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CHAPTER V.
“STANHOPE’S FIRST TRICK.”
Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope had been brother detectives during the entire term of their professional career.
Entering the Agency when mere striplings, they had at once formed a friendship that had been strong and lasting. Their very differences of disposition and habits made them the better fellow-workmen, and the role most difficult for one was sure to be found the easier part for the other to play.
They had been a strong combination, and the Chief of the detectives wasted some time in pondering the question: what would be the result, when their skill and courage stood arrayed against each other?
Meantime, Richard Stanhope, wasting no thought upon the matter, hastened from the presence of his Chief to his own quarters.
“It’s my last night,” he muttered, as he inserted his key in the lock, “and I’ll just take one more look at the slums. I don’t want to lose one bird from that flock.”
Half an hour later, there sallied forth from the door where Stanhope had entered, a roughly-dressed, swaggering, villainous-looking fellow, who bore about with him the strongly defined odors of tobacco and bad whiskey.
This individual, armed with a black liquor flask, two revolvers, a blood-thirsty-looking dirk, a pair of brass knuckles, and a quantity of plug tobacco, took his way through the streets, avoiding the more popular and respectable thoroughfares, and gradually approaching that portion of the city almost entirely given over to the worst of the bad, – a network of short streets and narrow alleys, as intricate as the maze, and as dangerous to the unwary as an African jungle.
But the man who now entered these dismal streets walked with the manner of one familiar with their sights and sounds. Moving along with an air of stolid indifference to what was before and about him, he arrived at a rickety building, somewhat larger than those surrounding it, the entrance to which was reached by going down, instead of up, a flight of stone steps. This entrance was feebly illuminated by a lantern hung against the doorway, and by a few stray gleams of light that shone out from the rents in the ragged curtains.
Pushing open the door, our visitor found himself in a large room with sanded floor, a counter or bar, and five or six tables, about which a number of men were lounging, – some at cards, some drinking, and some conversing in the queer jargon called thieves’ slang, and which is as Greek to the unenlightened.
The buzz of conversation almost ceased as the door opened, but was immediately resumed when the new comer came forward toward the light.
“Is that you, Cull?” called the man behind the bar. “You’ve been keepin’ scarce of late.”
The man addressed as “Cull” laughed discordantly.
“I’ve been visitin’ in the country,” he returned, with a knowing wink. “It’s good for my health this time o’ year. How’s business? You’ve got the hull deck on hand, I should say.”
“You better say! Things is boomin’; nearly all of the old uns are in.”
“Well, spread out the drinks, Pap, I’m tolerably flush. Boys, come up, and if I don’t know any of ye we’ll be interduced.”
Almost instantly a dozen men were flocking about the bar, some eager to grasp the hand of the liberal last arrival, and others paying their undivided attention to the bar keeper’s cheerful command:
“Nominate yer dose, gentlemen.”
While the party, glasses in hand, were putting themselves en rapport, the door again opened, and now the hush that fell upon the assembled “gentlemen” was deeper and more lasting.
Evidently, the person who entered was a stranger to all in the Thieves’ Tavern, for such the building was.
He was a young man, with a countenance half fierce, half desperate, wholly depraved. He was haggard, dirty, and ragged, having the look and the gait of a man who has travelled far and is footsore and weary. As he approached the group about the bar it was also evident that he was half intoxicated.
“Good evenin’, sirs,” he said with surly indifference. Then to the man behind the bar: “Mix us a cocktail, old Top, and strong.”
While the bar keeper was deftly shaking up the desired drink, the men before the counter drew further away from the stranger, and some of them began a whispered conversation.
The last arrival eyed them with a sneer of contempt, and said to the bar keeper, as he gulped down his drink: “Your coves act like scared kites. Probably they ain’t used to good society.”
“See here, my friend,” spoke a blustering fellow, advancing toward him, “you made a little mistake. This ’ere ain’t a tramps’ lodgin’ house.”
“Ain’t it?” queried the stranger; “then what the Moses are you doin’ here?”
“You’ll swallow that, my hearty!”
“When?”
The stranger threw himself into an attitude of defence and glared defiance at his opponent.
“Wax him, Charley!”
“Let’s fire him out!”
“Hold on gentlemen; fair play!”
“I’ll give you one more chance,” said the blusterer. “Ask my pardon and then mizzle instantly, or I’ll have ye cut up in sections as sure as my name’s Rummey Joe.”
The half intoxicated man was no coward. Evidently he was ripe for a quarrel.
“I intend to stop here!” he cried, bringing his fist down upon the counter with a force that made it creak. “I’m goin’ to stay right here till the old Nick comes to fetch me. And I’m goin’ ter send your teeth down your big throat in three minutes.”
There was a chorus of exclamations, a drawing of weapons, and a forward rush. Then sudden silence.
The man who had lately ordered drinks for the crowd, was standing between the combatants, one hand upon the breast of the last comer, the other grasping a pistol levelled just under the nose of Rummey Joe.
“Drop yer fist, boy! Put up that knife, Joe! Let’s understand each other.”
Then addressing the stranger, but keeping an eye upon Rummey Joe, he said:
“See here, my hearty, you don’t quite take in the siteration. This is a sort of club house, not open to the general public. If you want to hang out here, you must show your credentials.”
The stranger hesitated a moment, and then, without so much as a glance at his antagonist, said:
“Your racket is fair enough. I know where I am, and ye’ve all got a right to see my colors. I’ll show ye my hand, and then” – with a baleful glare at Rummey Joe – “I’ll settle with that blackguard.”
Advancing to one of the tables, he deliberately lifted his foot and, resting it upon the table top, rolled up the leg of his trousers, and pulled down a dirty stocking over his low shoe.
“There’s my passport, gentlemen.”
They crowded about him and gazed upon the naked ankle, that bore the imprint of a broad band, sure indication that the limb had recently been decorated with a ball and chain.
“And now,” said the ex-convict, turning fiercely, “I’ll teach you the kind of a tramp I am, Mr. Rummey Joe!”
Before a hand or voice could be raised to prevent it, the two men had grappled, and were struggling fiercely for the mastery.
“Give them a show, boys!” some one said.
The crowd drew back and watched the combat; watched with unconcern until they saw their comrade, Rummey Joe, weakening in the grasp of his antagonist; until knives flashed in the hand of each, and fierce blows were struck on both sides. Then, when Rummey Joe, uttering a shriek of pain, went down underneath the knife of the victor, there was a roar and a rush, and the man who had conquered their favorite was borne down by half a dozen strong arms, menaced by as many sharp, glittering knives.
But again the scene shifted.
An agile form was bounding about among them; blows fell swift as rain; there was a lull in the combat, and when the wildly struggling figures, some scattered upon the floor, some thrown back upon each other, recovered from their consternation, they saw that the convict had struggled up upon one elbow, while, directly astride of his prostrate body, stood the man who had asked for his credentials, fierce contempt in his face, and, in either hand, a heavy six shooter.
“Don’t pull, boys, I’ve got the drop on ye! Cowards, to tackle a single man, six of ye!”
“By Heavens, he’s killed Rummey!”
“No matter; it was a fair fight, and Rummey at the bottom of the blame.”
“All the same he’ll never kill a pal of ours, and live to tell it! Stand off, Cully Devens!”
“No, sir! I am going to take this wounded man out of this without another scratch, if I have to send every mother’s son of you to perdition.”
His voice rang out clear and commanding. In the might of his wrath, he had forgotten the language of Cully Devens and spoken as a man to cowards.
The effect was electrical.
From among the men standing at bay, one sprang forward, crying:
“Boys, here’s a traitor amongst us! Who are ye, ye sneak, that has played yerself fer Cully Devens?”
The lithe body bent slightly forward, a low laugh crossed the lips of the bogus Cully, the brown eyes lighted up, and flashed in the eyes of the men arrayed against him. Then came the answer, coolly, as if the announcement were scarcely worth making:
“Richard Stanhope is my name, and I’ve got a trump here for every trick you can show me. Step up, boys, don’t be bashful!”
CHAPTER VI.
STANHOPE’S HUMANITY
“Richard Stanhope is my name, and I’ve got a trump here for every trick you can show me. Step up, boys, don’t be bashful!”
Momentous silence followed this announcement, while the habitues of the Thieves’ Tavern glanced into each others’ faces in consternation.
An ordinary meddler, however much his courage and skill, would have met with summary chastisement; but Dick Stanhope!
Not a man among them but knew the result of an attack upon him. Bullets swift and sure, in the brains or hearts of some; certain vengeance, sooner or later, upon all.
To avoid, on all possible occasions, an open encounter with an officer of the law, is the natural instinct of the crook. Besides, Stanhope was never off his guard; his presence, alone among them, was sure indication that they were in more danger than he.
So reasoned the astonished scoundrels, instantly, instinctively.
“Look here, boys,” Stanhope’s cool voice broke in upon their silence; “I’m here on a little private business which need not concern you, unless you make me trouble. This man,” nodding down at the prostrate ex-convict, “is my game. I’m going to take him out of this, and if you raise a hand to prevent it, or take a step to follow me, you’ll find yourselves detained for a long stretch.”
He threw back his head and gave a long, low whistle.
“Hear that, my good sirs. That’s a note of preparation. One more such will bring you into close quarters. If you are not back at those tables, every man of you, inside of two minutes, I’ll give the second call.”
Some moved with agility, some reluctantly, some sullenly; but they all obeyed him.
“Now, Pap, come out and help me lift this fellow. Are you badly hurt, my man?”
The wounded man groaned and permitted them to lift him to his feet.
“He can walk, I think,” went on Stanhope, in a brisk, business-like way. “Lean on me, my lad.” Then, turning to the bar keeper and thrusting some money into his hand: “Give these fellows another round of drinks, Pap. Boys, enjoy yourselves; ta-ta.”
And without once glancing back at them he half led, half supported, the wounded man out from the bar-room, up the dirty stone steps, and into the dirtier street.
“Boys,” said the bar keeper as he distributed the drinks at Stanhope’s expense, “you done a sensible thing when you let up on Dick Stanhope. He’s got the alley lined with peelers and don’t you forget it.”
For a little way Stanhope led his man in silence. Then the rescued ex-convict made a sudden convulsive movement, gathered himself for a mighty effort, broke from the supporting grasp of the detective, and fled away down the dark street.
Down one block and half across the next he ran manfully. Then he reeled, staggered wildly from side to side, threw up his arms, and fell heavily upon his face.
“I knew you’d bring yourself down,” said Stanhope, coming up behind him. “You should not treat a man as an enemy, sir, until he’s proven himself such.”
He lifted the prostrate man, turning him easily, and rested the fallen head upon his knee.
“Can you swallow a little?” pressing a flask of brandy to the lips of the ex-convict.
The man gasped and feebly swallowed a little of the liquor.
“There,” laying down the flask, “are your wounds bleeding?”
The wounded man groaned, and then whispered feebly:
“I’m done for – I think – are you – an officer?”
“Yes.”
“Af – after me?”
“No.”
“Do – do you – know – ”
“Do I know who you are? Not exactly, but I take you to be one of the convicts who broke jail last week.”
The man made a convulsive movement, and then, battling for breath as he spoke, wailed out:
“Listen – you want to take me back to prison – there is a reward – of course. If you only knew – when I was a boy – on the western prairies – free, free. Then here in the city – driven to beg – to steal to – . Oh! don’t take me back to die in prison! You don’t know the horror of it!”
A look of pitying tenderness lighted the face bent above the dying man.
“Poor fellow!” said Stanhope softly. “I am an officer of the law, but I am also human. If you recover, I must do my duty: if you must die, you shall not die in prison.”
“I shall die,” said the man, in a hoarse whisper; “I know I shall die – die.”
His head pressed more heavily against Stanhope’s knee; he seemed a heavier weight upon his arm. Bending still lower, the detective listened for his breathing, passed his hand over the limp fingers and clammy face. Then he gathered the form, that was more than his own weight, in his muscular arms, and bore it away through the darkness, muttering, as he went:
“That was a splendid stand-off! What would those fellows say, if they knew that Dick Stanhope, single-handed and alone, had walked their alleys in safety, and bluffed their entire gang!”
CHAPTER VII.
HOW A MASQUERADE BEGAN
A crush of carriages about a stately doorway; a flitting of gorgeous, mysterious, grotesque and dainty figures through the broad, open portal; a glow of lights; a gleaming of vivid color; a glory of rich blossoms; a crash of music; a bubble of joyous voices; beauty, hilarity, luxury everywhere.
It is the night of the great Warburton masquerade, the event of events in the social world. Archibald Warburton, the invalid millionaire, has opened his splendid doors, for the pleasure of his young and lovely wife, to receive the friendly five hundred who adore her, and have crowned her queen of society.
He will neither receive, nor mingle with his wife’s guests; he is too much an invalid, too confirmed a recluse for that. But his brother, Alan Warburton, younger by ten years, handsomer by all that constitutes manly beauty, will play the host in his stead – and do it royally, too, for Alan is a man of the world, a man of society, a refined, talented, aristocratic young man of leisure. Quite a Lion as well, for he has but recently returned from an extended European tour and is the “newest man” in town. And society dearly loves that which is new, especially when, with the newness, there is combined manly beauty – and wealth.
With such a host as handsome Alan Warburton, such a hostess as his brother’s beautiful wife, and such an assistant as her sparkling, piquant little companion, Winnifred French, who could predict for this masquerade anything but the most joyous ending, the most pronounced success? Ah! our social riddles are hard to read.
Into this scene of revelry, while it is yet early, before the music has reached its wildest strains, and the dancing its giddiest whirl, comes a smart servant girl, leading by the hand a child of four or five summers, a dainty fair-haired creature. In her fairy costume of white satin with its silvery frost work and gleaming pearls; with her gossamer wings and glittering aureole of spun gold; her dainty wand and childish grace, she is the loveliest sight in the midst of all that loveliness, for no disfiguring mask hides the beautiful, eager face that gazes down the long vista of decorated drawing rooms, library, music room, boudoir, in wondering, half frightened expectation.
“They’re beginning to dance down there,” says the maid, drawing the child toward a lofty archway, through which they can watch the swiftly whirling figures of the dancers. “Why, do come along, Miss Daisy; one would think your Pa’s house was full of bears and wild-cats, to see your actions.”
But the child draws back and grasps fearfully at the skirts of her attendant.
“What makes ’em look so queer, Millie? Isn’t you afraid?”
“Why no, Miss Daisy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. See; all these funny-looking people are your papa’s friends, and your new mamma’s, and your uncle Alan’s. Look, now,” – drawing the reluctant child forward, – “just look at them! There goes a – a Turk, I guess, and – ”
“What makes they all have black things on their faces, Millie?”
“Why, child, that’s the fun of it all. If it wasn’t for them masks everybody would know everybody else, and there wouldn’t be no masquerade.”
“No what?”
“No masquerade, child. Now look at that; there goes a pope, or a cardinal; and there, oh my! that must be a Gipsy – or an Injun.”
“A Gipsy or an Indian; well done, Millie, ha ha ha!”
At the sound of these words they turn swiftly. A tall masker, in a black and scarlet domino, is standing just behind them, and little Daisy utters one frightened cry and buries her face in Millie’s drapery.
“Why, Daisy;” laughs the masker; “little Daisy, are you frightened? Come, this will never do.”
With a quick gesture he flings off the domino and removes the mask from his face, thus revealing a picturesque sailor’s costume, and a handsome face that bears, upon one cheek, the representation of a tattooed anchor.
While he is thus transforming himself, the outer door opens and admits a figure clad in soft flowing robes of scarlet and blue and white, with a mantle of stars about the stately shoulders, and the cap of Liberty upon the well-poised head. The entrance of the Goddess of Liberty is unnoticed by the group about the archway, and, after a swift glance at them, that august lady glides behind a screen which stands invitingly near the door, and, sinking upon a divan in the corner, seems intent upon the classic arrangement of her white and crimson draperies.
“Now look,” says Alan Warburton, flinging the discarded domino upon a chair; “look, Daisy, darling. Why, pet, you were afraid of your own uncle Alan.”
The little one peers at him from behind Millie’s skirts and then comes slowly forward.
“Why, uncle Alan, how funny you look, and – your face is dirty!”
“Oh! Daisy,” taking her up in his arms and smiling into her eyes; “you are a sadly uncultivated young person. My face is tattooed, for ‘I’m a sailor bold.’”
While uncle and niece are thus engaged in playful talk, and Millie is intently watching the dancers, they are again approached; this time by two ladies, – one in the flowing, glittering, gorgeous robes of Sunlight, the other in a dainty Carmen costume of scarlet and black and gold. Both ladies are masked, and, as they enter from an alcove in the rear of the room, they, too, approach unperceived. Seeing the group about the archway, one of them makes a signal of silence. They stop, and standing close together, wait.
“It just occurs to me, Millie,” says Alan Warburton, turning suddenly to the maid; “it just occurs to me to inquire how you came in charge of Miss Daisy here. Where is Miss Daisy’s maid?”
The girl throws back her head, with a gesture that causes every ribbon upon her cap to flutter, as she replies, with a look of defiance and an indignant sniff:
“Mrs. Warburton put Miss Daisy in my care, sir, and I don’t know where Miss Daisy’s maid may be.”
“Umph! well it seems to me that – ” He stops and looks at the child.
“That I ain’t the properest person to look after Miss Daisy, I ’spose you mean – ”
“Millie, you are growing impertinent.”
“Because I’m a poor girl that the mistress of this house took in out of kindness – ”
“Millie; will you stop!” and he puts little Daisy down with a gesture of impatience.
“I’m trying to do my duty,” goes on the irate damsel; “and Mrs. Warburton, my mistress, has given me my orders, sir, consequently– ”
“Oh! if Mrs. Warburton has issued such judicious orders,” and he takes up his mask and domino, “I retire from the field.”
“It’s time to stop them, Winnie,” says the lady in the garments of Sunlight, taking off her mask hastily. “Alan never could get on with a raw servant. I see war in Millie’s eyes.”
Then she comes forward, mask in hand, and followed by the laughing Carmen.
“Alan, you are in difficulty, I see,” laughing, in spite of her attempt at gravity. “Millie, I fear, is not quite up to your standard of silent perfection.”
“May I ask, Mrs. Warburton, if she is your ideal of a companion for this child?”
The tone is faintly tinged with scorn and sternness, and Leslie Warburton’s eyes cease to smile as she replies, with dignity:
“She is my servant, Mr. Warburton. We will not discuss her merits in her presence. I will relieve you of any further trouble on her account.”
“Where, may I ask, is Daisy’s own maid?”
“In her room, with a headache that unfits her for duty. Come here, Daisy.”
Up to this moment Alan Warburton has kept the hand of the child clasped in his own. He now releases it with evident reluctance, and the little fairy bounds toward her stepmother.
“Mamma, how lovely you look!” reaching up her arms to caress the head that bends toward her. “Mamma, take me with you where the music is.”
“Have you been to Papa’s room, Daisy? You know we must not let him feel lonely to-night.”
“Exceeding thoughtfulness,” mutters Alan Warburton to himself, as he turns to resume his domino. Then aloud, to his sister-in-law, he says:
“I have just visited my brother’s room, Mrs. Warburton; he wished to see you for a moment, I believe. Daisy, will you come with me?”
He extends his hand to the child, who gives a willful toss of the head as she replies, clinging closer to her stepmother the while:
“No; I going to stay with my new mamma.”
As Alan Warburton turns away, with a shade of annoyance upon his face, he meets the mirthful eyes of Carmen, and is greeted by a saucy sally.
“What a bear you can be, Alan, when you try your hand at domestic discipline. Put on your domino and your dignity once more. You look like a school boy who has just been whipped.”
“Ah, Winnie,” he says seriously, coming close to her side and seeking to look into the blue, mocking eyes, “no need for me to see your face, your sweet voice and your saucy words both betray you.”
“Just as your bad temper has betrayed you! It’s a pity you can’t appreciate Millie, sir; but then your sense of the ridiculous is shockingly deficient. There goes a waltz,” starting forward hastily.
“It’s my waltz; wait, Winnie.”
But the laughing girl is half way down the long drawing-room, and he hurries after, replacing his mask and pulling on his domino as he goes.
Then Leslie Warburton, with a sigh upon her lips, draws the child again toward her and says:
“You may wait here, Millie; I will take care of Daisy for a short time. And, Millie, remember in future when Mr. Warburton addresses you, that you are to answer him respectfully. Come, darling.”
She turns toward the entrance, the child’s hand clasped tightly in her own, and there, directly before her, stands a figure which she has longed, yet dreaded, to meet – the Goddess of Liberty.
With a gasp of surprise, and a heart throbbing with agitation, Leslie Warburton hurriedly replaces her mask and turns to Millie.
“Millie, on second thought, you may take Daisy to her papa’s room, and tell him I will be there soon. Daisy, darling, go with Millie.”
“But, Mamma, – ”
“There, there, dear, go to papa now; mamma will come.”
With many a reluctant, backward glance, Daisy suffers herself to be led away, and then the Goddess of Liberty advances and bows before the lady of the mansion.
“I am not mistaken,” whispers that lady, glancing about her as if fearing an eavesdropper; “you are – ”
“First,” interrupts a mellow voice from behind the starry mask, “are you Mrs. Warburton?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am Richard Stanhope.”
