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CHAPTER II.
ODDLY EMPLOYED
While the stranger was thus communing with himself, and while Van Vernet was striding toward that fashionable quarter of the city which contained the splendid Warburton mansion, Richard Stanhope, perched upon one corner of a baize covered table, his hands clasped about one knee, his hat pushed far back upon his head, his whole air that of a man in the presence of a familiar spirit, and perfectly at his ease, was saying to his Chief:
“So you want me to put this business through alone? I don’t half like it.”
“You are equal to it, Dick.”
“I know that,” with a proud curve of the firm lips, “but I’m sure Van expected to be in this thing, and – ”
“Vernet has another case in hand. I have given him all his time until it is finished, with the privilege of joining you here and assisting in the Raid to-morrow night, if he can do so without interfering with his other duties. You seem to fear to offend Vernet, Dick?”
“I fear no one, sir. But Van and I have pulled well together, and divided the honors equally. This Raid, if it succeeds, will be a big thing for the man, or men, engineering it. I know that Van has counted upon at least a share of the glory. I hate to see him lose the chance for it.”
“You are a generous friend, Dick, and Van may rejoice that you are his friend instead of his rival. Now, leaving friendship to take care of itself, do you feel that the success of the Raid depends upon Vernet’s assistance?”
“Perdition! No.”
“You know the ground?”
“Every inch of it!”
“And Van does not.”
“One pilot is enough.”
“You know the people?”
“Well, rather!”
“Do you doubt the success of the undertaking?”
“No, sir. I see only one chance for failure.”
“And that?”
“I have made this Raid a study. If anything occurs to prevent my leading the expedition, and you put another man at the head, it will fail.”
“Even if it be Vernet?”
“Even Vernet. Satan himself would fail in those alleys, unless he knew the ground.”
“And yet you would share your honors with Vernet for friendship’s sake? Dick, you are a queer fish! But why do you suggest a possibility of your absence?”
“Because,” sliding off the table and pulling his hat low over his eyes, “The Raid is thirty-six hours distant, and one never knows what may happen in thirty-six hours. Is there any thing else, sir?”
“Yes; I’ve a dainty bit of mystery for you. No blind alleys and thieves dens in this; it’s for to-morrow evening, too.”
Stanhope resumed his former position upon the corner of the table, pushed back his hat, and turned an attentive face to his Chief.
“Your Raid will not move until a little after midnight; this other business is for ten o’clock. You can be at liberty by eleven. You know Follingsbee, the lawyer?”
“By reputation; yes. Is he in the mystery?”
“He’s negotiating for a client; a lady.”
“A lady!” with a stare of dismay. “Why didn’t you turn her over to Van; you know he is just the man to deal with women, and I – ”
“You are afraid of a petticoat! I know; and I might have chosen Vernet, if the choice had been given me. But the lawyer asked for you.”
Stanhope groaned dismally.
“Besides, it’s best for you; you are better than Vernet at a feminine make up.”
“A feminine make up!”
“Yes. Here is the business: Mr. Follingsbee desires your services for a lady client; he took care to impress upon me that she was a lady in every sense of the word. This lady had desired the services of a detective, and he had recommended you.”
“Why I?”
“Never mind why; you are sufficiently vain at present, You have nothing on hand after the Raid, so I promised you to Follingsbee; he is an old friend of mine. To-morrow evening, at ten o’clock, you are to drive to Mr. Follingsbee’s residence in masquerade costume.”
“Good Lord!”
“In a feminine disguise of some sort. Mr. Follingsbee, also in costume, will join you, and together you will attend an up-town masquerade, you personating Mrs. Follingsbee, who will remain at home.”
“Phew! I’m getting interested.”
“At the masquerade you will meet your client, who will be introduced by Follingsbee. Now about your disguise: he wants to know your costume beforehand, in order to avoid any mistakes.”
“Let me think,” said Stanhope, musingly. “What’s Mrs. Follingsbee’s style?”
“A little above the medium. Follingsbee thinks, that, with considerable drapery, you can make up to look sufficiently like her.”
“Considerable drapery; then I have it. Last season, when Van and I were abroad, we attended a masquerade in Vienna, and I wore the costume of the Goddess of Liberty, in order to furnish a partner for Van. In hiring the costume, I, of course, deposited the price of it, and the next day we left the city so hurriedly that I had no opportunity to return it, so I brought it home with me. It’s a bang-up dress, and no one has seen it on this side of the water, except Van. How will it do?”
“Capitally; then I will tell Follingsbee to look for the Goddess of Liberty.”
“All right, sir. You are sure I won’t be detained later than eleven?”
“You have only to meet the lady, receive her instructions, and come away.”
“I hope I shall live through the ordeal,” rising once more and shaking himself like a water-spaniel, “but I’d rather face all the hosts of Rag Alley.”
And Richard Stanhope left the Agency to “overhaul” the innocent masquerade costume that held, in its white and crimson folds, the fate of its owner.
Leaving him thus employed, let us follow the footsteps of Van Vernet, and enter with him the stately portals of the home of the Warburtons.
Crossing a hall that is a marvel of antique richness, with its walls of russet, old gold, and Venetian red tints; its big claw-footed tables; its massive, open-faced clock, with huge weights a-swing below; its statuettes and its bass-reliefs, we pass under a rich portierie, and hear the liveried footman say, evidently having been instructed:
“This is Mr. Warburton’s study, sir; I will take up your name.”
Van Vernet gazes about him, marking the gorgeous richness of the room. A study! There are massive book-cases filled with choicest lore; cabinets containing all that is curious, antique, rare, beautiful, and costly; there are plaques and bronzes; there is a mantle laden with costly bric-a-brac; a grand old-fashioned fire-place and fender; there are divans and easy chairs; rich draperies on wall and at windows, and all in the rarest tints of olive, crimson, and bronze.
Van Vernet looks about him and says to himself:
“This is a room after my own heart. Mr. Warburton, of Warburton Place, must be a sybarite, and should be a happy man. Ah, he is coming.”
But it is not Mr. Warburton who enters. It is a colored valet, sleek, smiling, obsequious, who bears in his hand a gilded salver, with a letter upon it, and upon his arm a parcel wrapped in black silk.
“You are Mr. Vernet?” queries this personage, as if in doubt.
“Yes.”
“Then this letter is for you.”
And the valet bows low, and extends the salver, adding softly:
“I am Mr. Warburton’s body servant.”
Looking somewhat surprised, as well as annoyed, Van Vernet takes up the letter, breaks the seal and reads:
Sir:
My business with you is of so delicate a nature that it is best, for all concerned, to keep our identity a secret, for a time at least. Your investigation involves the fair fame of a lady and the honor of a stainless name.
Come to this house to-morrow night, in the costume which I shall send for your use. The enclosed card will admit you. My valet will show you the domino by which you will recognize me. This will enable me to instruct you fully, and to point out to you the persons in whom you are to take an interest. This letter you will please destroy in the presence of my valet.
A. W.
After reading this strange note, Van Vernet stands so long, silently pondering, that the servant makes a restless movement. Then the detective says, with a touch of imperiousness.
“Give me a match.”
It is proffered him in silence, and in silence he turns to the grate, applies the match to the letter, and lets it fall from his fingers to the fire-place, where it lies a charred fragment that crumbles to ashes at a touch.
The dark servant watches the proceeding in grave silence until Vernet turns to him, saying:
“Now, the domino.”
Then he rapidly takes from the sable wrapper a domino of black and scarlet, and exhibits it to the detective, who examines it critically for a moment and then says brusquely:
“That will do; tell your master that I will follow his instructions —to the letter.”
As the stately door swings shut after his exit, Van Vernet turns and glances up at the name upon the door-plate, and, as he sets his foot upon the pavement, he mutters:
“A. Warburton is my employer; A. Warburton is the name upon the door: I see! My services are wanted by the master of this mansion: he asks to deal with a gentleman, and – leaves him to negotiate with a colored servant! There’s a lady in the case, and ‘an honorable name at stake;’ Ah! Mr. A. Warburton, the day may come when you will wear no domino in my presence; when you will send no servant to negotiate with Van Vernet!”
CHAPTER III.
THE EFFECT OF AN ADVERTISEMENT
A rickety two-story frame building, in one of the worst quarters of the city.
It is black with age, and guiltless of paint, but a careful observer would note that the door is newer than the dwelling, and that it is remarkably solid, considering the tumble-down aspect of the structure it guards. The windows of the lower story are also new and substantial, such of them as serve for windows; but one would note that the two immediately facing the street are boarded up, and so tightly that not one ray of light can penetrate from without, nor shine from within.
The upper portion of the dwelling, however, has nothing of newness about it. The windows are almost without glass, but they bristle with rags and straw, while the dilapidated appearance of the roof indicates that this floor is given over to the rats and the rain.
Entering at the stout front door, we find a large room, bare and comfortless. There is a small stove, the most battered and rusty of its kind; two rickety chairs, and a high wooden stool; a shelf that supports a tin cup, a black bottle, and a tallow candle; a sturdy legged deal table, and a scrap of rag carpet, carefully outspread in the middle of the floor.
An open door, in one corner, discloses the way to the rat-haunted second floor. There are some dirty bundles and a pile of rags just behind the door; some pieces of rusty old iron are lying near a rear entrance, and a dismal-looking old man is seated on a pallet in one corner.
This is what would be noted by the casual observer, and this is all. But the old man and his dwelling are worthy of closer inspection.
He is small and lean, with narrow, stooping shoulders; a sallow, pinched face, upon which rests, by turns, a fawning leer, which is intended, doubtless, for the blandest of smiles, a look of craftiness and greed, a scowl, or a sneer. His hair, which has been in past years of a decided carrot color, is now plentifully streaked with gray, and evidently there is little affinity between the stubby locks and a comb. He is dirty, ragged, unshaven; and his age may be any where between fifty and seventy.
At the sound of a knock upon the outer door, he sits erect upon his pallet, a look of wild terror in his face: then, recovering himself, he rises slowly and creeps softly toward the door. Wearing now his look of cunning, he removes from a side panel a small pin, that is nicely fitted and comes out noiselessly, and peeps through the aperture thus made.
Then, with an exclamation of annoyance, he replaces the pin and hurriedly opens the door.
The woman who enters is a fitting mate for him, save that in height and breadth, she is his superior; old and ugly, unkempt and dirty, with a face expressive of quite as much of cunning and greed, and more of boldness and resolution, than his possesses.
“It’s you, is it?” says the man, testily. “What has brought you back? and empty-handed I’ll be bound.”
The old woman crossed the floor, seated herself in the most reliable chair, and turning her face toward her companion said, sharply:
“You’re an old fool!”
Not at all discomposed by this familiar announcement, the man closed and barred the door, and then approached the woman, who was taking from her pocket a crumpled newspaper.
“What have you got there?”
“You wait,” significantly, “and don’t tell me that I come empty-handed.”
“Ah! you don’t mean – ”
Again the look of terror crossed his face, and he left the sentence unfinished.
“Old man, you are a fool! Now, listen: Nance and I had got our bags nearly filled, when I found this,” striking the paper with her forefinger. “It blew right under my feet, around a corner. It’s the morning paper.”
“Well, well!”
“Oh, you’ll hear it soon enough. It’s the morning paper, and you know I always read the papers, when I can find ’em, although, since you lost the few brains you was born with, you never look at one.”
“Umph!”
“Well, I looked at this paper, and see what I found!”
She held the paper toward him, and pointed to a paragraph among the advertisements.
Wanted. Information of any sort concerning one Arthur Pearson, who left the mining country with a child in his charge, twenty years ago. Information concerning said child, Lea Ainsworth, or any of her relatives. Compensation for any trouble or time. Address,
O. E. Mears, Atty,Melbourne,Australia.
The paper fluttered from the man’s nerveless fingers, but the woman caught it as it fell.
“Oh, Lord!” he gasped, the drops of perspiration standing out upon his brow, “oh, Lord! it has come at last.”
“What has come, you old fool!”
“Everything; ruin! ruin!”
“We’re a pretty looking pair to talk of ruin,” giving a contemptuous glance at her surroundings. “Stop looking so like a scared idiot, and listen to me.”
“Oh, I’m listening!” sinking down upon the pallet in a dismal huddle; “go on.”
The woman crossed over and sat down beside him.
“Now, look here; suppose the worst comes, how far away is it? How long will it take to get a letter to Australia, and an answer or a journey back?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Well, it’ll take all the time we want. But who is there to answer that advertisement?”
“Oh, dear!”
“You miserable coward! She wouldn’t know what it meant if she saw it.”
“No.”
“Arthur Pearson – ”
“Oh, don’t!”
“Arthur Pearson has not been heard of in twenty years.”
The old man shuddered, and drew a long sighing breath.
“Walter Parks, after all his big talk, never came back from England,” she hurried on. “Menard is dead; and Joe Blakesley is in California. The rest are dead, or scattered south and west. There are none of the train to be found here, except – except the Krutzers; and who can identify them after twenty years?”
“I shall never feel safe again.”
“Yes, you will. You always feel safe when the dollars jingle in your pockets, although it’s precious little good they bring you.”
“But her money is already gone.”
“Her husband has a full purse.”
“But how – ”
“Oh, I see the way clear enough. It’s only half the work of the other job, and double the money.”
“The money! Ah! how do you think to get it?”
“Honestly, this time; honestly, old man. It shall come to us as a reward!”
Drawing nearer still to her hesitating partner, the woman began to whisper rapidly, gesticulating fiercely now and then, while the old man listened in amazement, admiration, doubt, and fear; asking eager questions, and feeling his way cautiously toward conviction.
When the argument was ended, he said, slowly:
“I shall never feel safe until it’s over, and we are away from this place. When can you do – the job?”
“To-morrow night.”
“To-morrow night!”
“Yes; it’s the very time of times. To-morrow night it shall be.”
“It’s a big risk! We will have to bluff the detectives, old woman.”
“A fig for the detectives! They will have a cold scent; besides – we have dodged detectives before.”
CHAPTER IV.
ENLISTED AGAINST EACH OTHER
It is early in the evening of the day that has witnessed the events recorded in the preceding chapters, and the Chief of the detectives is sitting in his easiest office chair, listening attentively to the words that fall from the lips of a tall, bronzed, gray-bearded man who sits opposite him, talking fast and earnestly.
He has been thus talking, and the Chief thus listening, for more than an hour, and the story is just reaching its conclusion when the stranger says:
“There, sir, you have the entire case, so far as I know it. What I ask is something unusual, but what I offer, in compensation, is something unusual too.”
“A queer case, I should say,” returns the Chief, half to himself; “and a difficult one. Twenty years ago a man was murdered – killed by a nail driven into his skull. Detectives have hunted for the murderer, singly, in twos and threes. English experts have crossed the ocean to unravel the mystery and it remains a mystery still. And now, when the secret is twenty years old, and the assassin dead and buried, perhaps, you come and ask me for my two best men, – men who have worked together as brothers – and ask me to set their skill against each other, in a struggle, which, if it ends as you desire, will mean victory and fortune for the one, defeat and loss of prestige for the other.”
“There is no such thing as loss of prestige. A man may bow to a superior and yet retain his own skill. Plainly, I have come to you as an honorable man should. I wish to deal with these men through you, if possible. But they are free agents. What you refuse to do for me, I must do for myself; and I tell you plainly, that if money can purchase their services, I will have Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope to work this case.”
“You are frank, sir! But I have observed that, in relating your story, you have been careful to avoid giving either your own name or the name of the murdered man.”
“As I shall continue to do until I state the case to the two detectives, after they have enlisted in my service.”
The Chief ponders for a time and then says:
“Now, hear my proposition: you are justified in believing that, if there is a bottom to this ancient mystery, Vernet and Stanhope, singly or together, are the men to find it. That is my belief also. As for your idea of putting them on their mettle, by offering so magnificent a reward to the man who succeeds, that is not bad – for you and the man who wins. Vernet and Stanhope have, this very day, taken in hand two cases, – working separately, understand. If you will wait in patience until these cases are finished, you shall have the men from this office, – if they will accept the case.”
“Put my proposition before the two men at once. When I know that I shall have their services, I can wait in patience until their duty of the present is done.”
“Then,” said the Chief rising, “the question can soon be settled; Vernet is in the outer office; Stanhope will soon be here. You will find the evening papers upon that desk; try and entertain yourself while I put your case before Vernet.”
Ten minutes later, Van Vernet was standing before his Chief, listening with bent head, compressed lip, and glowing cheek, to the story of the man who was murdered twenty years before, and to the splendid proposal of the tall stranger. When it was all told, and the Chief paused for a reply, the young detective moved a pace nearer and said with decision:
“Tell him that I accept the proposition. A man can’t afford to lose so splendid a chance for friendship’s sake. Besides,” his eyes darkening and his mouth twitching convulsively, “it’s time for Dick and I to find out who is the better man!”
Returning to the inner office, the Chief of the force found his strange patron walking fiercely up and down the room, with a newspaper grasped firmly in his hand, and on his countenance traces of agitation.
“Look!” he cried, approaching and forcing the paper upon the astonished Chief; “see what a moment of waiting has brought me!”
And he pointed to a paragraph beginning:
WANTED. INFORMATION OF ANY SORT CONCERNING one Arthur Pearson, etc. etc.
“An advertisement, I see;” said the Chief. “But I fail to understand why it should thus excite you.”
“A moment ago it was my intention to keep the identity of the murdered man a secret. This,” indicating the paper by a quick gesture, “changes the face of affairs. After twenty years, some one inquires after Arthur Pearson – ”
“Then Arthur Pearson is – ”
“The man who was murdered near the Marais des Cygnes!”
“And the child?”
“I never knew her name until now. No doubt it is the little girl that was in Pearson’s care.”
“What became of the child?”
“I never knew.”
“And how does this discovery affect your movements?”
“I will tell you; but, first, you saw Vernet?”
“Yes; and he accepts.”
“Good! That notice was inserted either by some friend of Pearson’s, or by the child’s father, John Ainsworth.”
“What do you know of him?”
“Nothing; I never met him. But, as soon as you have seen Stanhope, and I am sure that these two sharp fellows are prepared to hunt down poor Pearson’s assassins, I will meet him, if the notice is his, for I am going to Australia.”
“Ah!”
“Yes; I can do no good here. To-morrow morning, business will take me out of the city. When I return, in two days, let me have Stanhope’s answer.”
When Richard Stanhope appeared at the office that night a little later than usual, the story of Arthur Pearson and his mysterious death was related for the third time that day, and the strange and munificent offer of the stranger, for the second time rehearsed by the Chief.
“What do you think of it, my boy? Are you anxious to try for a fortune?”
“No, thank you.”
It was said as coolly as if he were declining a bad cigar.
“Consider, Dick.”
“There is no need. Van and I have pulled together too long to let a mere matter of money come between us. He would never accept such a proposition.”
The Chief bit his lip and remained silent.
“Or if he did,” went on Stanhope, “he would not work against me. Tell your patron that with Van Vernet I will undertake the case. He may make Van his chief, and I will gladly assist. Without Van as my rival, I will work it alone; but against him, as his rival for honors and lucre, never!”
The Chief slowly arose, and resting his hands upon the shoulders of the younger man, looked in his face with fatherly pride.
“Dick, you’re a splendid fellow, and a shrewd detective,” he said, “but you have a weakness. You study strangers, but you trust your friends with absolute blindness. Van is ambitious.”
“So am I.”
“He loves money.”
“A little too well, I admit.”
“If he should accept this offer?”
“But he won’t.”
“If he should;” persisted the Chief.
“If such a thing were possible, – if, without a friendly consultation, and a fair and square send off, he should take up the cudgel against me, then – ”
“Then, Dick?”
Richard Stanhope’s eyes flashed, and his mouth set itself in firm lines.
“Then,” he said, “I would measure my strength against his as a detective; but always as a friend, and never to his injury!”
“And, Dick, if, in the thick of the strife, Van forgets his friendship for you and becomes your enemy?”
“Then, as I am only human, I should be his enemy too. But that will not happen.”
“I hope not; I hope not, my boy. But – Van Vernet has already accepted the stranger’s proposition.”
Stanhope leaped to his feet.
“What!” he cried, “has Van agreed to work against me – without a word to me – and so soon!”
His lips trembled now, and his eyes searched those of his Chief with the eager, inquiring look of a grieved child.
“It is as I say, Stanhope.”
“Then,” and he threw back his head and instantly resumed his usual look of careless indifference, “tell your patron, whoever he may be, that I am his man, for one year, or for twenty!”
