. tone. f ~x '4! t ,r:;‘:.L.'i.',t mmfiurifts‘ “‘57 ’ . \ -..’ tram»: ’2‘fi’fitfl‘wtfiibtiiift‘fitidrth’fififi’fimffi "4T1: r {al.513- N. r 5'.‘ ‘ , u», ....,x ,. .- a. .-, , - .I . - , ‘ ~' ~ x! -"~ v- :51,- Q’Wiuuni .s...€..laaswsnnmti pmr:;¢§q‘-M A...“ mzmmremfiwsm‘e» I m” {$.37 ‘MA .. Agnes Hqfl‘yalhed herself, and summon- ing a suddehffliergy, said,,in. a lowrxmgg. .3. “Come—coma, Franklf‘ 3W6 ,Musfa? ’ 3 ‘Tis mother, and—andmwé may beam Mt Come l” he whispered in her ear: “Again, Agnes, I beg you to be brave, and . to rememberthat ' I ’amgyo‘ur fi'iend to death! ‘,,Now,’Agnes, lean on me, and’come along. prepared, my poor girl, for the worst. ‘ ’There—there—Agnes, do not tremble so; trust in God, and rely on my friendship l” 80 speaking, Frank Hayworth, almost lifting the girl in his arms, commenced the ascent of the stairs. In a moment the top was reached. And that moment the door of the front room was opened, and the robust form of the kind-hearted physician stood there in the broad flash of light streaming from the apartment. _ And then another gurgling groan echoed in the silent air. Agnes Hope trembled as, leaning on the actor’s arm, she panted heavily. “Is it you, Agnes?” asked the doctor, in a low voice, as he peered into the gloom. His voice was subdued—just above a whisper, and, in his tones, there was something of sympathy. “Yes, doctor,” replied the girl; “it is I. I am with Mr. Hayworth.” As she spoke she came forward into the light. “I am glad you are here, Agnes, my chik ,” said the physician, in the same kind “ Be not cast down, my poor girl, but come in, and see your mother. You have no time to lose.” So saying, the humane gentleman took Agnes by the hand, and beckoning the young man to follow, led the girl into the ‘ humble room. - A single oil-lamp on the mantelpiece flung its light over the apartment. Feeble as were the rays, they were sufficiently strong to reveal the poverty of the apart- ment——the curtainless window, the worm- eaten sashes—the damp, moldy walls—the bare floor—the broken chairs, and the scanty bed with its meager covering. On that bed lay a thin-faced, pallid wo- man, her lips apart, the struggling breath coming and going at long intervals—the thin eyes, almost meaningless and staring, thrown back and fixed, the skinny hands outside the cover digging the skeleton-like fingers into the bedclothes. Relinquishing the hand of Agnes, the physician stepped lightly to the mantel, and took therefrom a glass containing a fluid. He leaned over the bed of the dying woman, and placed his hands gently upon her arm. “Arouse, Mrs. Hope, and drink this po- tion; Agnes is here ;” and then he lifted her head gently, as he placed the liquid to her lips. Without hesitating, the sufferer swallow- ed the invigorating draught. In a moment the fiery liquid had flashed through her sinking frame—the eyes lost their strong stare—the hands unclinched their grasp, and the panting breath came more regularly. Turning her eyes wearin on the physi- cian, the dying woman murmured in a low voice, incoherently—unmeaningly : “Agnes! Agnes! did you say, doctor? No l Agnes is not here; she is at the play- house, laughing and jestiug on the boards! She is Emily St. Evermond, to-night. And then—ha! ha! She afterward marries Green Jones, you know ! She told me all about it, and how her heart would ache, when remembering her old mother all alone at home. She would have to go on the stage, and laugh and smirk, and say silly things to please the people! Poor—poor Agnes! But, she is not here, doctor, and Hal doctor, I feel faint! I am dying, doctor, and Agnes, my child—away l” As she spoke a wild shudder swept over her frame, and with a startled look of sud- den fright, she closed her eyes. The physician had allowed her to rattle on in her wild, random talk, without at- tempting to check; but, as soon as she ceased speaking of her own accord, he quickly placed his sensitive finger over the thrilling artery of the neck. Then, as a painful look spread over his face, he beck- oned Agnes to him, and leaning down, half-shouted in the ear of the dying woman: “Arouse yourself! arouse yourself, for your daughter’s sake! Agnes is here to bid you farewell l” But the poor woman gave no reply. At the name of Agnes, there was a faint quivering about the nostril, a just percepti- ble lifting of the thin upper lip. Then a terrible shiver passed over her frame-— then another, and another—then a long, feebly-drawn breath. The physician turned away. “ DEAD l” he said, in a voice almost in- audible. , _ Then came the long wailing shriek, as poor Agnes reeled back, and fell in the ready arms of Frank Hayworlh. At that moment the window-sash was shaken, and a wild laugh rung in the room. Frank Hayworth glanced thitherward and saw a hideous face. \ In an instant the face was gone. (To be contimted— Commenced in No. 25.) Behind the Scenes. The trials and triumphs of the Stage are painted with a free hand in the fascinating story of the Ruby Ring. Dr. Turner evidently is fully “posted” in the premises. The young man strOVenot to‘keep; but L . w 4. THE GERMAN SAILQR’S so . We: r we ' a is . mpg-av. MAW.\ c a i s I. y I V' g ’ Over aqfidpene,” ’5', K ‘ Undor'manygstii'inheavfir. " "fi 7 We, birds fisagefiiave ' Thriddlng triom'tnd eyes? Have ten-threats Hand ' "r To. _ aroma andiver, 5'", . ‘ ' Yet; seeking-of our Fatherland, ;\ _ And sigh for Our Mother river. - A ‘; “it. t b\ . That Childhood’s hope hath clung to, All things there are fair Which manhood’s heart hath hung to: There tears fell on the hand That scarce could bear to sever, And shook for our Fatherland, Beside our Mother river. And oh i when keen gales move To hear us on our mission, Those dear heart-harbors of love Grow dearer in each vision; They give strength to each hand, And to each heart endeavor— Dear homes of our Fatherland, Where flows our Mother river. With wine of no alien vine, Abreast the Southern ocean, Dreaming of the Rhine, We pour dear love’s devotion ; And each with glass in hand, Which somehow will strangely quiver, Quads deep to our Fatherland— Pledging our Mother river. The Scarlet Hand: on, The Orphan Heiress of Fifth Avenue. . A STORY OF NEW YORK HEARTHS AND HOMES. BY ALBERT W; AIKEN, AUTHOR on “THE acre or SPADES,” ETC. CHAPTER XX. THE SCHEME OF THE TOMBS LAWYER. IN a dingy law-office, hardly a stone’s throw from the New York Tombs—that celebrated pile——sat two men beside a ta- ble, on which lay a handful of folded legal papers, yellow and musty with age. Thelittle sign upon the door of this office _bore the inscription, “T. WEISEL, ATTOR- NEY-AT-LAW.” And one of the men who found at all. This is the way they work “ straw-bail” in New .‘York. Of conga, in some casemit is openlywinked at by. e presiding ofiicer of the so-called court ‘pf , justice. ‘1 Lawyer Weisel'an‘d Billy O’Kay had hag quite a lot of business together, for in practice of the lawyer, straw-bail “Billy, Lain not joking,” said Weisel, who possessed a clear though rather shrill voice; “there’s a large amount of money in this affair, if it‘s only handled rightly.” “ How much ?” asked Billy, who, though bearing a name of Hibernian extraction, had very little of the “ brogue ” in his tone. “What do you say to ten thousand dol- lars ?” asked Weisel, with a cunning smile upon his sharp features. “How much?” said Billy, in astonish- ment. “Ten thousand dollars,A ropeated the lawyer. “ You ain‘t foolin’, are yer ?” “ No; sober earnest.” “ Well, I should say that it was a hefty sum fur to make on one little jdi," replied Billy. “ Oh, you think it’s a large sum, eh ?” “Well, I just do, now i” cried the re- doubtable Billy. “ Why, I couldn’t make more nor that if I got a posish in the street department.” We had forgot to mention that Billy was a “big gun” in “ ward politics.” “Well, if you think ten thousand is a sat by the table was T. IVei'sel, Esq, in person. Timothy Weisel was a lawyer of the class popularly known as “ Tombs shy- sters.” One of the kind who accepted any thing from a client in the shape of fees, from a five-dollar “ greenback,” down to a pawn-ticket for a pocket-handkerchief. All was fish that came to his net. In person, the lawyer was a little fellow, spare in figure, and with a sharpvpeaked face, wherein was set a pair of sharp gray eyes, deeply sunken in the head and over- hung by protruding eyebrows. The face of the lawyer, somehow, gave one an idea of a rat—of an animal who was at war with all the world—who would rather run than fight, and yet would, when cornered and forced to it, fight fiercely. The lawyer was rather shabbily clad in a rusty black suit; and, from his personal appearance, one would have been apt to quickly guess that the world had not gone well with him lately. The guess would have been an apt one, too, for fortune and Timothy Weisel, Attor- ney-at-law, had not been close friends for some time past. But if the truth be told, it was the lawyer’s fault. Being fond of liquor, he had neglected his business, taken to drinking bad whisky, and thus put into his stomach what should have gone on his back. Weisel was a smart lawyer in his way. He had few equals in criminal practice in New York. Not that he had ever handled any important cases; but in minor trial many a poor devil had reason to bless his"i lucky stars that he had retained lawyer Weisel for his counsel, and thus had saved himself a trip to the “ Island,” or perhaps to Sing Sing. Weisel was clever as a pet- tifogger. No keener eye was there than his, to detect a flaw in an indictment, among all the members of the New York bar. And, although Weisel had indulged in some pretty sharp practice at times, and had incurred the enmity of all his profes- sional brethren who claimed to be respec- table, by inserting advertisements in the papers headed, “ DrvoncEs PROCURED WITHOUT PUBLICITY, ETC.,” still he was big sum, what do you" think of twenty thousand ?” asked Weisel. ’ “ Oh, say; you’re only gassin’ !” replied Billy, a little indignant. “ Oh, no,I ain’t !” cried Weisel, emphati- cally. “ I never was more in earnest in all my life. I say that, with these musty old papers here, and with your help, I can make twenty thousand dollars, and perhaps thirty thousand—perhaps forty thousand—— perhaps fifty thousand—” ’_ - “ Hold ‘ on i” cried Billy, in alarm; “you’ve got up high enough now. I guess you’ve been drinkin’ too much whisky lately, an’ it’s got into your brain, ’cos ye’re talk- ' in’ loony now.” “ Billy, this is unkind,” said Weisel, re- proaehfully. “ You know that you were as drunk as I was; and besides, I paid for the liquor.” - “ Well, I didn’t say yer didn’t,” returned Billy, doggedly.~ “ But you can’t gammon this child with any fifty thousand dollars; yer can’t stuff that down my throat. It’s too thin, an’ it won’t wash.” ' “ Billy, did I ever deceive you ?" asked Weisel. “ I don’t know—but you can’t come any fifty thousand dollars over me, now, boss- fly,” replied Billy, with an air of deter- mination. ““ Just you listen to me,” urged Weisel. “ I offer you a share in this thing because I need your aid. It won’t cost any thing to try it, even if it fails. Now you just listen, and I’ll explain.” “ Sail in,” ejaculated Billy, preparing to listen. “ It’s quite a long story,” said the law- yer, “and I’ll have to explain it fully, so that you will understand all the particu— lars. It’s a beautiful case to work up— clear as daylight, except one point, and there I want your help. Twenty-four years ago,” began the lawyer, while Billy listened attentively, “ a young Fifth avenue ‘blood’ married a poor girl who ’tended in a fancy-goods store on the Bowery. The marriage was a private one, and took place at the minister’s house, with only the ser- -vants of the clergyman for witnesses. Af- ter the marriage, the ‘ blood ’ took his wife down. to Charleston, South Carolina. There a child was born ; a boy. After the child was born, the husband got tired of the wife, and deserted her. The cause of the desertiOn was, that he had fallen in love with a wealthy Southern girl. This'girl he married and brought to New York with him. It was a bold thing to do, to com— mit bigamy, but the ‘ blood’ thought he had every thing his own way. He had kept the marriage certificate of the first wife. He knew that she was not only ig. norant of where the minister’s house was, but even of his name. Besides, she was sharp enough to keep just within bounds, and afforded his enemies no excuse for flinging him over the “ bars.” The companion of Mr. Weisel was a thick-set, muscular fellow, with a bulldog- like face. He was known as Billy O’Kay, and was notorious among the frequenters of the various courts of justice in New York as a “ straw-bailist.” , That is, when a man was put under bonds for some of- fense—for instance, for assault and battery; for folks do get arrested, even in New York, for such a thing, sometimes ,' Billy would “put in an appearance ” with some re- spectable-looking gentleman in black, who would swear that he was Mr. So-and-so, of No. Third avenue, coal dealer, or butcher, or merchant—as the case might be—and worth so much money in real es- tate; ofi'er to go bail“ for the prisoner. The bail is aCCepted and the prisoner re- leased. And if in time the prosecuting party does appear to follow up the charge, the prisoner is missing. The hail is sent for, and Mr. So-and-so, coal dealer, etc, is found to be either an entirely different man from the gentleman in black who had ap- friendless—without money, while he had plenty. He thought that she would never be able to prove her marriage, and he was right, for she never did. “After she was deserted by this man in Charleston, she managed, with her baby, to beg her way to New York. She h‘ad a brother here, a rough customer—you know him well, Billy,but I refrain from mention- ing his name now. I got all the first part of this history from him. Of course, he had no idea what scent I» was on. “ Well, the girl told the brother how she had been wronged, and he instantly took the law in his own hands—stabbed the ‘blood’ on Broadway, and went to Sing Sing for five years for it. But the ‘ blood’ didn’t die; he recovered. “Now, when the brother went to Sing Sing, he put his sister, the deserted wife, with a family in Hester street; and there, in a short time, she died. The child she left was sent to the brother at Sing Sing, and he arranged to have it boarded with a woman in Sing Sing village. \ “Now, while these events were taking place, the second wife had a child-—-a boy, poured in the court-room, or else he is not too: only about a year’s difference between fr. ‘TEis—i'tnm _, em york, intent upon... lmf " .~; . “1’3 a and wrongedwssisw’fo, ~ Warts“ Fro ' 0 do ,itwhen he was sentencediii andrwitnesses who were able and willing?“ w “ " ' L ’ given to any thing, prodded .they weird“? ,) beforehand What it was, Were very es- All things sweet anothere ganja]. _ . ; prawn am 119'sas.geo:3f kéd Bl y, in a tone of approbation. g, ., r Exactly,” said Weisel; “ but the ‘ blood ’ heard of his release, and didn’t wait for him to fulfill his threat, but cleared out instantly for parts unknown. The brother came to New York—found that the man he sought had run away. Then the brother went back to Sing Sing, to get the child, and found to his astonishment that both the child and the woman he had left it with, had departed without leaving any clue to their whereabouts. The brother came back to New York, and that ends his con- nection with my story. “Now for the other links in the chain. The ‘ blood,’ when he fled from New York, went straight to Sing Sing. He had discov- ered by some means, that his child, which he had deserted, was there, and he wanted it, as circumstances had forced him away from the other child. He bribed the woman to go with him and take the child. She went, but retribution followed the guilty man. This woman was the wife of a prisoner in Sing Sing—a desperate English burglar. When' he was released, he followed. his wife to the little Western city, where the, ‘ blood ’ had settled under an assumed name. The woman ,had discovered that he had plenty of money, So one dark nighther husband was let into the house by her. He killedthe ‘ blood’ in his bed, took all his money, his papers—among them the mar- riage certificate of the wife—then, with his wife and the baby, came to New York. Of course lie knew’ nothing of these facts that I’ve related, and, of course, could make no use of the papers. He died . in. jail here about two months ago, while waiting trial. I was his lawyer, and so the papers came into my hands. I saw a chance for a ten- sttike—I found out the bro(er—pumped him of all he knew. Then Charleston; found the doctor hat attended the wife in her illness, and the minister who baptized the child. I got their evidence, and that sworn to. The child has a pecu- liar mark on the right arm. And I’ve got the child, too. He’s a man now, of course. Now all I want to complete the evidence is the woman who brought the child up. She separated from the burglarsome years since, and, I haven’t been able to find her. You see, I can trace the child from its birth to the time that it came into the hands of this woman ; but I can’t find the woman. Now, if you can find one that will fill the bill—— that will swear to certain facts that I can in- struct her in, the chain of evidence will be complete.” - “But where does your fifty thousand dol- lars come in ?” asked Billy. " “ Why, when the father was stabbed he thought he was going to die, and made a I will. When he ran away and didn’t come back, the will was finally admittd to pro- bate, under the belief that he was dead-.— which, at the time, he really was, as I have explained. The property was—as every one supposed—left to his son by his second wife. Of course his first marriage and the birth of a child was a secret to the world.” . “ But the fifty thousand?” said Billy, who couldn’t see any money in the affair, so far. “ I have discovered a flaw on the will,” said Weisel, quietly, but his little eyes sparkling. “ The child by the first wife— the man that I now hold in my hands—— whose identity I alone can prove, is the legal heir to all the estate now held by the son of the second wife.” “ J e-rusalem !” ejaculated Billy, in admir- ation; “ what a head you have got. I’ve got the woman for you, too—swear to any thing as long as she’s paid.” “Good! Then I’ll make something handsome out of the affair. Billy, I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your witness.” “ ’Nufl’ sod—shake !” And the compact was made. CHAPTER XXI. ’ THE SLASHEB ON THE WAR-PATH. ON the Saturday night of the week wherein the events related in the preced- ing chapters had taken place, a gr’oup of men were standing on the corner of Crosby and Houston streets. The time was about half-past ten. The night was dark, with threatenings of rain 1 the air. ‘ The group of men on the corner were rough-locking fellows, four in number, with bullet heads, hair cropped short, scarred and battered features. Prominent among them was one who seemed to be a leader. In person he stood nearly a head taller than the rest. This man was no other than John Duke, the Slasher; and his companions were mem- bers of the Baxter street gang of roughs who acknowledged the notorious Slasher as their leader. . g The Slasher and his gang were evidently on the look-out for some one, for they kept a close watch down Crosby street. “ It must be about time for the cove to come out,” said one, whose unmistakable accent gave proof that he was an English- man. "‘Not yet,” responded the Slasher; “the ent dowu to ~ 3 X tgr ain’t 0 mg ml ‘ ' ,5 the fourth t’bone.” - a ‘ 7’1, eplied’ the Slasher. a, , {you ' can drink all the whisky you EMS.“ “ Wot’s the programme, anyway ?” asked the Englishman. “Well, when he comes out, J immy— who is a-watchin’ at the back door of the theater, will whistle; then we’ll jist follow on his track, let him cross the Bowery, then get ahead of him, and cut him off in Riv— ington street. There’s a dark block just the ' V . «warms» as v ‘- ‘ A» . other side of Allen, that will suit us first- ' rate. We’ll lay for him there, an’ go for him,” explained the Slasher. “ Are we to just punch him once or twice, or for to lay him out cold?” asked. the second ruflian. “ Lay him out,” replied Duke; “ make a job for the coroner tomorrow. I Just use your brass knuckles or slung-shots on him. We don’t want to half do it, ‘yer know, ’cos if he should happen to get over it, an’ should recognize any of us hereafier, it might make trouble for us; so just‘finish the thing up neat while yer about it." “ Oh, we’ll fix the bloke,” said the Eng-- lishman, significantly. “ If I gét a good, square lick at him, all the doctors in this blarsted country wouldn’t bring him round again, you know.” i , _ “Will he be apt to have any'jonel'with him?” asked another. “No,” replied Duke. “ Jimmy’s watched him home two nights, an’ he’s allers been alone. We kin double-bank him just as easy as kin be.” / “ The theater must be out,” said the Eng- lishman, looking along Houston street. “ I kin see a crowd a-goin’ up Broadway.” The group all looked toward Broadway. As the Englishman had said, a crowd of people were pouring up the street. “ That’s so,” ” said the Slasher, after a look. “ It. won’t be long, then,-af0re he comes out.” .“ I-shan’t be sorry, for I’m as cold as kin be,” said the fourth of the gang, who had before complained of the chill air. “ You‘ll be snug in your roost aforc an houris over, with some ‘ greenbacks’ for to set up the drinks with,” responded the Slasher. “An’ that’s where'the joke comes in,” said the Englishman, with a grin. “Say, who is it that’s a-goin’ for this rooster i” asked the third rough. “ How kin I tell?” demanded the Slash- er, roughly. “ A gent, as I don’t knows, comes to me an’ says he’ll give fifty dollars -—-that’s ten apiece for us-—-for to have this theater actor double-banked an’ whip- ped; an’ he wants him whipped well, too— he don’t want the job spoilt by bein’ un- derdone. In fact, to speak right out, he Wants him put out of the way. Well, I took the job. I spoke to you fellers about it and offered the fair thing—share an’ share alike. Fifty dollars, an’ there’s five of us, countin’ Jimmy; that’s ten dollars apiece, as I said afore. Now that’s all I knows about the job. The gent give me twenty-five dollars down, an” he’s to pony up the other twenty-five Monday morning, if we do the job to-night. Now, you knows as much about it as I do, an’ I hope yer satisfied." The Slasher’s explanation was probable enough, and the. roughs accepted it with- out hesitation. “ That’s square,” said the Englishman. “Couldn’t be fairer!” exclaimed , the third one of the gang. “ If yer satisfied, then, it’s all right,” said Duke. “Now, just keep your ears open for Jimmy’s whistle. He’ll whistle when our man comes out.” From the above given explanation it will be plainy seen how much a man’s life is worth in New York city, sometimes. The roughs remained on the corner, lis- tening intently, for some fifteen minutes. Then the sound of a whistle came out shrilly on the night air. ’ “ That's the signal; the cove has started !” cried Duke; “so let’s travel, boys.” And down the street went the roughs at a pretty fast walk. In front of the back-door of the theater they were joined by their comrade, Jimmy, who had been on the watch there to note when Mordaunt—for it was the actor for ’whom the roughs were lying in wait— should appear. “ Is he alone, Jimmy ?” asked the Slasher, , as the rough called Jimmy joined them. “Yes,” replied that worthy, “ there he is,” and he pointed to a dark form just on the corner of Prince street, that carried in its hands a carpet-bag and a sword. The actor had played “ Claude Melnotte ” in the “Lady of Lyons ” that night, and the sword was the saber that he had worn when dressed as the French colonel. “ We’ll fix him easy, then,” said the Slasher. “Yes, but he’s got a SWOl‘d in his hand,” said the rough, who had acted as the spy. “ We’ll jump on him so quick that he won't have a chance to use it,” said Duke. “Come on, boys, let’s keep him in sight.” Then the roughs followed the actor down the street rapidly. But to their sur- prise and rage, on the corner of Prince street, the actor was joined by two people, a lady and gentleman, who evidently had saw-3*” .: . .