to face the speaker.

“This is Doctor Bayless?” the owner of the intrusive voice queried.

Doctor Bayless bowed stiffly.

“Bayless, formerly of the R – street Insane Asylum?” persisted the questioner.

The doctor reddened and a startled look crossed his face, but he said, after a moment’s silence: “The same.”

“I want a few words with you, sir.”

“Excuse me;” – the doctor was growing haughty; – “my time is not my own.”

“Neither is mine, sir. I am a public benefactor, same as yourself.”

“Ah, a physician?”

“Oh, not at all; a detective.”

“A detective!” Doctor Bayless did not look reassured. He glanced at the detective, and then up and down the street, his uneasiness evident.

“I am a detective; yes, sir,” said the stranger cheerily, “and you are in a position to do me a favor without in any way discommoding yourself. Don’t be alarmed, sir; its nothing that affects you or touches upon that asylum business. You are safe with me, my word for it, and here’s my card. Now, sir, just take my arm and come this way.”

Doctor Bayless glanced down at the card, and then up at the speaker; and a look of relief crossed his face as he accepted the proffered arm, and walked slowly along at the side of his new acquaintance.

CHAPTER XLVII.
DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS

Doctor Bayless had predicted aright. Leslie continued to gain slowly, and in the third week of her illness, she could sit erect in her bed for an hour or two each day, listening to Mamma’s congratulations, and recalling, one by one, her woes of the past. Not recalling them poignantly, with the sharp pain that would torture her when she should have gained fuller strength, but vaguely, with a haunting pang, as one remembers an unhappy dream.

Day by day, as strength came back, her listlessness gave place to painful thought. One day, sitting for the first time in a lounging-chair, procured at second-hand for her comfort, she felt that the time had come to break the silence which, since her first full awakening to consciousness, she had imposed upon herself.

Mamma was bustling about the room, inwardly longing to begin the passage-at-arms which she knew must soon ensue, and outwardly seeming solicitous for nothing save the comfort of her “dear girl.” As Leslie’s eyes followed her about, each seemed suddenly to have formed a like resolve.

“How many days have I been ill?” asked Leslie slowly, and languidly resting her head upon her hand.

Mamma turned toward her and seemed to meditate.

“How many days, my child? Ah, let us see. Why, it’s weeks since you came to us – two, yes, three weeks; three weeks and a day.”

Leslie was silent for a moment. Then she asked:

“And you have nursed me through my illness; you alone?”

“Surely; who else would there be?” replied Mamma in an injured tone.

“Who, indeed!” repeated Leslie bitterly. “Sit down, Madam; I want to talk with you.”

Mamma drew forward a chair, and sank upon it with a gratified sigh. It had come at last, the opportunity for which she had planned and waited. She could scarcely conceal her satisfaction.

“You have nursed me,” began Leslie slowly, “through a tedious illness, and I have learned that you do nothing gratuitously. What do you expect of me?”

“Oh, my child – ”

“Stop!” lifting her head, and fixing her eyes upon the old woman; “no evasions; I want the plain truth. I have no money. My husband’s fortune I will never claim. I have told you this; I repeat it. So what do you expect of me? Why was I not permitted to die in my delirium?”

Among her other talents, Mamma Francoise numbered that power, as useful off the stage as it is profitable behind the footlights – the power to play a part. And now, bringing this power into active use, she bowed her head upon her breast and sighed heavily.

“Ah, Leschen, you break my heart. We wanted you to live; we thought you had something to live for.”

The acting was excellent, but the words were ill-chosen.

“Something to live for!” Leslie’s hands met in a passionate clasp. “Something to live for! Right, woman; I have. Tell me, since you have brought me back to myself, how, how can I ransom Daisy Warburton?”

Mamma’s time has come. Slowly she wipes away an imaginary tear, softly she draws her chair yet nearer Leslie, gently she begins.

“Leschen, my poor girl, don’t think us guilty of stealing your little one; don’t. When you came here that night, I thought you were wild. But now, – since you have been sick – something has happened.”

She paused to note the effect of her words, but Leslie sat quite still, with her hands tightly locked together.

“Something has happened?” she echoed coldly. “I felt sure it would; go on.”

“It isn’t what you think, my girl. We haven’t found your little dear; but there is a person – ”

“Go on,” commanded Leslie: “straight to the point. Go on!”

“A person who might find the child, if – ”

“If he or she were sufficiently rewarded,” supplied Leslie. “Quick; tell me, what must Daisy’s ransom be?”

Mamma’s pulse beats high, her breath comes fast and loud. It is not in her nature to trifle with words now. She leans forward and breathes one word into Leslie’s ear.

“Yourself.”

“Myself!” Leslie gasps and her brain reels. “Myself!” she controls her agitation, and asks fiercely: “Woman, what do you dare to say?”

“Only this,” Mamma continues, very firmly and with the tiger look dawning in her eye. “You have no money, but you have beauty, and that is much to a man. Will you marry the man who will find your little girl?”

In spite of her weakness, Leslie springs up and stands above Mamma, a fierce light blazing in her eyes.

“Woman, answer me!” she cries fiercely; “do you know where that child is?”

“I? Oh, no, my dear.”

“Is there another, a man, who knows?”

Slowly Mamma rises, and the two face each other with set features.

“There is a man,” says Mamma, swaying her body slightly as she speaks, and almost intoning her words – “There is a man who swears he can find the child, but he will not make any other terms than these. He will not see you at all until you have agreed to his demands. You will marry him, and sign a paper giving him a right to a portion of your fortune, in case you should make up your mind to claim it. You may leave him after the ceremony, if you will; you need not see him again; but you must swear never to betray him or us, and never to tell how you found the child.”

Into Leslie’s face creeps a look of intense loathing. All her courageous soul seems aroused into fearless action. Her scornful eyes fairly burn into the old woman’s face.

“So,” she says, low and slowly, “I have found you out at last.” And then the weak body refuses to support the dauntless spirit.

She sinks back upon her chair, her form shaking, her face ghastly, her hands falling weakly as they will. But as Mamma comes forward, the strong spirit for a moment masters the weak body.

“Don’t touch me,” she almost hisses, “or, weak as I am, I might murder you! wait.”

And Mamma stands aloof, waiting. Not while Leslie thinks – there is no confusion of mind – only until the bodily tremor ceases, until the nerves grow calmer, until she has herself once more under control. She does not attempt to rise again. She reclines in her easy chair, and looks at her adversary unflinchingly.

“At last,” she says, after favoring Mamma with a long look of scorn; “at last you show yourself in your true character. Your own hand pulls off your hypocrite’s mask. Woman, you were never so acceptable to me as at this moment. It simplifies everything.”

“You must not think – ” begins Mamma. But Leslie checks her.

“Stop!” she says imperiously. “Don’t waste words. We have wasted too many, and too much time. I desire you to repeat your proposition, to name your terms again. No more whining, no more lies, if you want me to listen. You are my enemy; speak as my enemy. Once more, your terms for Daisy’s ransom.”

And Mamma, too wise to err in this particular, abandons her role of injured affection. Dropping her mantle of hypocrisy, not without a sense of relief, she repeats her former proposal, clearly, curtly, brutally, leaving no room for doubt as to her precise meaning.

Leslie listens in cold silence and desperate calm. Then, as Mamma ceases, she sits, still calm, cold and silent, looking straight before her. At last she speaks.

“This person,” she says slowly; “this man who can find Daisy if he will – may I not see him?”

“When you have given your promise; not before.”

“He will accept no other terms?”

“Never.”

“And this transaction, this infamy – he leaves all details to you?”

“Just so.”

“Then there is no more to be said. I might hope for mercy from the beasts of the field, but not from you.”

“You consent?”

“If I refuse, what will be the consequences to Daisy?”

“You had better not refuse!” retorts Mamma, with a glare of rage.

Before Leslie’s mind comes the picture of little Daisy, and following it a panorama of horrors. Again she feels her strength deserting her.

“Wait,” she whispers with her last fragment of self-command. “Leave me to myself. Before sunset you shall have my answer.”

Further words are useless. Mamma, seeing this, turns slowly away, saying only, as she pauses at the door:

“Don’t waste your time; delays are dangerous.”