)5.

(.

U’. ‘-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wfldlllllllfllllm.

l"

 

“Willlulllllmlfllllllmu'

  

'anmmmmmmuuk

 

.

’é

go

a
3
g
i
E
E

W

    

   
    

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
 

 

“ P‘raps Charley‘s come.”
Then he sighed slightly and muttered:
“Pitv we can‘t keepl’em, babbies furever.
win’ out of knowle e
ngs be turned into 121%? little lane that led to the
cottage, he kept a sharp lookout for the dory, that
he eXpected to see on the beach in front of the gate;
for his friend Charley was a_ fisherman, and Han-
nah was engaged to be married to him, so that his
visits were naturally not infrequent. _

But there was no dory on the beach that evening,
except his own. and Jack felt more disappomted
than ever as he came toward the house, when he was
saluted by the sound of voices. and saw his mother,
in her best cap and gown, sitting on the porch,
with Hannah at a little distance from her, and the
elegant figure of the strange millionaire, Mr. Harri-
man, in the Quaker rocker, smoking a Cigar and
evidently very much at home.

Jack could hardly tell what was the reason that
his heart gave such a jump at the Sight, or why he
felt sucha, sharp pain. He paSSed his hand across
his brow, and muttered to himself:

“Oh, pshaw! He’s only come to thank mother.
I orter took his money today. He didn't mean no
harm."

Then he went forward to the house, rather bash-
fully, and Hannah saw him and Jumped up, flushing
redder than there was any necessxty for, as she cried
to her mother:

“ Oh, mother. here is Jack 1” _ .

The old lady lifted her head. With a smile of wel
come, to greet her son; and Harriman turned his
head. with the coolness of a man of the world, and
called out to Jack: ,

“Ah, Mr. Corwin, there you are. You wouldn is
ask me to your house today. but you see I have
made your mother’s acquaintance already. How
are you?” . ,

Jack lumbered forward, feelin very big and
awkward before this elegant gent eman, as he re-

lied:

p “Good evenin’, sir. I didn’t think you’d ha’ cared
to come to a place like this, when you had the ho-
tels to go to. But you’re welcome, sir.” '

Then Harriman rose, and put out his hand, saying
with the warmth of an old friend:

“ Corwin, you’re a noble fellow, and I was an ass
to be angry with you because you treated me rough-
ly. I have been talking .to your mother, and she
agrees with me that you ought to let me do some-
thing for you and your little Sister here.”

Mrs. Corwin broke in: t

“ Yes, Jack, this gentleman has been very kind,
and he says that you wouldn’t let him do anything
to show his gratitude for what on did fur him. It
ain’t allers right to be too prou . my son. The gen-
tleman says he don’t feel easy in his mind, for fear
you cherish a hard feelin’ against him.”

" I ain’t got no hard feelin’ ag’in’ the gentleman,”
urged Jack, turning very red; “ but I didn’t do it for
pa ', mother—” _ I _

Here Harriman interrupted him, With a laughing
grace that was ver ' fascinating:

“Now, Corwin, on’t let us multiply words about
a trifle. I want to show that I am not the ungrate-
ful fellow you must have thought me, and I made
up my mind I would come down to see for myself
what sort of a fellow you were. The long and the
short of the matter is this: I want to set you up in
business, and l have been talking to your mother
about it. I am rich enough to do what I want, and
I have taken a fancy to help you. Your mother
tells me that you can make as good a model your-
self as old Carver; and I want on to build me a
boat that shall beat everything t at has ever come
out of the yards in this bay. Do you think you can
beat the sloop I ordered to-day?”

Jack hesitated.

The young millionaire had taken him on the weak-
est point in his composition, aided by the skillful

limping he had administered to the mother of

ack Corwin. -

If there was one thing in which Jack was ambi-
tions, it was to own a yard of his own, and get a
chance to test certain theories of building that he
thought would result in a “wonder,” as a sea-boat,
oriuai'ace: . .. . _ _ .

He collared high With pleasure, and answered:

“ I’ll not deny, sir. that I think I could: but what’s
the use, of talkui’? I hain’t got the money to try
it. and I‘ll have to wait till I git it.” ~

Harri man came close to him with his most fascin—
atiiig smile as he said:

" Bit suppose I take a fancy to try what sort of
a model you could make, and had the money to try
the experiment: what then? I’ll tell you what I
have been thinking of, and what I propose to do. I
want to get the fastest boat in the club, and I am
willing to furnish the capital to get the timber for
her and to pay wages as she progresses. -\\'e can
make a contract, and you can go at her at once.
I'll pay as the work reaches certain stages, and you
will have very little risk. When she is finished, 2011
will have made a good thing, and so shall 1. CU
see. I don’t offer any charity to a man like you. I
want a good thing, and you want the money for it.
I do this,because I know what a good workman you
are.”

Jack had listened, and the tears had come into
his honest blue eyes.

Such luck he had never dreamed of. It was a
sign of his cautious and modest nature, when he
said slowly:

“ You’re very good. sir—but—s’pose she shouldn’t
turn out as I expect? Ye know, huildin‘ boats is a
mighty resky thing. The very ones you think is go-
in‘ to be the best turns out bad, and the ones you
didn’t think much of, turns out to be tiyers. I 772021’!
make a mistake, and then you’d lose yer money,
and think I was a. fraud.”

“Oh, no. Jack, the gentleman would never think
that ” exclaimed his mother, fondly.

“I’m sure you are right, madam,”said Harriman,
with his fascinating smile. “Any one can see the
’ innocence and honesty that sh0ws on every linea-
ment of your son’s face. I take my risk 'of the boat
turning out a failure, Jack. You don‘t mind me.
calling you Jack. do you? It seems to me. since I
have been talking to your excellent mother, as if I
had known you for years."

The young man was thinking in his heart that
“the fellow was not such a fool as he had thought,
and wanted to get a contract which would insure
him against loss in any event.”

Jack turned to his mother.

“If you say I’d better take the gentleman’s offer,
I’ll do it mother.” he said. “But in course we’ll
have the contract drawed, so that there won’t be no
chance fur folks to say I got the best of him. Ex-
cuse me, sir, but it don’t take much to see you ain’t
a practical boat-builder, and there’s all sorts of ways
a man kin cheat ye.”

Harriman colored slightly as he replied:

“ Thank you. I am not generalllv thought a fool. I
have been president of a yacht c ub for three years,
and I our/ht to know wnat I am about. Do you take
the offer I have made? I want a thirty-five-foot
sloop capable of taking a race against anything of
her size now afloat. I’ll pay for the material. allow
you a profit of twenty per cent. for your work, and
take the yacht anyhow. If you say ‘ yes,’ I will
have the contract brought here to-morrow, and you
can begin the work as soon as you like.”

Jack could only say:

“The ofit‘er‘s a good one. sir—too good for me—but
I takes it, as it’s meant kindly. I’ll do it.” v

Harriman struck his hand into that of the other
with an air of frank gayety that took J ack‘s heart
00mpletely; and was about to say something more,
when the door gate of the cottage slammed, and
Charleyl Cofi‘in, in his fishing-dress, came lumber-
ing in, is arms full of a big basket of fish, crying:
“Hello, Hannah, how’s this for luck?”

The next minute he saw the elegant stranger, and
stopped awkwardly, while Harriman turned to sur~
vey him With his most supercilious air, his glass at
his eye, asking:

“ Ah, Jack, and who is your friend here?”

Jack, with perfect unconsciousness that he had
anything to be ashamed of in the visit of his com-
rade, said quietly:

“That‘s my friend, Charley Cofi‘in. He was with
the rest of us at the wrack, sir. Him and me works
together all the winter. and he goes after fish in the
summer. This is Mr. Harriman, Charley. We call
him ‘ Breaker Charley,’ sir, because he goes through
the”surf better’n most of us, when he has his suit
on.

The young millionaire held out one finger to the
fisherman with the remark:

“ Ah very glad to see you, my friend. Very much
oblige to you for your brave conduct the other
ni ht. Hope to see more of you. I’m very fond of
fis 'ng, and want a man to take me out, and show
me the best places."

Charley Cofiiu had been eying him as he spoke,
in a way that showed he was recovering from his at-
tack of bashfulness, and beginning to feel the natural
antipathy that a rough man feels for an exquisite in
dress.

He replied, rather stifily:

“ Don’t think ye’ll find many as will show ye them
places, sir. We wants them fur ourselves, mostly.
Say, Hannah—”

. nd the. stalwart fisherman beckoned the girl away
from the group to a little distance, to ask her, in a
manner that s owed his uneasiness:

“ Say, has he been here long?”

The girl’s color had risen ever since the fisherman
had made his sudden entrance, and she looked de-
cidedly angry as she answered, with a toss of her
pretty little head:

“ Yes, he has; and what’s more, he’s goin' to stay
to supper with us; so, if you don’t like it, you kin
lump it, Mr. Cofi’in.” .

Then she turned away with a flounce of her skirts,
while Charle c’s face darkened, as he muttered:

“Then, by Jerusalem, there’s goin’ to be a muss
here, before many days.”

Harriman, as he saw the fisherman take the girl
aside. asked Jack:

“ Ah, indeed, is there anything between your little
sister and Mr.—ah——Breaker Charley?”

She‘s

  

 

 

 

 

Jack did not exactly like the tone in which he
spoke, and he drew himself up to reply: .

“ Yes, sir. They’re goin’ to be married in July, it
all goes well.” '

 

CHAPTER VII.
TnE novans’ QUARREL.

THE elegant Mr. Harriman did not stop to supper
after all, for some reason best known to himself;
and Charley Cofiin, who had been ready to burst
with jealousy, was pacified when he found that his
rival was going.

Mr. Harriman went with the easy grace that had
distinguished him from the first, and Hannah was
unusually silent during the supper that followed,
while Jack, who saw nothing, in his innocence, was
building castles in the air about the schooner that
was to beat anything ever heard of before: and
Charley, whose jealousy had vanished when the
cause of it was removed, was trying to make friends
with his imperious little mistress, who had snubbed
him so uninercifully about a simple question.

The only member of the family who really saw
what was going on under the silence of Hannah,
was the mother, who kept watching her daughter
through supper, and took an opportunity afterittto
send her out into the moonlight with Charley, while
she washed up the dishes herself, a thing she very
seldom did, since the girl had grown old enough to
do it for her. _

As for Jack, he smoked his old black pipe and
gazed out over the bay in a thoughtful mood, till his
mother came to him, when the work was over, and
said to him fondly: _

“ My boyl And are you glad that you are gomlz
1:0 haye a chance to show what ye have in ye. at

ast?‘

“Very glad, mother,” was all he said; but the
content in his voice was enough for her.

She passed her arm around his neck, and con-
tinued in a rather doubtful way:

“I hope it will all be for the best, Jack: I hope so.
Do on think Mr. Carver will take it hard, your leav-
in’ im at sich short notice?"

“ Think not, mother. He knows a man has to
better himself, when he has a family to support.”

The old lady sighed slightly. .

“Ah, Jack, sometimes I think that, if ye’d b'en
like other boys, not thrown on the world so ’arly,
with the cares of a man on ye, ye mou’t have b’en
hap ier than ye are. Ye’ve done nobly, .bo —”

“ There, mother,” he interrupted quick y, “no
more of that now. I don’t want to git married and I
don’t b’lieve any gal would have me, so don’tyou go to
frettin’ ‘bout no wife for me. I’ve got all the gals I
kin take keer of. in Hannah, and she’s om’ to be
as much comfort as any wife of them a 1, mother;
ain’t she, now? Charley’s a real good boy, and he
loves her like— Tell ye what it is, mother; he’d as
soon go and tackle a. roarin’ lion for her sake,as not;
and he’ll make her a good husband. I’d be real
glad to see them happy, mother: for Charley is jest
the best boy in our crew at the station. I‘d trust him
to take keer of you both, if I were gone.”

The old lady seemed uneasy as he spoke, for she
said hesitatingl ': .

“By the by, ack, I’m glad you said'the we'ddin’
was goin’ to be in July. Hannah ain’t b’en gom’ on
jest right to-day.”

Jack started, and looked up.

“ Not goin’ on jest right? What d’ye mean, moth-
er? She ain’t b en givin’ you no sass, has she? I
know she’s a s unky ittle piece, but she don’t mean
it. We’ve s ’i ed her, I reckon. and that’s all there
is 'bout it. ‘11 have to give her a real good talkin’
to. She minds me; she does.”

And honest Jack looked as stern as he could, to
hide the secret consciousness that his sister was
more likely to laugh him to scorn. if he tried_ to
make her do an 'thing against her will, than to mind
him, if she didn t want to do it.

But his mother reassured him, by saying:

“Oh. no, Jack; Hannah don’t give me no sass. I
ain’t the woman to take it, I kin tell ye. She don’t
sass me but— Say. what time did she bring you
your dinner to-day ?”

Jack looked up at his mother uneasily.

" Why, what do you mean, mother? She was a
little late, but that was because she met this Mr.
Harriman and showed him the way to the yard.’

The old lady pnrsed up her lips as she said:

“Yes, that’s all very Well; but I’m afeared, Jack,
that she was a-talkin’ to him too much; and I ain’t
b’en able to get a bit of good out of her sence he
come in this arternoon. I’m main glad he’s a-goin’
off to-morrer, for he’s no company for Hannah, and
I seen Charley didn’t like it a bit, to-night.”

Jack stirred uneasily in his chair as he said:

“ Mebbe I’d better give up the chance he’s offered
me, mother, if you think there‘s goin’ to be any
harm come to Hannah about it.”

“ Didn’t say no sich thing,” said his mother
sharply. “ Business is one thing, and this hangin
round gals is another. I didn’t mind it to-day. as
long as ye got the job; but arter the contract’s
signed, the less we see of him, the better.”

Jack ruminated over his pipe for some moments
before he said anything in answer to this very
shrewd and world y speech, and then he ventured
the remark: .

“ Hadn’t we better give it up altogether, mother?"

“ No. The young man’s a very nice young man,
and he was real kind to me. Get all outer him ye
kin, boy. You ain’t the man yer dad was. He’d get
the meat outer a chestnut quicker’n any man I ever
knowed. Take all ye. kin git from these rich folks;
but don’t let ’em git the best of ye, and keep yerself
to yerself.”

Then Mrs. Corwin went into the house. and Jack
remained ruminating and staring out at the sea, till
he heard voices in the road, and saw his sister com-
ing back with Charley from a little walk they had
been taking in the moonlight.

Charle "5 arm was round the girl’s waist and he
was talking low and tenderly, while Hannah had her
head lowered and looked shy and lover-like.

The honest fellow’s heart fluttered as he saw them
in the moonlight, unconscious of observation; for
there was no light in the cottage and the porch was
dark. He heard Charley say:

"Ye know I love ye true. Hannah. and I’d die to
please ye. But how kin I help bein’ mad, when ye
go to praisin’ this city feller, jest because he’s got
fine close. and talks different from what we do? He
ain’t no company fur you, and ye ought to know it.
He don’t mean ye no good—” -

Here Hannah tossed her head and drew away
from her lover with a gesture that showed she was
angry, as she retorted:

“Thank you for nothing, Mr. Coffin; how do you
know that? He treated me as a lady, and that‘s
more’n you’re done, all the time.”

Jack listened to her with surprise, and his ears
tingled as he heard Charley say. reproachfully:

"I didn’t expect that from you, Hannah. When
did I ever treat ye otherwise than as a lady?”

“ Now,” retorted the girl. angrily. “ Who told you
that he meant me any harm, and what do you mean
by telling me so? If I told him—3’

“Well, what then?" asked Charley, as angrily as
herself. “ What would he do? The jack-a-dandy!”

Hannah tossed her head.

"More’n on think, p’r’aps. He looks soft, and
you might t iink he was; but he kin whip any of you
men in this town. He told me so. So you needn’t

'go to trying any of your fighting ways on him, Mr.

Cofi‘in.

Charley was about to make an angrier reply than
before, when Jack stepped out of the shadow of the
porch, and said, in his slow, grave way:

“ See here, Hannah, that ain’t the way to speak to
no man; ’specially the man ye’re goin’ to marry.
What’s the trouble about?”

Hannah was very much under the influence of her
brother when he chose to exert it. She loved him
devoted y. and believed in him. It was evident from
the fact that she did not give him a pert answer
now, as she had done to her lover. Both were silent
for so long that Jack repeated his question to Char-

ey:

“ What’s the trouble between you and Hannah?"

Charley shrugged his shoulders.

“ Oh, it’s no great matter, Jack. Guess we warn’t
doin’ much. Han’s got her back up, ’cause I said
that city feller was a dude, and didn't mean her no
good, and she says he’s a fighter. It’s all right.
We’ll see what he’s made of soon enough. He didn’t
pan out well at the wrack, I guess.”

Hannah turned on him angrily.

“ Yes. that’s like your meanness. Just because
he didn’t know what you did when you had been at
it all your life, he’s no goo . I declare I wish I’d
never seen the man. To hear you all talk. one ’d
think I was dead in 10ve with him, when I never said
a word to him. It’s a shame; that’s what it is, and
I ain't goin’ to stand it no more!”

And with that remark the girl dashed into the cot-
tage, and as She went her brother saw that she was
crying.

Charley looked after her, and said in a bitter tone
of voice:

“ I wish to heavens you never had. Tell ye what
it is, Jack, she’s goin back on me, and I know it.
She ain’t the same gal she was before that dude
came here. with his fine ways. I ain’t goin’ to stand
it furever.”

The tone of his companion nettled Jack, for the
first time in their long acquaintance, and he said:

“ Nobody wants ye to stand nothen, Charley. I’m
’feared you and Hall’s b’en a-quarrelin’ ’bout nothen;
and that’s what’s the matter with ye both. Ye’d
best go home to-niglit, and think it over. An angry
maii ain’t the one to make a gal love him. My sister
ain‘t used to bein’ scolded. She’s b’en treated as a
gal should be, and I ain’t afeared but what she
knows how to behave herself.”

Charley drew himself up at the tone of rebuke,
and snapped out:

“ All right for you then, Jack. If you uphold her
goin’s on,I've no more to say. I hope you’ll find
some one better able to suit Miss Whimsy there.
Goodnight.”

And the angry fisherman turned away and stalked
down the road in a regular pet; while Jack, whose

 

lacid nature had been ruffled more than its wont
gy the appearance of blame attached to his darhng,
called after him:

" Ay, ay, go along; and save yer temper for them
as minds it. I don‘t." v

Then he turned to go into the house, and found the
arms of his coaxing little sister round him, as she
said to him, in a whisper:

“ You’re the dearest brother in the world, that's
what you are. You always was. You served him
jest ri ht. I ain’t goin‘ to knuckle down to him, yet;
am I, ack?" '

Jack smoothed down her hair, with a caressmg
motion that he had acquired when she was a baby,
but his tone was very grave as he said:

“ I ain’t goin’ to see my sister trod on by no man,
Hannah; but ain’t you afeared you was too hard on
poor Charley jest now? He’s a g y.”

She tossed her head and gave a little low laugh—
the laugh of a born coquette—as she said:

" Yes, he’s good enough. and I likehim well enough,
too; but he’ll come back. My stars, Jack! That
ain’t half what I give him sometimes. He’s bound
to come back to me. He can’t get along without
me. Say—” _

Here she looked up in his face with an arch smile
that he could see, even in the loom of the entry:

“ Say, Jack, you don’t thin I was too hard on
him, do you? Cause, if you do, I’ll make him hap-
py, the next time he comes.”

Jack smoothed down her hair again, as he said:

“ I think you are a reg’lar little flirt, and he’s go-
in’ to have a mighty hard time to git you into order;
that’s what I think, Hannah.”

She fiung away from him for a moment, as if she
were angry, but came back almost immediately, to
whisper, as she hugged him:

“ Do you want to git red 0’ me then. so bad?”

“Get red 0‘ you! No." cried Jack.

“Then don’t scold,” she whispered back.

Then she hugged him again and whispered:

“You’re the best brother in the world, and I’m a .

bad girl: but I don’t mean any harm, dear. I’ll try
and make up with Charley. Indeed I will, ’cause
he’s your friend, Jack.”

Then she danced away into the house, and he
heard her singing to herself, for it was a peculiarity
with Hannah that she never seemed happier than
when she had had a quarrel with her lover, and
knew that he would have to come back to her.

Jack went to his couch that night thinking of all
sorts of thin s, and wishing that he had never seen
the el ant r. Harriman- but when the morning
came, e had forgotten the disagreeables of the
previous night in the bracing atmos here of the
day and went to his work at the yard, ardly ready
to believe that the proposition of the rich man could
be more than a whim, of which he would repent be-
fore long.

It was while at his work, that he heard the sounds
of men in anger outside the yard, and saw the work-
men dropping their tools, to hurry out and see the
fuifitfor nothing will gather a crowd so quick as a

Jack himself was not proof a ainst the combative
instinct, and he went outside t ie yard to see what
was the matter.

Two men were on the beach, with acurious crowd
at a little distance staring at them. One was the
strange gentleman who had come to the cottage the
day before. and the other was no less a person than
Charley Coffin, who had taken off his rough fisher-
man’s pea-jacket; thrown his sou’-wester on the
sand. and was squaring off at the stranger, as if to
annihilate him.

Mr. Harriman stood at a little distance from the
angry fisherman, as if undecided what to do.

(_ To be continued—commenced in No. 86.)

 

 

I CANNOT SING.

BY A. P. MORRIS, JR.

 

 

You ask me to sing as I sung of old,
In the mood of my Childhood’s days—
When life was a dream of Heavenly mold,
And gleeful with posied lays:
But how can my voice form to music’s strain,
When the lyre it had followed is dead ?—
Those visions of joy will not come. again
To soften the tears I shed.

Why ask me to try ?~it were vain to try,
“ hen I tell you I have no heart

To swell with the vigor of days gone by—
So happy—so quick to part!

And yet and yet, oh! I could not live
If it were not that others sing:

For rich is the solace such soon 5 do give,
And sweet is the balm they bring.

- But I? . . . . My harp lies hushed and cold,

Not a chord in its once gay breath;

And the last low waver it wept of old
Was a hymn in an hour of death!

Sing, ye who are merry, and mind me not,
But I cannot join in~no, no!

I mourn for a dear one, not forgot—
A treasure of long ago!

 

Sarah Brown, Detective;

as

The Mystery of the Pavilion.

BY K. F. HILL,

AUTHOR OF “THE DUMB DETECTIVE ” “THE TWIN DE-
” 5| , ’
TECTIVES, THE irvsrnaions CASE,’ ETc., ETC.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE GREEN DETECTIVE.

Mos'r people who have never had any business
dealings with detectives regard them in a curious
wa .

The gambler’s wife fancied that a detective, male
or female, would be able to trace every move her
husband made without attracting his notice in the
sli htest degree.

She was ignorant of the fact that a crook’s life is
spent in evading the. laws, and that all its branches
grid ic‘iamifications are as familiar to him as his daily

rea .

Her husband could not be shadowed for half an
pour without being perfectly well aware of the

act.

Besides, there are in the business detectives and
other detectives. -

Ubaldina got hold of one of the other detectives.

He was a small man who had not been long in the
profession—in fact he was a detective bureau on his
own account.

If he had only come up to his own opinion of him-
self, he would have been magnificent, but, unfor-
tunately, there was nothing great about him except
this opinion

This man was the father of a large and lazy fami-
ly consisting of a fat wife and four dau hters. He
was honest and hard working but he acked that
subtle essential which brings success.

Good~fortune, like a will-of—tlie-Wisp ever eluded
his grasp. He was always “just going ’ to succeed,
but that was as far as he ever got.

Worse men got on better. and men who never
tried one~half so hard walked, ay, and rode, by oor
little Sandy Martin, dressed in the eighteent , or
rather nineteenth century equivalent for "purple
and fine-twined linen,” while Sandy trudged through
the mire in second-hand garments that Solomon
‘Iisaacsuassured him fitted “joist like as de paper on

e va .”

Sandy belonged to the genus poor but deserving.
He seemed in the eyes of the world to deserve pov-
erty and he got it.‘ He had tried every trade and
profession, staying in each long enough to become
thoroughly discouraged.

A lucky hit by a man who had been a friend of
Sandy’s while he was poor, turned the little man's
attention to detectives.

Other people succeeded in that business, why
should not he?

Mrs. Martin languidly listened to his plans and
ho es, and Sandy went out and begged the loan of
an cient money to hire an office and insert an ad-
vertisement.

After some work on contingencies, for which of
course he never received one cent, Sandy became
the paid and salaried detective of Mrs. Stanard.

That lady little knew how ill-starred was her
choice, but the race is not alwgys to the swift, and
even ill-luck sometimes gets tir . of following up the
same unfortunate wretch.

So it proved with Sandy Martin.

Of course nothing more comical could well be im-
agined than Sandy trying to shadow one of the most
artful of the many cunning crooks of New York.

Ernest Stanard amused himself and drained his
wife’s purse by keeping his shadow dancing all over
the city from one resort of unsavory reputation to
another.

Sandy saw and heard things that made his well-
brought-up New England hair stand 11 on end.

Whenever Stanard wished to get PI of Sandy he
" shook him ” with the greatest ease.

Stanard not only knew that it was his wife who
had sent Sandy after him, but he also shrewdly
guessed the reason.

He had not forgotten the expression of her face
when little Dolf innocently spoke of his mother’s
beauty. He knew the fierce jealousy that burned
in her heart whenever she had, or imagined she
had. the slightest cause to suspect that his love for
her waned.

An oath found its way bitterly through his teeth
when he first realized that he was being shadowed,
and it was only when he saw how utterly incapable
was his wife’s agent that amusement took the place
of anger.

 

 

Poor Sandy was of course “ as clay in the hands
of the potter.”

A green detective trying to follow up the keenest
scamp in the city l

He was honest, thou h: he did not spend one cent
more than he could elp of Ubaldina’s money.
Drink was no temptation to him, and vice in all its
forms he simply loathed. .

He never suspected what Stanard’s occupation
was. He supposed him to be a gentleman of wealth
and leisure addicted to fast acquaintances and ques-
tionable amusements.

The poor little man’s eyes would have opened had
be known what sort of a husband his client was
blest with. ‘

Fortunately he did not.

Mrs. Stanard had followed up her plan and en-
gaged a room where she met her detective. It was
a. handsome parlor, and the landlady looked askance
at Martin’s shabby form and well-worn garments,
till Ubaldina told her a portion of the truth. Then
she was delighted—the affair was so sensational and
romantic!

Still she had a nervous horror of anything terrible
takin place in her rooms. She dreaded what she
vague y described as “ shooting—matches," with all
the fears of a “genteel person.’

Mrs. Stanard tried to reassure her, but it was not
till she heard with her own ladylike ear (applied to
the crack of the folding-doors) that Uhaldina's hus-
band knew nothing of his wife’s movements that she
felt at all easy.

“ When you have proved to me that my husband
loves another woman and I am convinced, I shall
leave him,” she said. calml . “ Until I am con-
vinced, no matter how much suspect I cannot act."

“You will then enter an action—file an applica—
tion ?” imiuired Martin, nervously.

“ No. shall simply leave him. I am very
wealthy, in my own right, and I can return to my
home.”

This quiet, com osed talk accomplished two
things: it reassure Martin, who was afraid to tell
Uba dina even the little he knew for fear of making
her so angg' that she would act violently, and it
eased Mrs. olmes, the lady of the house.

Mrs. Stanard knew this; she had spoken for that
purpose!

Ernest was too deep and treacherous to hint to his
wife that he well knew she was employing a detec-
tive to shadow him. She felt no change in his man-
ner toward her, even though he was filled with re-
sentment.

His plots were nearly ripe and he was merciless.
He loved Elna more passionately every time he
saw her, and he hated his wife more intensely.

“I’ll rid myself of her,” he muttered, as he sat in
the firelight playing with Dolf, and watching his
wife, who sat on the other side of the fire with the
warm light playing on her dark face.

“Elna, my golden-haired angel, how happy will I
be with you 2”

How little did the hated wife dream of the dark
thoughts this man harbored against herl

She suspected him, but only of being attracted by
a fairer face. How little she knew him!

As she sat there watching his play with the boy,
who, as time wore on, became more reconciled to
his enforced separation from his mother, she felt
that her love for him was one that must endure
while her life lasted.

And he—had already doomed her to death!

Yes, he was determined to wait no longer.

Elna was free: he believed she had already begun
to care for him. *

Why delay?

——

CHAPTER XIV.
AN UNEQUAL COMPACT.

KNOWLES was discouraged: he had not made any
progress worth the name. He was “stopped ” on
every side by unex ected obstacles. He understood
no S anish, and al the conversations between Oello
and er daughter were conducted in that language.
So listening was useless.

Ernest Stanard had never been to the house since
he took up his residence there. Six weeks had
elapsed since his advent as Sarah Brown. and the
mystery that clouded Randolf Church’s fate still
hung over it.

He had heard the butler’s suspicions. which coin-
cided with those of Borrowdale, but they were not
directed against any one in particular, though, like
Borrowdale, the butler disliked the South American
nurse.

“ I believe Randolf Church died as the coroner
said—of heart-disease,” Knowles decided, at len th.

“1 don’t, but I don’t think any one in New ork
Evil! lflnd out how he did die,” replied the butler,

rm y.

Borrowdale had thought it safer and better to keep
up the disguise before Simpson, so the butler be-
lieved Sarah Brown to be Borrowdale’s niece—a
green English girl.

“ I’ve tried the ghost dodge,” said the. detective,
musingly. “ What’ll I try next?”

He knew Oello had been terribly frightened by the
unseen accuser. But what did that avail him when
he could not understand the chance confession she
let fall in her terror?

As the three sat in the butler's pantry discussing
the question, a ring at the bell sounded through the
house. It r0ved to be a letter for Knowles, ad-
dressed to arah Brown. It was from his wife, who
had been very ill and requested his return home.

“So that settles it,” announced Knowles. “I‘ll
go, and really, Borrowdale. thou h I hate to let any-
thing beat me, I must acknowledge that this beats
me. If your master was murdered, I‘m afraid the
murderer will get off scot free.”

“ I trust not. ’ rejoined the valet, with the look of
one who was deeply disa ointed.

“Well, it passes my ski] . If any one did the job,
the Indian had a hand in it ”

“Leave the room haunted?” asked Borrowdale,
significantly.

“Certain y. Let me know if anything turns up.”

So Sarah Brown found that the work was too hard
for her and left. Cello and her daughter were both
sur rised and relieved by her departure.

“ believe that mystery will alwa s remain a
mystery.” concluded Knowles, as he eft the man-
sion, just as Wise as he had been when he entered
it.

“Unless the valet was mistaken, which I am iii-
clined to think.”

So in doubt he went away.

He found his wife very ill, and for some days all
his attention was claimed by her.

Suddenly, from an unexpected quarter, came a
new light upon the mystery of the pavilion.

 

Ernest Stanard visited Elna very frequently,
though he took good care that Sandy Martin was
none the wiser.

The bereaved little woman was well-nigh heart-
broken, and would have succumbed to her grief if
her "husband’s friend," Mr. Stevens. had not kept
hope alive in her breast by pretended clews he was
following up as to the recovery of her boy.

Her husband, he said, was in the far West, and he
created fresh anxiety in her almost frenzied mind
by faintly and vaguely hinting at dangers which
surrounded and hemmed in the existence of de-
tectives.

He deemed this necessary, for she must soon be
told the terrible truth, namely—that her husband
was cold in death.

Then he was certain she would turn to him for
comfort and consolation; then the hour of his tri—
umph would come.

How happ he should be with the pure-faced,
golden-haire girl he had learned to love. so passion-
atelyl—rthe innocent being who had won his black,
treacherous. murderous heart!

Poor Elna! The dark destiny that overshadowed
her was fortunatel hidden. or she would have been
driven mad by t ie teriible prospect, and have
sought oblivion m the cold embrace of the river.

Stanard sought her one day, some three weeks
after the disappearance of Dolf. She sat by a cheer-
less fire, her bright head drooped, her chin in her
hand and her elbow on her knee.

" Good-day!” the heartless fiend saluted.

“ How do you do?”

Her sad, pale face brightened a little. and a look
of expectancy came in her big wistful blue eyes.

“ I am well; and you?"

He sat down near her, and fixed his eyes tendeer
on héalrl fage. "

‘ ! o anxious, so nearl ' ho eless!" she mur-
mured, choking back a sob. 3 p

“Cheer up! Do you know, I think I’ve heard of
our boy?"

Hope sprung up in a red tide to her care- ale
cheeks. and her lips trembled as she eagerly as ed:

“Ohl Where?’

_“ Don’t become so excited, I her,” and Ernest laid
his hand upon her arm which had grown pitifully
slim, “don tl”

“How can I help it?” asked Elna meekly; “but.
tell me, oh! do!”

Her pleading would have melted a heart of stone,
but the gambler's heart was made of nothing so
honest as stone. '

“ Well, I will tell you, but do not set your hopes
too hi h for the clew may be a false one.”
“ W at have you heard? Ohl tell me!

to hope too much.”

Her blue eyes shone like stars through the heavy
mist of an April night.

“I have heard that he is in Boston," said this
Lucifer, on the spur of the moment.

“Oh! Let us start at once and find him!” cried
the excited mother.

“ Wait; don’t make me. regret telling you this."

“ No—nol I’ll be so quiet—so patient."

She was trembling from head to foot, but she
tried with all her might to appear composed.

“Well, I have. not yet. obtained anv certain infor»
mation. I shall do so, however; meanwhile. be
quiet and remain indoors. I have reason to suppose
some enemy has employed a spy to watch us.’

I'll try not

“ Enem ?" repeated Elna in the greatest surprise.
“ Wh , I ave not an enemy in the world!”

“ ’1‘ en who robbed you of your child?"

She grew deathly pale. Her child in the hands of
an enemy! This was a new and terrible view of the
subject. She had fancied some one had stolen the
boy on account of his beauty, to ado t him as their
own, but if he was in the hands 0 an enemy he
mi ht be cruelly treated—murderedl

er mother’s heart called up fearful pictures of
heachild—beaten—starved—tortured—perha ps dead
or g.

“ h, what shall I do?"

She wrun her hands in agony, and tears streamed
down her 0 eeks.

“Be calm. I only fear this——I am not certain."

The artful SCOUndrel did not wish to alarm her be-
yond a certain limit, for then she might appeal to
others for aid; he wanted to keep her in his own
hands. I

“And we can’t go at once to Boston?”

“ No; for in case I am misled by a false clew we
would only be losing time. Surely you know that I
am doing my best and utmost?”

The last words were uttered reproachfully.

“ Oh, yes; dear, kind friend, I am not ungrateful,
believe me. ’

She was fearful of offending her only friend by an
appearance of distrust.

‘ Iknow you are not.
then claim my reward.”

His keen eyes were fixed u on her anxious, tear-
stained face, which looke like a. dew-washed
flower.

“ Reward?” she repeated. “ Oh, Mr. Stevens, if I
am ever in a position to reward you—you will find
that I am not ungrateful.”

The emphasis she laid on the pronoun caused the

ambler’s heart to swell with joy. He fancied that
it meant a special regard for him. Cunning and
(lee though he was he had no knowledge that could
ass st him to read Elna’s thou his. He was totally
ignorant of all the workings o the pure mind of an
innocent woman.

Any one who restored her child would have the
same claim upon her. A negro—an outcast—any
one, who placed Dolf safe and sound in her arms
would receive the same grateful regard as she be-
stowed upon the man she supposed to be her hus-
band’s friend.

He was not worthy to know her heart, and as the
wish is father to the thought, he deceived himself
and believed that she had learned to love him.

“Thank you, Elna,”he said, with an expression
Elna did not understand on his face, and a tone of
deep feeling in his voice. “ When the time comes I
will remind you of your promise.”

She gazed at him in surprise; he called her by
name and he seemed strangely agitated; but she
was only puzzled by his manner; it awakened no
suspicions in her untutorcd, unworldly heart.

“ You say you will reward me,” he resumed more
lightly, for he dreaded above all things to alarm

er.

“Yes, though I cannot tell how. Until Randolf
returns, I am not in a position to reward an one.”

She had a vague idea that he might e poor,
though he did not appear so, and she knew the bit~
ter sting of poverty but too well.

“ I will not ask Randolf for the reward I want,”
he returned, taking her soft little hand in his as he
rose to leave her. “I’ll ask you and you will give
it to me—will you not?”

She raised her blue, childlike eyes to his, and an-
swered earnestly:

“I will.”

“Thank you
a day or two.”

He hastened from her presence, his eyes dazzled
by the_blood which rushed madly to his brain. Had
he remained another moment he must have betray-
ed himself even to Elna’s innocent eyes.

“ I’ll end this business as soon as I can with
safet ,” he averred to himself, as he hurried along,
heed essly jostling through the crowded streets.

So stran e was his appearance that many persons
turned an gazed after iiui.

One man seemed particularly struck by his ex-

ression of countenance. He stood up and watched
Stanard out of sight.

“ VVelll” he remarked. emphatically, “l "oversaw
but one person with that look on his face, and he was
on his way to commit a murder. I’d giVe something
to know who that fellow is, mid where he is go-

I will find your boy and

Good-by. You shall have news in

in ."

file slowly proceeded on his way home. The man
who uttered the words was Knowles, the detect ivc.

How close We sometimes are, to the, object, of our
hopes, and that for which we are striving our ut-
most, only to find that we are foilcdwniissing by a
liairbreadth our chance. of success.

In order to elude. Ubaldina’s detective Stanard
wore a heard when he visited Elna, so Knowles failed
to recognize him.

 

CHAPTER XV.
HELP FROM AN UNEXPEC’I‘ED QUARTER

MABEL NELSON was, like most quiet women, much
smarter than people gave her credit for.

Like Borrowdale and the butler, she had observed
the marks on Randolf Church‘s neck, and, like them,
she believed his death had not been due to heart
disease.

She was terribly troubled by the thought, for she
dared not express her opinion openly.

Mrs. Church must. on no account, he agitated. and
the humble cousin was well aware that in her more
fortunate relative, Miss Church, she had no friend.

She buried her belief, therefore in her own breast.
She had loved her cousin Randolf intensely; of all
the family he alone had been uniformly kind to her
and thoughtful of her comfort, and hers was a very
grateful nature.

Mabel Nelson was of an extremely high-principled
character, and anything like deception was, in her
opinion, little else but criminal. For this reason she
felt very unhappy. She had a secret locked away in
her breast which she felt. she ought not to reveal,
and yet. if justice was to be done it must be told!

She believed that she alone was aware of Randolf
Church’s marriage—a knowledge she had acquired
in rather a strange manner.

Her cousin often wore a loose morning'acket of
dark-blue plush. It was a garment that he liad worn
for years, and it had required some repairing.

He hagpened to mention this fact to Mabel, who
gladly o ered to give it her attention.

Randolf thanked her, and sent the coat to her
room. In turning it over to mend the torn place a
portrait had fallen from one of the ockets.

The picture was a large photograpYi of a lady with
a Child in her arms.

Mabel felt rather surprised that her cousin car-
ried about what she supposed to be the portrait of
a friend, but she placed the imperial in her work-
basket and when she returned the coat, handed
Randolf the picture.

“ Where. did you get that?” he asked sharply as he
took it from her hand.

“ It fell out of your pocket when I turned the coat
over,” said Mabel, fee ing confused, for Randolf was
evidently displeased. .

"How careless of me,” he answered. “ It is lucky
it was you who found it. Have you shown it to any
one?”

A‘ No.1?

“Mabel. say nothing about it till I give you
mission. That is my wife—and that is my boy. ‘

“ You are married?” Mabel gasped in astonish-
men .

“Yes, and my Wife is a perfect little darling, but
she is poor and humble. Don’t betray me, there is
a good soul. It would kill my mother if she know.”

Mabel thought that this was Very wrong btit (lid
not venture to say so. Her opinion was not valued
very highly, so she kept it to herself.

Soon after this incident Raiidolf’s sudden death
took place.

After the. excitement was over and the household
liad resumed its old even tenor, the conscientious
woman began to feel the burden of her dead cousin's
secret press heavily upon her.

It was evident to her as well as to all the others
that Mrs. Church would soon follow her son. Then
his wife and child ought to take their proper places
in the mansion, whose inmates as yet were unaware
of their very existence.

Which way did her duty lie? She knew not.

Randolf had told her nothing save the mere fact
that he was married and the father of a son.

t [\IVhere were his wife and child? She could not
e .

Oello had taken charge of the dead man’s rooms
and she had never mentioned the picture. Neither
had she spoken of any letters or papers relating to a
marriage.

No wonder Mabel felt puzzled how to act. She
only possessed enough kiiowled e to bewilder her,
not to guide her. She dreaded rs. Church’s anger
too much to confide the i-itorlyr to her, and she trem—
bled for the consequences, or she well knew Mrs.
Church was a dying woman.

Twenty times she had been on the point of con-
fiding the secret to Miss Church but the cold,
haughty manner of the Creole repelled her.

.She knew not what to do or where to turn for ad-
Vice.

Before Mrs. Church breathed her last, Mabel felt
that Randolf’s mother ought to know the truth.

After sleepless nights and anxious days Mabel
at length decided upon her course of action. She
would consult the family lawyer.

With this intention she dressed herself one day
and left the house.

Mr. Stamford was a man of much dignity and
little intelligence; his position was inherited from
his father, who had been a man of master intellect
and sound sense. As such men rarely leave credit-
able sons behind them, it is a dispensation of Provi-
dence that the fortunes of their sons are generally
made and their futures assured, for they lack ca-

er-

 

pacity to make them good themselves.

 

 

 
  

 

    

r 1’— ,I-' 
‘ -'«"-“.
y»
C

‘ ‘.‘

; rural;
. 24.33..“

“Kg-p" A; ‘f ‘u, ,

235'

 

 

 

a;