Ballads of History. —_—‘ THE LOST SLAVERS. (1501.) BY T. C. HARBAUGH. The icy waves that lash the shore With restless zest and demon roar Some secrets keep forevermore. Qn ocean‘s bed beneath them lie, Lnseen, unwatched by mortal eye, The wreck of many an argosy. ’Twas long ago in haunt of whale A noble ship with snOWy sail Was struck by a destroying gale. With shattered masts and broken spar, W 1th useless pumps and capstan bar, She tossed beneath the polar star; Her captain, Cortereal by name, A Portuguese of warlike fame, Had made his voyage one of shame. To steal and sell the Indian he Had trained his bark across the sea, Toward our shores where all are free; To plunder wigwams in the wild, To rend the mother from her child, To chain the father while he smil’d. Fearless alike on lands and seas N o mercy had the Portuguese, His only aim his king to please. That king upon his gilded throne, Who would have called the world his own, Was pleased to rob a distant zone; And while among his courtiers brave Commands for feasts he loudly gave, , Hiszcaptain called on God to save— To save him from the vengeance due The slaver and his heartless crew, To still the winds that madly blew. In vain! The hour of doom had come! In vain the sails were sheeted home! And higher leaped the mad’ning foam. The darkness fled the hours between; Another morning dawned serene, But not a mast or spar was seen! The mystery deepened: for the sea Its secret kept with fiendish glee: The slayer captain, where was he? His brother, young and rash! y brave, Was sent to hunt him o’er the wave With many a chain for dusky slave. The monarch fills his glass again; The ruby wine his fingers stain; His tho’ts are far across the main. “ The last one that I sent,” cries he, “ Will find the first where’er he be, For he will search each distant sea; “ And they will boldly ride the wave, The sailor brothers, true and brave, With golden store and wealth of slave.” Seasons come and seasons go; The monarch’s hair is white as snow; His form is bent, his step is slow; His mind is ever on the rack ;— He cries across the ocean’s track: “ Oh, give my slaver captains back!” The anguish of despair he feels; I'JVpon the stony floor he kneels: “ here are my gallant Cortereals?” No answer comes! The silent sea With foamy fingers holds the key That could unlock the mystery. And to this day beneath the waves, Among the bones of chained slaves, The brother captains hath their graves. Where sleep they ’neath the winds that blow Across the seas of ice and snow, Only the silent mermaids know. A Cure for fitting Fever. BY TOM P. MORGAN. WASHINGTON, D. 0., March 24, 1894. DEAR MORGAN:— I take my pen in hand this time to tell you how me and Alkali Ike worked off a. jag of spring feVer yesterday. Along about second drink time, countin’ from noon, Ike says to me: “ I don’t know what is the matter with me, Horn, but I feel mighty yaller.” “On account of buttin’ your fool head a ’in’ that thar brick wall yesterday?” says I. “ ou thought I didn’t see you, bar? That’s whur you fooled yourself! I happened to be on the other side of the street at the time, and had the pleas- ure of observin’ the whole fracus.” “ Guess I didn’t tell you about that,” says he. “ No, you didn’t,” says I, “ and I hain’t asked you to, neither. I figgered that you were doin’ it for fun.” “ Huh!" says he. “ I hain’t that hard 11 for fun, myself 1 Tell you how it happened: was sorter moggin’ along down Pensylvania Avenue, and-” “ Why were you on Pensylvania 'Avenue, par- ticularly ?” says I. “ For the simple reason that I wasn’t on New Jersey Avenue. Wal, jest as I reached a corner, a lady fluttered around it and made a spring at me with arms outstretched and cryin’, ‘ Willie! Willie !’ Thinks I to myself: ‘ This yere womern shore takes me for a Kentucky Congressman, and right yere and now is when I jump side- ways and flee -like the wind or else finds myself with a great big sweet-scented breach—of—prom- ise suit on my hands!’ Accordin’, I jumped in- stantly and altogether, like Little Hal, the Cap- tain’s Son, in the Fourth Reader. I didn‘t have time to see what I was jumpin’ into. In fact, when you are jumpin’ out of a breach-of-promise suit it hain’t worth while to be a bit crittycal about whur you are goin’ to strike. The main thing is to jump, and jump like a Texas man WH nts his revolver when he wants it at all, and ” “ Which is like Roarin’ Tophet,” says I, “only you spell it with an ‘ h,’ ‘ double l,’ and another letter.” “ You bet!” says he. “ That is the way I jumped. Jest the instant that my feet left ter- ror firmy, I seen that it wasn’t me that the lady wanted, but a squatty-lookin’ poodle dog that was waddlin’ away from her. But it was too late then to rectify my mistake. I’d started to jump and I had tocarr out the job. Wal, I Went over an iron railin and struck the blank side of a tall brick buildin’ with the flat of my head and sorter dropped all in a heap in a narrer pit inside of the railin’. And then two, three men with long upper lips came out of the base- ment and kicked me up a flight of stone steps a whole lot. and I never eyen upbraided ’em for it. I reckon that is what they were thar for. Lucky for me it was a brick wall instead of a show winder that I jumped into, or likely I’d have boolged right through it and cut of! my head or mussed up the di~p|ay, or su'thin’that-a~way. But that hain’t what is the matter with me now. I 'feel constitutionally yaller—kinder like I had the all-owrs. Do you reckon I am in love?" “ Bones ache?” says I. ‘6 Yep.” “ Month taste rusty—fur on your tongue— ‘ hide feels like it was too tight—wish you were a boy ag’in’—collar sorter gnaWs your neck—feel like thar was burrs under your saddle?" “ Ur-hur! And I feel as if I’d give almost anything in reason for a mess of poke-greens and hog-slab, but pshucks, you couldn’t git them dainties yere for love nor money! What kind of a place is this for white folks to live in, any- how?” “ Wal,” says I, judiciously, “you’ve got—J “ You don’t tell me!” “ Don’t tell me I don’t tell you when I do tell you! You’ve got a jag of spring fever on—that’s What’s the matter with you. Gentlemen of the jury. this man is guilty 2” “Huh!” says he. “Then, I s’pose I’m billed to Soak up a great plenty of sage tea, yarn—juice, brimstone and trickle and sassypariller, 100 doses for one dollar. Kah! I don’t wish I was a boy ag’in as much as I did.” “ Phiddle!” says I. “ That thar was the granny wily of curin’ spring fever, but it hain’t my way, none whatever. The first pretty day I’ll take you in hand and rennyvate your system and niakea new man of you. I need some of the same, too, for I’m feelin’ kinder mogger, myself. First and foremost, I gitt a large vial of Angostura Bitters—” “ I’m shore puttin’ myself under your treat- ment right yere and now!” says he, with enthu- siasm. “ I don’t want nuthin’ better. And it strikes me that this yere very day is pretty enough for our purpose. Let’s go right out now and brace up our totterin’ systems.” Also We done it. We hied us to a gilded den of vice and soaked up a few cups of sack and felt very much refreshed tharby. “ What are you goin’ to do next?” says Ike. “ Take on more sack?” “ Yep,” says I. “ What next?” ‘ “ Another cup of sack, and then probably an- other cup of sack for a change.” “ Wal,” says Ike, ijously, “ this yere is shorely a mighty kalooshus way shakin’ off a malady. Let’s be plumb shore we are cured, while we are at it. And what are you goin’ to do after that?” “ More sack, I reckon,” says I, “and after that I’m sorter kinder hazy—we’ll engage in anything that happens to turn up. Sufi‘icient unto 1,the day is the evil tharof, as the Bible says. “ And you bet the Bible is right a Whole lot!” says Ike. “ I never seen the time when it wasn’t,” says I. “ And I don’t never want to.” W a], we follered out our programme till we casually met up with a mendycant who was grimly grindin’ melody out of a hand—organ. A bright thought struck me. “ If we owned that thar instrument of torture it would be the means of elevatin’ our sperrits a great plenty," says I. “ S’pose we purchase the same? ’ - “ Shore l” says Ike. “ Wal,” says I, “you scamper of! and buy, borrer or steal a piece of good strong wire about nine feet IOng, while I kneegoshyeight with the mendycant.” So off Ike puts and I sa’nters up and addresses of the mendycant. “ How’r’yer, Paddyrewskil” says I, in a loud voicc. “ You needn’t yell at me,” says he, “ I am not blind.” People in reduced circumstances are nearly alwers touchy. “ What’ll you take for that thar Gilmore’s band of yourn?” says I. “ Fourteen dollars, and not a cent less!” says he. “ What will you give?” “ Two dollars and a quarter, and not a cent more 1” says I. “ Hope to fall dead on the spot if I do.” Wal, after j iwerin’ a spell, we split the differ- ence and I became the proud owner of a whole , hand organ. About that time yere comes Ike, all serean and smilin’, with the Wire. “Found it!” says he. “ Thar was a little su’thin’ tied to the other end, but I shore cut it loose. Man up yonder about seven blocks has got the appyplexy. He ’peared to think this yere was his wire. I told him that I was a member of Congress out wireepullin’. Lord, Horn! Is that thar fine-lookin’ hurdy-gurdy ourn?" says I. “Hain’t it a lollypaloo- “ It is no less!” says he. “Say, what is this wire for?” “ Part of the plot,” says I. “ It is to lead the monkey With—a monkey goes with every well- regulated hand organ.” “ Wal,” says he, hawtily, “ if you mean me, don’t ever believe that this yere speshul organ will have a monkey with it. I am not built thusly; not by a whole lot!” “ Aw, keep our seat, Ike!” says I. “ I don’t mean you. al. I’ll start the machinery and you use the wire.” Also we done it. I am pretty strong, myself, and the way 1 ground the mellerdy out of that thar old tom-tom was delightful. I know only two tunes; one of ’em is Yankee Doodle and the other hain’t. But music is music, and that’s all you can make of it. A crowd speedily gathered and ’peared to enjoy the concert. “ Jest keep your money in your pockets good oplo!” says I. “ This yere concert is aII free. Teimes is hard, and we are doin’ this thing out of pure charity. Git all you want of the mel- lerd , for it don’t cost a cent.” About this time Ike ketches his monkey. He makes a noose in the other end of the wire and slings it over the head of a silly dude that stands gawpin’ at us, and jerks him up close to us. “ You want to mingle in this yere frivvollity, don’t you, Johnny?" says Ike, in a loud voice, addin’, in a whisper: “ Say yes, or I’ll cut ofl? them thar red ears of yourn and stuff ’em down your th’oata whole lot! Say yes, and say it loud!” “ Ye-yes!” screams the dude. “I thought you looked as if you did,” says Ike, jerkin’ him around by the neck. “ You all heard him, good people! He’s goin’ to dance n0w. Dance, you high-collared coyote, or I’ll cut you into strips ten feet long!” Wal, it war real youmerous to see that thar dude dance. He was mighty near as good as a cockatrice, and people often pay $2.00 a ticket to see a cockatrice dance. I didn’t think it was in him, but it was, and Ike shore brought it out with a jerk. The crowd got bigger and bigger and every- body ’peared to feel that it was indeed good to be thar. Icontinnered to twist the tail of the old harpiscord and Ike’s monkey continnered V to dance. lke got to dancin’, too, and it was hoo- raw, boys, hOoraW, for quite a spell. The crowd kept grOwin’ like a snowball rollin’ down hill. Vehicles stop d and it wasn’t long till the whole street was b ocked. l continnered to grind. That was what I was thar for. I seen that the people liked it and I was glad to give ’em innycent pleasure. That is a way I have—- as long as it don’t cost me a cent. Jest as everything was goin’ at the top-wave of hilarity somebody yelled “ Police !” I knowed I was all right and so I didn’t move. But Ike did. He lit out through the crOWd, knockin’ ’em right and left like a stampeded steer, and fled in the direction of Lake Tittycorker, which is in Central America. The dude went along with him. He ’peared to be strongly attached to Ike and follered like a step-son. Ike tJok tollable long stepsvabout nineteen or twenty feet at a clip—and it sorter rustled the dude to keep up or even in the vacinity. Wal, I continnered to wrench the tail of the tom-tom when a police- man came bu’stin’ through the crowd. “ Here, now! Here, now!” says he. “Phwat dhe divvil is dhe matiher?” I judged that he was a furriner. “ Nuthin’ that I know of,” sax s I. “ Jest listen to this yere callyope, yourself, and tell me if you see anything the matter with it?" “ Stop thot dom rumpus or Oi’ll club dhe whole head at! yez!” says he. ' “My good man,” says I, “is this yere the Rooshian Monicky?” OK Nawl” “ Then whatever do you mean by interruptin’ this yere concert? It is a large-siZed pity if a celebrated musician can’t give a charity con- cert yere in Washington. What will the New York papers say about this yere outrage?" . “ Hov yez a permit from dhe Chief av Police?” Bays he. _ “ Naw,” says I, “but I have a permit from one higher than the Chief of Police, namely: The Great J ehovah—a permit to do good when- ever, whurever and h0wever I by gosh please, and don’t you forgit it i” "‘ Wull,” says he, makin’ an effort to show up well before the crowd, “ Oi’ll hov to take thot onr-r-r-rgan in, annyhow !” I hands it right over to him with great ’ pleasure and sneaks out, feelin’ mighty glad to git off 3-.) easy. I reckon that thar policeman don’t know yet exactly whur he is at. Ike didn’t git home for more than three hours after I did. He looked mighty weary, but ’peared to be feelin’ quite cheerful, all things considered. “ I forgot to drop the wire,” says he, “till I had drug that thar dude blame near to death. I thought for quite a spell that a policeman was chasin’ me, bein’ too busy runnin’ to look round. Good joke on me, wasn’t it?” I “ How’s your spring fever?” says I. “ Plumb gone 1” says be. No more at present from Yours truly, HORN W. MCCORD. IF WE KNEW. BY HARRIET ESTHER WARNER. If we knew, if we knew, if we only knew What death would bring to me and you— If we knew the all that we should gain When the silver cord is rent in twain— If we knew we should reach a city fair—— If we knew there were saints and angels there— If we knew that our dead were but gone before, And were waiting us now on another shore. If we knew, if we knew, if we only knew That at death our troubles and trials were through; If we knew each burden would be laid down, ~And the spirit would wear a peace-gemmed crown— If wehknew that the castles that hope planned ere Were built on a rock in another sphere— If we knew that the heart would find its own, And soul meet soul in that vast unknown. If we knew, if we knew, if we only knew What waits at the goal we are journeying to! If we only knew that a heaven was sure, Would the trials of earth be so hard to endure? If we only knew that while we are here, We are chrysales waiting a grander sphere! But we can only say—“ If we only knew !” And fervently pray that it may be true. llean Dangerfield’s Desperate Game; ’ Dare-Sloan’s Close can. BY COLONEL PRENTISS INGRAHAM. CHAPTER XVII. THE VAILED VISITOR. WHEN Judge Verdan arrived in town the next morning, he sent a hackman out the Daisy Dell road, telling him that he would meet two ladies who Were on foot, and could get a fare back. The hackman drove rapidly along, and within a short distance of Daisy Dell Manor, found two ladies closely vailed. They got in and were driven back to the town, to the City Hotel. They Were Anita and Kate, as the reader has surmised, for wishing to remain unknown in the matter, they cared not be driven to town in the family carriage. After obtaining a room at the hotel, Anita sat down and wrote a note. It was as follows: “ Will Mr. Richard Doyle be good enough to call at six sharp at the City Hotel, Room 10? “ He need ask for no one, but simply come to the room, which is the first door after passing through the ladies’ entrance to the hotel. “ He will hear of something to his advantage by coming. “ Should he have to ask for any one, let it be for Miss Kennerley.” This note was dispatched by special messenger to Number Fi teen Elm street, Kate Kennerley giving it to the boy, as Anita was pretty we I known in N—. In an hour’s time the boy returned and said that Mr. Doyle, being a night watchman at the jail, had retired for his day’s sleep, but would call at the hour named. “ Now, I shall go to the jail, Kate, as soon as you return with your purchases,” said Anita. Kate at once went out on a shopping tour, and when she returned she had made some re- markable purchases. There were several files, a coil of rope, a false beard and wig, with slouch hat. “ I did not buy but one thing at each store, Anita, and you can carry them under your cloak without suspicion, I think,” she said. , Anita at once proceeded to put them in the lining of her cloak, which she ripped open for the purpose. Then she went out alone and her steps led her to the jail, which she twice passed, so as to reconnoiter fully. At the gate she rung the bell and asked to see the chief of police. She was shown into the office, and the gentle- manly chief approached her politely with the remark: “ How can I serve you, lady?” In choking accents came the words: “ I have come at last to see my poor Dare.” It was a clever ruse, and the chief was as cleverly taken in. “ I am glad that you are here, madam, for your son’s sake, though you have my deepest sym athy. “ arker, say to Mr. Sloan that his mother has arrived.” The man disappeared, and Anita, in her dress of black, leant on the window, the very picture of despalr. Soon the man returned, and the chief led her to the death cell, and said as he threw open the door of the cell: “ Your mother, Mr. Sloan, and you shall not be disturbed for an hour.” He c10sed the door quickly and retired, as though not wishing to witness the painful meet- ing, and Dare, with manacles on his ankles, stood and held out his arms. But he started as the vail was drawn aside and the light from the window fell full upon the pale, beautiful face of Anita Dangerfield, whose finger was warnineg pressed upon her lips. “Great Heaven! Miss Dangerfield, can it be that you have done this?” “’Sh! This is no time for surprise or senti- ment, for I am here to serve you, Mr. Sloan, and I let them believe the cheat that I was your mother, so do not you betray me, I implore!” The words were uttered in almost a whisper, and she stood by the window a she spoke, reso- lute and brave. ‘ “ But, Miss—” “’Sh! you are not to talk, for I claim my woman’s prerogative to do this. Come here by this window and stand with your arm about me, your back to the door, for jails are full of ears. “ Never mind the whys or wherefores of my coming. I am here, and I wish to tell you that I know you'are guiltless of the crime charged upon you! “ That must suffice; and more—it must excuse all that I am now doing. “ I tried to get the governor to pardon you, but he refused, and he would not commute your mllllllilllillllllllllllllllll " sentence, so that we could have time to prove your innoce’nce—” u We 2» “ Yes, Kate Kennerley and I.” “ God bless you!” , “ As you could not be saved one way I tried this, and have brought you material for your use. Judge Verdan is watching the incoming trains, that your mother does not arrive and be- tray the plot. He will call on you to-night, but, say nothing to him about my being here, for he must not be compromised. “ If all goes well he will only say that he Will not be able to see you again; but, if he does not say this, do not act. - “ Should he send you word that he will not be able to call for some days. then act; I mean should he not call himself but send that word. “ Now, here is a bunch of keys I bought in the city. " They are regular burglar~keys, I am told, and 'I will fit one to your mauacles if you will stit down and place your ankle so I can reach I . “ Thank you—ah! the first one fits; so hide it,” and she took it from the bunch and handed it to III]. “ Now, here are some files. and that iron grating is not over an inch thick, so out two of the bars. “ This rope will let you down to the yard, and the dog will be looked to. “ Here are a false beard, wig and slouch hat, and at twelve you leave your cell by the window, go around the jail to the gate and a man will meet you there, so follow his directions im- plicitly. “ Once you are away, your innocence can be proven, some day. “ If the judge should not come and bid you good—by, or send, do not make the attempt to- night, and I will call to-morrow. “ This is all I have to say, Mr. Sloan, only I advise you to go to the far West and remain in hiding, for you Will be looked for, and if taken, you know the penalty, for, though I know you are innocent, others believe you guilty, and the Court has sentenced you." In vain did Dare Sloan try to speak; his throat was too dry; he seemed choking, and his tongue could not utter a word. He had not flinched before even under his sen— tence, but he trembled now, and his face was haggard with suffering. Now that Anita had said all she had to say, she was embarrassed, and she felt that he suf- fered. She could only remain silent, while he, to hide his emotion, concealed the rope, files and other things about his bed. Then he arose and leant on the Window-sill, Where she stood gazing out into the yard. Thus passed the minutes until the sound of ap roaching steps were heard. ith an effort Dare Sloan then said: “ God bless you! We will meet again.” She made no reply, but drawing her vail over her face, started toward the door as it swung open, while the prisoner said earnestly: “ Come to-morrow !” She made no reply, but passed out into the corridor, the door clanged behind her, the iron gate went to with a dismal ring and she returned to the office under the care of Barker. Then she sunk into a seat for a moment, as though overcome; but she rallied quickly, and, as the chief was away, Barker escorted her to the gate, and, fifteen minutes after, she threw herself into Kate Kennerley’s arms murmur- ing: “ It is done!” Then she swooned away.‘ CHAPTER XVIII. THE KEEPER’s BARGAIN. RICHARD DOYLE was an honest-faced man, good-looking, and a clever fellow taken alto- gether. He had strength and good health as an in- heritance, when his parents died, but certain ambitions he had nurtured of being a rich man, some day, vanished when he found he had to settle down to hard work. He had tried farming, stagedriving, and was looking for a school when, one night, he strolled into N— with but a few dollars in his pocket. Two footpads, thinking that he was well-sup- plied with funds, sprung upon him nnawares, but, they made a mistake, for, though wounded, he fought them 011 and captured both just as the chief of police of N— dashed up. Doyle told his story, said that he thought one of the men was dead, which proved to be the case. The other was not much hurt, and was at once sent in a hack to the hospital. The next day it was discovered that the two men were desperate characters, escaped con- victs and in for life, and a reward was already put for their capture, of five thousand do]- are. Doyle became a hero, got the reward and was made night watchman at the jail, with a salary of eighty dollars a month. He had no references, said nothing as to his antecedents, so was taken on faith of what he had done. For three years he had served faithfully and saved up half of his salary, so that he now had some six thousand dollars in cash, including his reward money. This was the person who called at the City Hotel at six o’clock P. M. on the day of Anita’s visit to the jail, and knocked at the door of Room Number Ten. He was invited into the little parlor by Anita, Kate being in the adjoining room. “ Mr. Doyle, I believe?" “ Yes, ma’am—I mean miss,” answered Doyle, Wholly taken aback at the beautiful girl who confronted him. Anita turned the key in the door, and said, pleasantly: “ Be seated, Mr. Doyle, for I wish to have a serious talk with you.” Richard sat down, but was bewildered. He had been intending to purchase same property, had written about it to the owner, who lived in the metropolis, and had received answer that Elie would soon be in N— and would see 1m. So he had called at the hotel, but the beauty of Anita com pletely upset him. “ Mr. Doyle,” said Anita, ta king a seat right in front of him, “ I sent for you because I am in trouble and you can help me out of it.” “I?” and Doyle was more than ever non- plused. “ Yes, and I will tell you now. You are the night watchman at the jail, I believe?” “ The gate-keeper, miss.” 3‘ Yes, and [wish to ask you,if there was a prisoner in there, under sentence of death, one who had saved your life, for instance, and you knew he was not guilty of the crime for \\ hich he had been condemned to suffer, Would you not wish to save him i” “ I would, miss, but my duty would keep me from doing so.” “ Exactly, as you regard it. Now, Mr. Doyle, I have in this package five thousand dol- lars and I wish to offer it to you.” “ To me?” gasped Doyle. “ Yes, I wish to offer it to you for a purpose, iiiifidnthat is to befriend one who saved your e. “ Dare Sloan?” “You are right. He saved my life on two occasions, and has helped others. He risked his life to save yours, at the time of the freshet in the river, and—” “ God knows he did, miss, and it hurts me to the heart to see him die.” “ es, but he must not die, for we can save him 1” , Richard Doyle shOok his head. “ I say we can save him, and we will! If he was guilty, I would let him die; but no brave man ever did the act he is accused of. He was tried and purely circumstantial evidence con- demned him. “ I admit that his meeting the squire on the train, following him, and being by his dead body when found, with his pistol and one shot missing, and the bullet taken from the body of the dead man matching those in his revolver, not to speak of Squire Benson’s will in his fa- vor, with his having been left penniless, all these point to his being the murderer ” “They do, miss, but, somehow, I cannot be— lieve it of him.” “ I know he is not guilty, Richard Doyle,” de- clared Anita, impressively. “ You know it, miss é” “ On my honor, yes;and yet I cannot—dare not betray what I know! But I swear to you, Richard Doyle, against all appearances to con- demn him, Dare Sloan is not guilty.” “ You should make this known.” “ I cannot—no, I cannot, for others would suffer. Yes, it would cause untold sufi'ering. But, once free, Dare can prove his innor'ence, perhaps, and I wish you to help me—help me upon my word that he is guiltless. You can go from here with him, fly to a safe retreat in the West, for yOu have not a tie to bind you here, as I know.” “My duty, miss!” “ Your duty is to the man to whom you Owe your life, even were be guilty; but when I swear . toyou that he is not guilty, that you will help to hang the man you owe what you are new, you should not let him be strangled upon the gallows. “ Do you hear, strangled on the gallows like a dog, when you, doing harm to no one, only remiss in your duty, can save him. “ What would your conscience suffer should you afterward find him innocent? “ Ay, what will you suffer to see him hanged, believing him guilty and feeling that. you owe him your life, and could saw him and yet did not. ' “ Yes, did not from a sense of duty that cost a life, that put upon you the blood of an innocent man. “ I say, Richard Doyle, do you weigh duty against life?” The eyes of Anita Dangerfield fairly blazed, and her face was flushed and eager. She had risen to her feet and now faced the man, who seemed to be under her spell, for he cried out in a voice that quivered: “ For God’s sake, tell me how I can save him?” Instantly Anita dropped into her chair again and said with forced calmness: “ I will tell you.” CHAPTER XIX. ANIrA’s BOLD SCHEME. “ RICHARD DOYLE, I felt that you would not refuse between duty to one under the shadow of the gallows, who was innocent, and duty toward your employer, the city. “ I have here the money I promised, and—” “ Hold on, miss, and understand me right here. I could not be bribed to do this by ten times the sum you offer; but, I do it from a sense of greater duty to Dare Dean than to the city that employs me. “ If I accepted a bribe, I would be criminal, in my own conscience, and so would hate my- self! “ N 0! Keep your money and—- One minute! “ I have my money in the city in bank, just five thousand, and I have at my home one thou- sand in cash. I’ll give you my book and a check, so you can draw it, and I’ll take this, for some folks know where I have my deposit, and they will telegraph there at once, expecting me to call for it.” “ Very well: I will collect it, for I take the train to-night and will be at the bank when it opens. But I wish you would accept your ex- penses from me." “ No, miss; I have enough, and to spare, and can make a good start somewhere with what I have. Now, what is your plan i" “ I have already taken to Mr. Sloan some files, a rope, false beard, wig and hat.” “ But his irons?” “ I found a key that would unlock them, so left it with him.” “ I heard his mother had been to see him.” “ No, they thought that I was his mother, for I wished them to think so." “ You are a schemer, miss.” “ All women are, when put to it: but there is a savage dog in the jail-yard.” “ Yes, miss—Catchem.” “ He knows you?” “ Oh yes; I turn him loose every night.” “ Well, to-night forget to do that duty, and wait at your post after midnight, until Mr. Sloan comes.” “ Yes, miss.” “ You can then both come here, for I notice that the ladies’ door is not closed until after the one-o’clock train arrives. “Come right in, for the door will be open, and you will find disguises in that closet, which you had better put on, and catch the one- o’clock train, and I advise you to make for the West with all speed, and Mr. Sloan can suggest where,to go, as he knows the country well, I be- lieve.’ . “ And my check-book, miss, for you?” “ Leave it at the office of Judge Verdan, and say it will be called for.” “ Yes, miss, I will go home at once and get it and arrange to leave, for I go on my post at nine o’clock.” “ And I wish you would give this to Mr. Sloan. “ It is money, twenty-five hundred dollars, and this note explains,” and she handed him a note which read: “Use the money as your own, repaying it when you can do so to the one who ever wishes you well.” “ Now, Mr. Doyle,” continued Anita, “ I would advise that you write a note to the chief of police, telling him that you have aided Mr. Sloan to escape, as you are convmced of his innocence, and that you hope the wisdom of your course Will some day be proven, and if you haVe be- trayed your trust it was to save the life of one who had risked his life to save yours.” “ I’ll do it, miss, I’ll write the note when I go home and put it in the letter—box at the gate to- night when I leave.” " Now, Mr. Doyle, I am going to tell you who I am, and should the world go hard with you, should you ever need a friend, write to me and you will find that I haw not forgotten your kindness to me and to Mr. Sloan. “ I am Anita Dangerfield, Of Daisy Dell Manor." “ By Jove, I half-guessed it, from your beauty and all folks said of you, and knowing that Mr. Sloan had saved your life! I am glad to serve you, Miss Dangerfield.” Richard held out his hand and it was warmly grasped by Anita. Then he arose, pocketed the money packages, for himself and for Dare Sloan, and Soon after took his departure. As he did so, Kate Kennerley came in from the next room. and the two friends congratu~ lated each other on their success thus far. “ Anita, you are a wonderful girl, for you fairly ma netized that man.” Then ate sallied Out once more to look up disguises, and in an hour she returned ac- companied by a boy carrying a number of bundles. These she deposited upon the bed, and the two looked over the purchases and found them all that could be wished, for Richard Doyle being small of stature, there was a feminine outfit for him, while that of Dare Sloan was the suit of an old farmer, cap, gray wig and all. These were put in the closet, just as a tap came at the door, and Judge Verdan entered. “ Here, my beautiful schemer, is a package left at my office for you,” he said, handing it to Anita. “ Yes, it is Mr. Doyle’s bank-book, and a check for bearer,” and she explained all to the judge. “ That is an honest fellow, certainly, to accept no money consideration; but what about your visit to the jail?" Anita told him all and he smiled as he said: “ If the chief could only have seen under that vail. 1’- w w . a Fz‘yfl(Vt..$'