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  Published Every Ten Cents a. Capy.
- ' Two Weeks- 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y., August 27th, 1879. 82-50 a Year-

 

 

No. 75
GENTiEMAN' dEuReE; or, PARLUR, PRISUN, STAGE ‘A‘Nu STREET.

BX’ ALBERT W. AIKEN.

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“CAN I SPEAK A new worms WITH YUU. PLEASE?” sun THE son, WOMANLY voxcn.

2 Gentleman George.

 

GENTLEMAN GEORGE.

 

CHAPTER I.

TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO.

A BTATELY mansion situated in the center of a park-like
estate, near Sixty-first street, New York, in the year 1852.

At this time the Central Park had only been talked of, and
houses were few and far between above Fiftieth street.

The shades of evening had come, and lights were flashing
gayly from the windows of the mansion.

it was evident that some festive occasion was at hand, for
carriage after carriage rolled in at the broad entrance-way and
deposited loads of huinan freight—ladies decked in silks and
satins, and gentlemen in full dress of the time—at the door of
the brilliantly illuminated house.

The best people of New York entered the wide portal of the
stately mansion that night. It was no common occurrence
that. had called forth the leaders of “society.”

Twenty-one years ago New York society was vastly differ-
ent from what it is at the present time. The days of oil and
shoddy had not then come, and millionaires did not spring up,
like Aladdin’s palace, in a single night.

Two scions of two old New York families were to become
one that night. Money was to marry money, and “ blood ”
was to ally itself to “ blood.”

The bride claimed descent from the old one-leg ed Gover-
nor of New Amsterdam, and the groom from the atroons of
Ulster County.

The richly-furnished parlors were crowded with guests. At
eight the ceremony was to take place, and, as it lacked but a.
few minutes of the hour, the arrival of the minister was mo-
mentarily expected.

And while they waited for the coming of the minister, and
showered congratulations upon the blue-eyed bride, whose
fair, rou-nd face, all red and white, gave ample proof of her
German descent, and upon the tall and handsome bridegroom,
whosc uptight carriage and haughty air fully revealed that
birth and breeding had not been wasted upon him, a strange
scene was taking place in the carriage-way that led to the
house.

A slender female form, clad in a plain dark dress, looking
not unlike a lady’s maid, had stolen up the carriage-way from
the street, and, halting within the shadow of the trees that
lined the pathway, gazed earnestly toward the door of the
mansion, from whence streamed a circle of light. And then
she looked toward the open windows of the parlor, which
fronted on the path. Through the curtains of lace she could
look into the room; could see the fair young bride in her silk-
en wedding dress, with the orange blossoms wreathed in her
yelltliwkhair, and the tall and handsome bridegroom in his suit
ofb ac .

Then pressing forward a step, still eagerly gazing, the li ht
streaming from the windows fell upon her and reveals a
little, simple, girlish face, brown-black eyes—that now are
flashing wild with passion‘s fires—brown hair, drawn back
from the low white forehead and simply braided, a slender
tig'ure, slight and graceful as the swaying willow branch.
But now the girlish face was distorted with passion as she
gazed upon the wedding- nests assembled within the man~
sion, and, as her eyes fel upon the tall and manly figure of
the bridegroom, bitter, revengeful words came from between
her firm-set teeth; she clenched her little white hand and
shook it with menace toward the gleesome throng within the
house.

Under her arm the girl bore a heavy pasteboard box, in size
about a foot wide by two feet long.

One of the servants cotning to the door and looking down
the carriage-way, evidently sent to see if he could hear the
sound of the minister’s carriage-Wheels, interrupted the mat:
tered words ofthe woman.

Stepping forward a pace or two, she called to the servant
and beckoned him to approach.

Somewhat astonished at the call, the man obeyed the sum-
mons.

“ I’ve a present here for the bride," the girl said, smiling

leasantly in the face of the attendant; “it is to be a surprise
or her. It’s from Miss Van Curlaer, but she doesn’t Wish it
known that she sent it. Will you have the kindness to
take it in to the bride, and here's five dollars for your
trouble. Give it to her so that she can open it before the
guests; and be sure not to say any thing about who it comes
rotn.’

“ Oh, certainly, Miss,” replied the man, taking the paste-
board box under his arm, and slipping the gold-piece into his

pocket with a great deal of cheerfulness; “I’ll take it In 
her right away, and you can depend upon my keeping a stul
tongue in my head."

“ Give it to her at once, and be careful; it's very value-
ble,” the girl said, With a charming smile.

“ Yes, Miss; much obliged to you,” and then the servant
retratcd his steps to the house, carrying the pasteboard box
under his arm. it was quite weighty, and the man guessed
at once that it contained some rare and costly ornament.

 

 

4—.—
r

After givmg the box into the hands of the servant the girl
had turned and gone down the carriage-way toward the gate,
but, as the man entered the door, she turned suddenly, and,
plunging into the shrubbery, rushed madly toward the house.

rom behind the shelter of acluster of bushes she could gaze
into the brilliantly lighted parlors and yet remain concealed
from observation.

With glaring eyes and a rigid face she looked upon the
he py wedding-party. -

he servant entered the parlor, bearing the box carefully
under his arm, and, with abeaming smile upon his stolid face,
approached the bride.

All the guests turned and looked in wonder.

“ I beg your ardon, Miss,” he said; “ a young person has
Just brou ht this box for on, and says as how it’s a surprise
and that t is to he opens right away.”

This strange announcement created considerable astonish
ment, but the bride, entering into the spirit of the jest, took
the box into her own fair hands without a word and removed
the cover.

The wedding guests crowded close around, and even the
tall and handsome bridegroom came near, with alook of care-
less wonder upon his face.

The cover removed and the contents of the box ex sed to
view, an exclamation of surprise came from all. T e color
faded from the cheeks of the bride, while the face of the bride-
groom grew livid with rage.

Wit:th the boa: was an infant, fact as .

The guests looked at each other in wonder, while the ser-
vant who had brought the box gazed open-mouthed in_ supreme
astonishment.

“Oh dear i” cried the bride, in helpless amazement.

“ Th s is a so jest!” exclaimed the groom, in hot ra e.

“ Take away t e creature!" said the mother of the bri e.

One person alone of all the com any seemed not to won-
der at the strange circumstance, an he was the father of the
bridegroom.

Coolly, and as if regarding the affair only as a common
matter, he bade the servant remove the infant.

“ Some heartless woman, unable to rear her child. has
taken advantage of our happy gathering here to-night to
thrust her burden upon our c arities, but there are plenty of
poor-houses in the country without our having to trouble
ourselves about this beggar’s foundliug. Take it awa , John;
carry it down to the nearest station-house and cave it
there."

The servant obe ed the command, but, though the “ sur-
prise " had depar , yet the effect remained to cast a damper
upon the spirits of that y company.

Through the open win ow the words of the cold and haughty
merchant-prince had come to the ears of the woman concealed
behind the cluster of bushes.

A moment she glared into the room, and saw the servant
with the babe, and then down on both knees she dropped and
lifted her thin, white hand to heaven, while her eyes flashed
with demoniac fire.

“ Oh, God in heaven, hear me curse this race! Let me live
until I see them die, one by one, in speechless agony; curse
the father—curse the son and the proud and haughty girl
whom he will wed to-night—-curse t 0 child that bears his
blood within its little veins, and whom he now permits to be
given to the cold mercies of the world i”

The stars looked down and gleamed coldly as they listened
to the passionate words.

Does the Great Ruler ever hear or heed the curses invoked
by mortals!

 

CHAPTER II.
'rnn mm or ran RATI.

0m in the stream, with her head to the tide, lay the good

shi Golden Dragon, one of the Liverpool liners.

the first day of May, 1873, the Golden Dragon would
heave her anchor ug from the mud of the North river and turn
her prow homewar toward the chalky cliffstof Old England.

The cargo was all on board; in the morning the crew would
come, and then, farewell to New York bay.

Captain Drummond. commander of the Golden Dragon,
had been to dinner with the agent of the line, and at nine
o'clock in the evening, on the last day of April, he had been
escorted down to the dock by a jovial party, and getting into
the boat, had been pulled out to his shi .

The worthy Briton had “ punish ” considerable cham-
pagne, before and after dinner, and though his head was of thi

ardest texture, like to England's walls of oak yet, as he as
cended the side of his ship, and glanced upward at the sky, ht
saw more stars than were usually wont to shine there.

The first mate and two sailors were in charge of the ship
the rest of the crew had not yet come aboard. The captair
exchanged a few words with the mate, and then, bidding hit
pincer good-night, descended to his cabin and prepared to re

ire.

As the head of the worthy captain felt s little queer, be
fixed himself a glass of brandy-and-sode—ever the favorite
tipple of the male natives of the “ tight little island "—and db-
pathhinguilt, tumbled into hi; berth. . a

con e capte n was see in the , of “M ""
'1rishizc” the god of sleep. "m. up”

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Gentleman George. 3

 

m

How long no no t he knew not, when he was suddenly
awakened by a dazz ing 1' ht flashed upon his eyes. In aston-
ishment he looked around'fiiim.

‘Four men, roughly clad, and wearin black masks over their
faces, surrounded him. One held a bu l‘s-eye lantern, so that
the glare fell full upon his eyes, while another presented a
cocked revolver at his head.

The other two midnight intruders were a few paces back of
the first two; each carried a weapon in his hand.

At the first glance the captain of the Golden Dragon realized
his position.

The “ Rats of the River " had taken possession of his ship.
Although he had never encountered the terrible river thieves
before, though he had followed the sea, man and boy, for
forty years, yet he had heard too often of the operations of
the Rats, as the half-pirates were generally termed, not to
recognize them at once.

Drummond understood at a glance that resistance was use-
less; what could one unarmed man do against four assailants,
fully provided with weapons?

“ Well, what can I do for you, gentlemen l” Drummond
asked, coolly, finding that the masked men did not speak.

“ We want a little information," said the man who held the
revolver to the head of the captain, and who was evidently
the leader of the gang.

“ Gentlemen, I must sa that you really have such persua-
sive ways with you that shall only be too glad to ve you
any information in my power,” the Englishman sai , coolly
and calmly, yet inwardly chafing at his position.

“ You are a sensible inan, Captain Drummond,” the leader
of the masked men replied, with a light laugh. “ I wish that
it was our good fortune to always meet with such agreeable
men as yourself to do business with. Of course you understand
that we call upon you solely upon business.”

“ I presume so, ’ the sailor said, “ although I must remark
that I do not understand what you can find on board of my
ship that will be of value to you. I do not suppose that
barrels of flour and such stuff w ll be of much use to gentlemen
of your kidney ”

“ We won‘t trouble your flour, captain,” the tall masked
man said, laughing; “in fact, we won’t trouble your cargo at
all. We want the diamond jewel that you are carryizg
over asa present to Mrs. Inglis. yself and friends are -
together too good Americans to permit such valuable articles
to go out of the country to adorn the wife of a foreign sub-
lect. Besides, the canny Scotchman has money enough of his
own to bu jewels for his wife.”

The bur y Englishman felt a cold perspiration break out all
over him.

” Gentlemen, you are laboring under some great mistake,"
he cried, hastily.

“ Captain Drummond, do not take the trouble to lie to us,"
the leader of the Rats said, slowly and sternly. “ Let me
convince you that you can not deceive us. You dined with
Mr. Adam Duncan, at his house in Thirtieth street, to-day.
After his wife and daughter retired from the table, and left
you and your host to your wine, he produced a small acket,
wrapped up in white paper and securely sealed. his he
intrusted to you, with instructions to give it into the bands
of Mrs. Inglis, with his compliments, and at the same time
he informs you that the packet contained a set of diamond
jewelry valued at two thousand dollars.”

'l;he captain stared in astonishment, but did not attempt to
re y.
' P‘Just after dinner a party of Mr. Duncan’s friends came
in, and they all accompanied you to the dock. It was rather
a lucky thing for you, captain, that you had an escort down,"
the ro ber said, refiectivel , “ or else we should have tried to
relieve you of the diamon set on your way to the dock, and
Fossiny we should have been compelled to have hurt you a

ittle; but now we can arrange things without any trouble.
Just hand over the articles, or tell us where they are, and we
will depart instanter."

The Englishman's face flushed a deep red, and he set his
an?“ “PS resolute] together.

, ' Gentlemen. I on’t want to be outdone in politeness, but
I ll see you hanged before I speak a word to aid you in your
purpose.”

The Briton was game to the backbone.

The masked man laughed.

“ We won’t trouble you, captain, since it goes so hard.
One of our boys kept his e es on you when you stowed the

acket away," he said. “ ou had a little too much wine on

rd, captain."

The leader motioned to one of the men, who took a bunch-

of Ike s from the pocket of the sailor’s pantaloons, pulled out
a litt e chest from under the berth, unlocked it and drew forth
the white packet. The seamen groaned in rage.

cam-nu, Inauaty as they had come, the masked men tell us

The captain jumped into his pantaloons 3nd rushed up to
the deck, revolver in hand, mad with rage, There he found
the mate and one of the sailors. securely bound; the other
sailor had disappeared; evidently he had been in league with
the robbers.

Afar of! in the mist that rested on the surface of the water,
the sailor could discern the dim outline of the boat of the
thi ves, rapidly vanishing in the gloom.

r‘ummond blazed away with his revolver after the boat,
 tgghe sgund iof the shots to attract one of the Harbor

0 - ,anastha n onewas '
handjust at that minute We ed. Pmmg do” “

 

 

-‘

Pulling alongside, the police inquired the meanin of the dis-
turbance. In a few words the captain explaine what had
occurred, and directed them as to the course taken by the
robbers.

Bending to their cars, the police sent their boat spurting
through the surface of the tide.

The masked men, dreaming not of pursuit, were pulling
leisurely along, keeping a bright look-out ahead, paying but
little attention to the water in their wake.

They had taken the masks from their faces, and pulling
along in their working, Whitehall boat, seemed like a party
of honest mechanics out for a row.

Before they had the slightest suspicion of danger, the police-
boat was in sight.

The measured dip of the oar-blades fell upon the ears of
the thieves.

“It’s the police, and they’re after us!” cried their leader
“ Gentleman George ”; “ pull, boys, or it‘s Sing Sing and
hard labor!"

Then came the chase under the stars. The police-boat
gained slowly upon the Rats.

Coolly and carefull the leader of the thieves took aim with
his revolver and fire . The bow car of the police-boat sunk
down with a stifled groan, and as the rest ceased their labor
to spring to his assistance, the bow of the boat swung round
with the tide, and the headway was lost

With cries of rage the police discharged a few scattering
shots at the Rats.

Twenty strokes and the thieves were hid in the mist, safe
from pursuit; and then with a low groan, Gentleman George
lot so the tiller, and sunk faintin to the bottom of the boat.

.0 iad been hit by a revolver-bafi.

 

CHAPTER 41!.
“m wow.”

Omar street, near Market, by night; not a very pleasant
locality, nor a safe one for a well-dressed stranger.

The hour of ten had just struck.

Underneath the light at the corner, leaning against the
lamp-post, stood a burly, thick-set man, dressed plainly in
dark clothes. He held a little cans in his hand, and was
switching the leg of his pantaloons with it in a manner that
betrayed decide traces of impatience, and from the way in
which he looked up and down the street, every now and
then, it was very evident that he was waiting for some

one.

The burly man with the bushy brown beard, and the keen,

y eyes, was the senior partner of the firm of Beck and
ockton, private detectives.

Thomas Beck was pretty well known in New York cit
and bore the reputation of being one of the shrewdest men
the business.

“Why on earth don’t he come i’” the detective muttered,
impatiently. “ I’m getting about tired of this; I’m not going
to hold this lamp-post up much longer.”

Then from the gloom of the night, up the street, from the
direction of Pike street, came a dark figure.

The detective cast a iercing glance at the new—comer, and
an exclamation of satis action came from his lips.

“ That’s my man i” he cried.

The stranger was a man of thirty-five or forty, dressed

uite roughly, and yet there was a certain something in his
ace and figure which betrayed the gentleman despite the
coarse garb he wore. He was about the medium hight, slen-
derly built, and yet, to a close observer, the sinewy supple
figure, with its easy carriage, would have given the impression
o uncommon strength.

The face of the man was a bright olive in hue, smoothly
shaven ; a square-set face, with its broad, high forehead, promi-
nent nose, massive jaw, and round, littering black eyes; a
face not unlike that of the first Napo eon.

It was now ten days or more since the “slums” of the
East side had first seen the dark face of the stranger. Dance-
saloon and lodging-house alike had been visited by him. Not
a haunt of misery and crime, from Peck Slip to Grand street,
that he had not penetrated.

At first his presence had caused much alarm among the
“ dangerous classes” alou -shore; a stranger to them all, in
the beginning he. was 100 ed upon as an officer in disguise.
The birds of prey feared that some one of their number was
“_wanted,” and they kept a wary watch upon the quiet,silent
visitor.

Some, bolder than the rest entered into conversation with,
and questioned the suspecte man. And he, while apparent—
ly answering freely, revealed nothing. He merely said that
he was a doctor, and to use the Eng ish phrase, was “ down
on his luck.”

It was shrewdly conjectured that the man had got into
trouble, in some way, and was keeping “ shady ” until the afo
fair should blow over.

And so, in the very short space often days, the Doctor, as
the stranger was popularly termed, was pretty well known to
the denizens of Cherry and Water streets.

“ What luck?" asked the Doctor, abruptly, as he came up
to the detective.

“ Nary luck,” replied the worthy Mr. Beck, laconically.

4 Gentleman George.

 

“ Thficent was a false one then ?"

“ Yes; the woman was an old bag of fifty. Didn't answer
the description at all.”

“ Can you suggest any thing more 1’" the Doctor questioned,
thoughtfully.

“ Not at preSent,” the detective answered. “The informa-
tion that you received was evidently incorrect. There’s no
such woman and child as you described in any of the saloons
round about here.”

“ It would seem so.”

“Shall I still keep a look-out?" the detective asked. “I
mig'ht stumble upon her accidentally, you know.”

“ Yes; i will call in and see you some time this week.
Good-night.” Then the Doctor turned abruptly and retraced
his steps doWn the street.

“Well, he is a peculiar fellow,” the detective remarked,
cominuning with himself, as he stood for a moment in the

lare of the light, watching the retreating figure of the deals-
aced stranger.

And after making this observation the ofl‘lcer walked off up
the street. When he came to the Bowery, he hesitated for a
menu-n1 as if uncertain as to his course.

“ Let me see,” he queried; “ it’s almost too late to attend to
any thing tonight; but I don’t feel like going to bed. I might
as well go up as far as the Fifth Avenue Hotel ; there's just a
chance that I might run across some night-bird there.”

So the detective got on board a car, proceeded up town. and
about eleven o’clock arrived in front of the hotel. He had
come through Twenty—third street; and just as he stepped
upon the curbstone, he came face to face with a portly, well-
drt'ssed gentleman. »

“ Good-evening, Mr. Bruyn,” Beck said.

“ Ah, Mr. Beck, you‘re the very man I wanted to see i" ex-
claimed the man accosted.

Nicholas Bi-uyn, the lawyer millionaire, was a man of fifty—
tall, portly and well preserved. Not a gray hair in his carefu ly-
curled yellow locks, nor in his well-waxed, tawny mustache
and imperial.

A lawyer by profession, and the sole descendant of one of
the old patroon families, all the good things of this world had
been strewn before him in rich profusion.

An able, active man, gifted with uncommon talents, and
backed by a million of money, at an early age he had gone
into politics, and few men in New York State had been more
successful.

The Judge‘s ermine had been worn with skill and grace,
and the name of Nicholas Bruyn had been more than once
mentioned as that of a possible candidate for Governor of the
Empire State.

J Beck was immediately all attention at the words of the ex-
ud e.

f “ guy thing I can do for you,Mr. Bruyn ?” he asked, respect-
ully.

“ Yes, I think that there is,” Bruyn replied. “You are still
in the detective line, I suppose?”

“ Yes, sir.”

“ If you will have the kindness to walk down the street
with me a little way, where we will not attract any attention,
I will explain.”

The two proceeded down Twenty-third street until they
flailntho a quiet spot beyond the hotel. There the lawyer

a to .

“You undertake the prosecution of inquiries about certain
parties for a consideration, I belicVe,” Bruyn said.

“ Yes, sir."

“ And the matter remains a profound secret between your-
self and the party who desires the information '3"

“ Oh, of course, sir,” the secret-service agent replied; “ our
business would go to the dogs if we didn’t keep our mouths
shut. ’

“ I supposed that. I wish information about a certain party.
You will find all the particulars noted down in this envelope.
Spare no expense, and call upon me in my office in Wall street
if on find any clue.”

he lawyer put the envelope into the hands of the detective,
bid him “ good-night,” and departed.

Beck opened the yellow covering, sauntered up to the near
est light and examined the paper inclosed in the cover.

Name-——Cellne Seaton.

Age—about fortyvtwc

flair—brown.

Eyes-.dnrk-hrown.

Face—oval.

Complexioiiulight.

Figure—slender ; about four feet ten in hight. Small hands and feet.

Marks—a small mole on left cheek: two small moles on right am Just
above the wrist, an inch or more apart.

Occii ation-confldense-woman—prohably.

Resi ence—not known.

When the detective finished reading this description, a low
whistle of astonishment came from his lips. The description
Was not new to hiin.

Ten days before, the man who had simply said that he was
to be callet “Doctor,” had requested the detective to search
amid the Vile dens of the East—side for a woman named Lina
Alon, and had given a description that tallied exactly with
that of Celine Seaton. It might only be a coincidence, but
that two women should be marked by these moles in exactly
the same place, was cxcoedingl strange.

“I‘ll go for her ag’in," said r. Beck, terscly.

 

#2:} I
CHAPTER IV.
IOLLY DAWN.

Tm: dark-faced stranger proceeded on for awhile, and then
slackened his pace and nally came to a dead halt as if uncer-
tain which we to go.

“ I suppose t rat I may as well give up the chase,” he said,
musingly; “yet I am sure that she is lurking somewhere in
this neighborhood. Strange that after so many years Slit!
hould suddenly appear. Icould hardly believe my eyes when
I met heron the Bowery, ten days ago, but I recognized her at
once, for time has dealt lightly with her and she does not look
five years older than in the d'ays gone by. I traced her to the
corner of Market and Cherry; and there lost her. I think she
discovered that she was being followed, and took measures to
avoid pursuit. I wonder if she reco rnized me, in turn. The
world has evidently dealt hardly wit her, for she was dressed
very poorly. It makes me doubt whether there is such a thing
as justice in this world when I see that this woman still lives. '
Bitter indeed was the tone in which the man spoke.

“ And yet, who can tell whether the burden of life is not the
heaviest curse that could be inflicted upon her i" he murmured
after a moment‘s pause. “ Wise judges are we poor humans

“of each other. Ido not care for the woman—do not care

whether she is living or dead—but the child. I can not forget
the child, and I must know its fate. Since the detective has
failed, I'll keep up the chase alone. Sooner or later I will
find her, and then discover what I wish to know. The face
of the child is ever before me."

The Doctor was standing in front of a squalid tenement
house, and his meditations were suddenly and rudely arrested
by the sound of angry words coming from the house.

“Go to the divil an‘ shake yerself, ye fox-headed Greek,
el”dyelled a man’s voice, hoarse with rage and liquor com-
me .

“ Whoop] l’ave me alone till I break her back, the haste!"
cried a woman, evidently as much under the influence of
ii nor as the man who had spoken.

qThe Doctor, perceiving that a “ ruction " was at hand, drew
back a few steps and songht shelter in the shadow of a neigh-
boring doorway. .

Hardly had be taken up his position when the door of the
tenement house opened suddeniy and a half-grown girl, bare-
headed and bare-footed, fled into the street and ran for dear
life.

From the entry-way came the cries of her assailants, but
they did not attempt pursuit.

After a look into the street, the man and woman who had
driven the irl out, gave vent to a torrent of curses and threats,
and then, 0 osing the door, retired to their apartments again.

The Doctor, who had recogniZed the fugitive as she passed
him, came from the shelter of the deorway and proceeded up
the street after her.

At the corner, ready to flee at the slightest sign of pursuit,
the Doctor found the girl.

She did not attempt to run at his approach, for her sharp
eyes, accustomed to the darkness, cat-like, had discovered that
he was no enemy.

“ Are they comin’ arter me?” she asked, eagerly, an the
Doctor came up. '

“No,” he replied, “ they have closed the door and gone
back to their room.’

Then, by aid of the light of the street-lamp, shining down
full upon the face and figure of the girl, he took a good look
at her.

She was a wee little thing, clad in tattered arments, with
a round, rosy face, though it was now sadly iscolored with
dirt. Her eyes were large, and a beautiful ark-blue in color.
Her hair, bright-red in hue, curled in little tangled masses all
over her hea

She looked as plump and healthy as a well-fed kitten, and
seemed too to be as active and as lively.

“ They know that it ain’t no use for them to try to hatch
me!" the little sprite observed, confidentl . “There ain't a
boy in the street kin beat me runnin‘; ’si es, they’re both of
’em too drunk to ketch a sick monkey to-ni ht.”

“ What is the trouble t” the Doctor aske

“ They wanted to beat me, an’ I ain’t a- oin’ to stand that
an longer. I‘m too big to be beat now ’ the maid replied,
indi naiitlfy.

“ by id the wish to beat you t"

“ Because I to d ’em I wasn't goin’ out to beg for ’em any
more. I’ve got sick of that kind of business, an' I'm goin’ to

uit," she said, decidedly. “They ain’t my folks, anyway.

hey’ve always called me a beggar’s brat, an’ told how much
it cost to keep me, an’ now I’m jest a-goin’ to paddle my own
canoe. I don’t go back to that barrac s any more, an’ I that
old beast of a Greek dares to give me any of his chin-music,
I’ll jest throw a brick at him.” _

The girl’s eyes flushed and she stamped her foot impatiently
as she uttered the threat.

” What are you going to do fora living?” inquired the
Doctor, kindly.

“ I don’t ’xactly know,” the young “ Arab " replied, a
thoughtful expression upon her features. .“ I think that I had
better go to selling papers or something like that. I want a
‘stake to start with, though, ’cos I haven’t got nary stamp
now. That old Mulcartty hen sllers goes through my clothes
an' gobbles my stamps. l‘ve jest got. a good mind to lay for
her some night, an’ hit her with a brick, too. I’ll do it sure
when I get good an‘ ready."

 

 

 

Gentleman George. 5

 

 

“ Oh, no; you mustn't do that," the Doctor said, very seri-
ously; " that wouldn’t be lady-like.”
The girl looked at the speaker for a moment, opening her
eyes wide in astonishment.
” Well, I ain’t a lady," she at length retorted. “ I'm only
a little gutter-snipe.”
' “ But you can make a lady of yourself if you will only try,”
reserved the Doctor.
“ .\iehbe I kin," slowly and thoughtfully. “There’s Mickey
Shea, he said that he’d make a lady out of me, some day, but
, he‘s a thief, he is; an’ that’s the way he wants to make a lady
1 out of me. I know; I ain’t a-goin’ to steal for nobody an’ be
I sent up on the Island.”
3 “ That’s right; you just stick to that," and the Doctor pat-
ted the girl's head. “ By the way, what is your name f"
“ Molly,” was the prompt reply.
* “ Molly what?”

a “ Molly nothin’, I guess,” dubiously. “ I never was called
nothin’ but Molly, 'cept Mickey Shea, an’ he calls me Molly
Bawn; that's Irish for fair Mol y, so he says.”

“ Molly Bawn,” the Doctor repeated. ‘ Well now, that is
a ve pretty name and very appropriate. but, Molly, l
shouh think on could find something better to do than to
sell apers. ou look like a smart girl.”

“ ain’t a fool, you bet l" was the characteristic answer.

“ Couldn’t you et a lace with some family P”

“I guess not,” oubt ully. “ I hav’n’t got any one to s ask
for me, an’ I don’t look jest the cheese to go an’ apply or a
situation.”

“ How old are you, Molly f"

“Sixteen.”

“As old as that i" the Doctor exclaimed, in astonishment.

“ Yes; I know I don’t look that old, but I am."

“ Are your parents dead f"

“I guess so; I never heard any thing about them."

“Sixteen,” the Doctor muttered, to himself; “that is the
exact age of the childl Why not take this waif that heaven
has thrown in in way and fgive up the search for the. other?
;I‘he mystic tie or blood hal the time lies in imagination, not
n reaht .”

The girl had watched the face of the Doctor attentively;
E her quick wits had divined that, in some wa , she was con-
? nected with the meditation of her new-made riend.

u “ dolly, suppose I should find a place for you?" he quesp

one .
“ That would be jolly l" she cried, emphatically. '

' “ You would go with me i”

* l “Just you try me i”

The impulsive answer fully satisfied the Doctor.

“One good turn deserves another, you know,” he said,
lightly; “ you saved me from the fellows who were in wait
for me, the other night, and now I can square the account.”

And then, just as the words passed his lips, the Doctor felt
mien hand on his shoulder, and a woman’s voice sounded in

ears.

 

 

CHAPTER V.
“urn our.”

OI Pike street, not far from the corner of Cherry, was
a fivo-story tenement-house; a huge, barrack-like building,
swarming over with human life. _

. In a small room fronting on the street, in the upper story
l of the tenement-house,on a small double-bed, lay 001E

Dominick, better known to the world, perhaps, as “Gen -
man George.”

He was a handsome fellow, who had not yet seen his
twanty-iifth year. In figure he was tall and slender, his face
round and florid; a broad forehead and a massive chin; his
eyes blue, clear and full; the shortcut hair and the closely-
trimmed mustache were of a tawny, yellow hue.

Gentleman Geor e was quite a curiosit . By profession a
bond and bank-rogber, a forger and con deuce-man, yet he
had never “ at in an sp rance " before the bare! Justice,
, ‘ and his han some face id not appear in the collection of
, photographs at the Police Head» uarters in Mulberry street,
Q popular-l known as the Rogue’s alle .

And ew detectives, too, in New ork either public or
private, who could pick out Gentleman eorge from amid
the Broadway throng, when he chose to promenade on a plea!
sant afternoon.

Bold and skillful ogerator as he was, he had neven been
taken - but now, struc_ down by a random shot, he la help.
less—for the time, “laid out,” to use the slang of the t ieves’
Or of.

y the side of the bed sat a woman, watching the sick man
with a countenance full of anxiety; 3 glender.faced, black.
eyed wmnan of four and twenty; not prett , and yet with a
quiet, ladylike look—one who, evidently, ha seen a great deal
1 of trouble.

1 And this woman, plainly clad, with the anxious careworn
1 face, was the wife of the human wolf who preyed upon his
fellowsmen.
With a restless uneasy motion, the sick man turned upon
* the bed, 0 ened his eyes and uttered a groan of pain.
, - “ How 0 you feel now i” the watcher asked, anxious] .
ll " “Badly l" he exolaimed.in a petth way. “1 t as it
i

 

 

 

 

the cursed ball was red—hot. I had no idea that I was so
seriously hurt.” t

“ You should have listened to my advice, and had a doctor
to attend to the wound at once," the wife said, in her quiet,
subdued way. ‘

“ And run the chance of the doctor betraying me to the
officers,” George exclaimed, sharply. “ You know well enough
what a precious row the newspapers are kicking up about the
affair.”

“ Were you not hasty in using your revolver ?" the woman
asked. “The afternoon paper says that there is very little
pros )ect of the officer’s recovery.”

“ f I hadn’t put a ball into him, we should all have been
taken by the police. It was the narrowest squeeze that I‘
ever had," the man replied, impatiently.

“ And I warned you not to go.”

The quiet tone of the woman, as well as the nature of the
speech, excited the anger of the man.

“ I believe you are really glad in your heart that I got this
slug into me, just because I didn’t take your advice and keep
out of the aflairi” he cried, hotly.

A moment the woman looked at him with her cold, calm
eyes; he moved impatiently, restless under the glance.

“George, you do not believe what you are saying,” she re-
plied, not a trace of passion in her voice. “ You know Well
enough that, had it been possible. I would have gladly re-
ceived the ball that struck you. You know that, to save you
from sin, I would pour out all the blood that is in my veins,
drqp y drop.“ ,

he man turned away his head for a few moments; he
could not bear the steady glance of the reproachful black
e es.
y“ I wonder that you do not hate me!" he exclaimed, abrupt-
ly, after a long ause.

“ Why shoul I hate you?” the wife asked, quietly and
calmly, and yet there was just a little tinge of bitterness per-
ceptible in her voice.

" Because I deceived you," he said, still avoiding the steady
gaze of the lustrous dark eyes.

“ Deceived me ?" the woman said, in a tone of question.

“ Yes, you know well enough,” Gentleman George replied,
in a sort of an aggrieved way. “ When you married me, you
thought that you were gettin a gentleman with plenty of
money for a husband; you ha no idea that you were marry-
ing an adventurer, who depended upon his wits and the
world’s weaknesses for his living.”

“ It was a very bitter waking from a very bright dream,"
was her answer, in the same calm, inflexible tone. “ That was
three years ago.” -

“Yes; you were doing pretty well when I met on, too;

etting good wages, thou h you did give about al of it to
t at drunken brute of a fa ler of yours. ’

“Not a brute, George," she protested; “a vain, idle, fool-
ish man whose only h ppiness is in liquor, but not a brute;
too weak for that.”

“ Don't you sometimes wish that you had never seen me i”
he deman ed, abruptly. “ Don’t you sometimes wish that
you were still Hero alebone, instead of being Mrs. Domi-
nick, eh i”

“ Why do you ask such a question i"

“ Oh, a fancy; that‘s all,” with assumed carelessness.

“I have never regretted marrying ou, Geor e," was the
calm reply; ‘ ‘ and I hope that you w never g ve me cause
to regret t.”

Something in this speech sounded like an accusation. George
moved rest ess'l on the bed fbr a moment, and then turned
suddlenily and seed the woman, whose steady eyes never
qua e .

“ I don't exactly like the way in which you sa that,
Hero 1" he exclaimed, an ugly look on his face. “ here's
something the matter with '01:. Do you mean to make
accusation against me?" ere was a latent menace in h s
tone.

“ Does your own heart tell you that I ought to?”

“ That ain’t answering or question," he retorted, (Lillie
roughly, but again evading e unwavering glance of t ose
dar , searching eyes.

“ George Dominick, have I not faithfully followed your
fortunes, ever since the day when the minister made us man
and wife?” she asked.

“ I don’t see any need of putting any such question as that,"
protested the sick man in a tone of irritation.

“ You know that have,” she continued, firmly; “ you
know that I have been to you a true and faithful mic; that
I have never uttered a word of complaint; that I haVe borne
bad fortune as calmly as good; that I have aided you in all
your schemes, and more than once have saved you from im-

ending danger; and now I say to you, George Dominick,

on’t cast me aside for any other woman; for, so sure as you
do it, it will prove to you to be, without exception, the most
foolish act in all our life."

“See here; I on't want you to threaten me because I'm
flat on my back, sick,” George cried, angrily; “ and what put
any such notion into your head P"

I saw you the other night when you met that little brown-
haired woman in Cherry street, near Market."

George started at the words.

“ I was waiting for father to come out of the saloon near
there, to_ send a message to Pen’. I saw the woman come down
Market street, turn the corner and dart into a doorway. The
action attracted my attention, and I watched to see why she

 

'\

6 Gentleman George.

 

 

did it; then i saw a man in dark clothes, who evidently had
been following her, come down the street. The woman still
remained in her hiding-place, and I watched her until you
came; then I instantly understood that she had come there to
meet you.”

“ Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed George, with a forced laugh;
“that was only Jenny Shea, Mickey’s sister, bringing me a
message from Mickey.”

The woman looked at George for a moment, a peculiar
light shining in her dark eyes.

“ Take care that that woman don’t bring you into trouble,"
she said, nieaningly.

“ on, I’ll risk that."

“And now, I’m going for a doctor,” and she rose as she
spoke. “ I’ll get one who can keep his tongue quiet. I’ll not
be gone long.”

And Gentleman George was left to his own not over-plea-
sant reflections.

CHAPTER VI.

THE UNKNOWN.

“ CAN I speak a few words with you, please i" said the soft,
woman] voice. '

The octor turned and beheld a white-faced, dark-eyed
female, clad in dark clothes.

“Certainly,” he replied, somewhat astonished at the ques-
tion, for the glance had told him that the woman was a
stranger.

“ I wish to speak to you in private, please," the sad-faced
caller said, with a look at Molly Bawn, which that young lady
returned with interest. Molly did not like the idea of the
stranger accosting her no w-found protector.

“ Stay here till I come back, Molly,” he said.

“You bet,” replied the girl, laconically; the slang of the
streets was her mother tongue.

“ Now I am at your service,” said the Doctor, addressing
the woman. '

She nodded, walked up the street a few aces out of ear-
shot of the irl, and then turned and face the Doctor who
had follower her.

“ You are a doctor, I believe 1’"

“ Yes,” he replied, not at all astonished at the question, for,
on the first ni, ht of his so'ourn within the classic precincts
of the east si 0, he had volunteered to dress a wound that a
drunken sailor had received in a dance-house brawl, and had
been termed “Doctor” from that hour.

The woman took a long and steady look at his face. Al-
though surprised by her behavior, the Doctor waited patiently
for her to explain the meaning of the strange conduct.

“ Do you know it seems strange to me that a man in
appearance like yourself should be obliged to live in such a
locality as this?"

The Doctor understood at once that this remark was to be
taken in the light of a “leading question,” as a legal gentle-
man would observe.

“ There are reasons for all things in this world, they say,’
he remarked, carelessly.

The woman a sin favored him with a piercing glance from
her dark eyes. he Doctor bore the scrutiny with perfect
com osure.

“ on look like a man who would not betray a confidence
reposed in him,” she said, slowly.

“You can trust me as far as you can see me," he answered,
carelessly.

“ Suppose that a man who has had the misfortune to get
into a little trouble should send for you in a professional way,
would you go!"

“ Most assuredly.”

The face of his inquisitor brightened up a little at the prompt
and unqualified answer.

“ You wouldn’t say any thing to get the man into trouble
who trusted to your honor t” A shade of anxiety was appar-
ent in the face of the woman as she put the question.

“ Doctors are like lawyers and do not generally tell tales out
of school,” the man said, quite seriously.

“ You are willin to go with me, then f”

“ Yes, if my professional services are needed.”

“ They are—urgently, perhaps l" the woman exclaimed,
quickly.

“Shall I have to go far?"

“ No, only a. block or so."

" What is the matter with the man?"

“ A bullet in the shoulder.”

“ It's lut'k'y, then, that I happen to have a little case of in-
struments in my pocket. Do you wish me to go at once?”

“ Yes."

“ \Valt until '. speak a few words with the girl, and then I
am at your service."

“ Be as quick as possible,” the woman said, earnestly. “ The
person who needs your aid has been without medical advice
too long.r already.”

“I will only detain you a few moments,” and then here-
turned to the girl, who, with distrustf‘ul eyes, had watched the
interview between the tWo.

“ I know her i" exclaimed the girl, as the Doctor some up
to her.

 

“ You do?” he said, rather surprised at the information.

“ .Yes; her natne used for to be Hero Walebone.”

“ Used to be i’”

“ Yes, afore she was married. She used to live on Market
street. I know all on ’em. There’s the old man—he’s a reg-
ular old bummer, he is—hangs up by the nose round the
whisky shops; Buys he’s a workin’man; never does no work
that ever I see’d. except drink bad rum—an’ then there’s two
sisters; they work in a hoop-skirt place in Division street. I
Knows both on ’em.”

“ And who did this girl marry i” the Doctor asked, care-
essl .

“ uess I don’t know,” answered the girl, sagel . “ I’ve
users the old bummer—that’s her father, Chris alebone,
a re r'lar old rounder—say as how he was a gentleman sn'
live on the interest of his money. I see’d him once, a Ion
time ago; he was a regular email, but he was a-goin’ wit
Mickey Shea, an’ he’s a thief, he is.”

The Doctor instantly conjectured that the person who had
got into trouble was probably the "swell" husband of the
pale-faced woman.

“ I’m goin with this woman to see a sick person," the Doc-
tor explaine . “ Will you wait at the corner of the street un-
til I return? I shan’t be very long.”

“ Take care that it ain’t a ‘ plant l’ ” exclaimed the girl, sud-

. denly and suspiciously.

“ A ‘ planti’ ” said the Doctor, in astonishment.

“ Yes; don’t you know i” asked the “ Arab," evidently sur-
prised that she was not understood.

“ Well, no; I don’t think I do exactly understand what you
mean."

“ Say, ain't you bin in a little trouble f” demanded the girl,
shrewdly.

“ A little trouble i"

“ Yes, with the cOps—the erlice.”

“ What if I have? ’ The actor was at a loss to guess what
she was driving at.

“ Why, then, they puts up a job Oh you,” was the mytericus
explanation; “the git this woman to come arter on for to

0 an’ see someb y that’s sick, an’ when you git t are you’ll

nd that it’s the peelers.”

“ I guess the police will not take all that trouble on my so-
count, ’ he said, smiling.

The girl shook her head dubiously.

“ I know ’em 1” she cried, emphatically; “ they’re up to all
sorts of tricks. But, then if it ain’t the erlice, mebbe it's a
‘ plant ’ of another kind. ,P‘haps someb y thinks that you’re
worth goin‘ through, so they gits this woman for to decoy you
into some house, and then t ey'll lay you out.”

The Doctor laughed.

“ I don’t think that there is much danger oannybody trying
a game of that kind on me; why, if they stripped me they
couldn’t get five dollars for all that I have on.”

“ They d do it for that, quick enough, some on ’em l" ex-
claimed the girl. “Wh , 1 ve see’d ’em half-kill a drunken
sailor for a can is of do lars. Hadn’t you better let me go
with you i" 011 put the question very earnestly. “ I bet 1
know all the roun ers that roost round here. I know I ain’t
big enough to fight much, but I kin throw a brick as good as
any of ’em, an’ kin yell loud enough for a dozen. You d bet-
ter let me .”

.The man could not help smiling at the earnestness of the
gir .
“I don’t think there is any danger; besides, this woman
wouldn’t like to have you go.’

‘_‘ Tell her you won’t go without me," suggested the would-
be protector; “that would fix her." » -

“ N o, I have promised to go; so be content and wait at the
corner until I come back; will you 2"

“ Yes, if you say so," she answered, quite reluctant! , “but
if they do put up s eh on you, I’ll jest get square w them
or my name ain’t olly Bawn.”

The Doctor lau bed, told the girl not to get tired waiting,

' and returned to w are his caller stood.

Molly remained uiet for s few moments and watched the

it as they walkedI rapidly away; then a sudden idea came
nto her head.

“ I'll jest keep my eyes an ’em. anyway!” she exclaimed.

Acting on the impulse, she followed, cautiously.

 

CHAPTER VII.
a smear, PARTICULAR sun.

A nw star had flashed suddenl across the theatrical fir-
mament of the metropolis of the ow World.

A Miss Ellen Desmond, a young and beautiful .girl, rfect
in ii are as in face and really possessing, too, can dera le tal-
ent or the stage.

The lady came, saw and conquered.

N ot an easy matter this, even for outh, beauty and talent.
But the lady was fortunate. it had been splendid]
'handled;” we are using the technical term, as we would
speak of a horse being well driven by his jockey. The busi-
ness manager of the new star was a gentleman who had fol-
lowed the stage ever since the~tender years of boyhood' s
speculator whom no loss could daunt, no failure could dis-
courage; who understood exactly how much the public at

l

 

 

' —.-v-~—m—ax_

 

 

Gentleman George.

 

 

large know of that art which the world calls “ actfng;” and
who fully comprehended what the people who paid their
tnoney to enter theaters wished to see, and how to excite their
curiosity in regard to the attraction which he had to offer.

This energetic gentleman had brought Miss Ellen Desmond
to New York; had procured an opening for her at one of the
princrpal theaters; had blazoned the name of Ellen Desmond
)1: every dead-wall in the city, and by shrewd and novel news-
paper advu-rtisements had so excited the curiosity of the
theater-going public that they crowded the theater on the
night of her debut. The lady appeared in a new play, written
expressly to exhibit what talents she did possess, and to hide
what defects severe and diligent drilling would not eii'ace; she
was ably supported; and as the play was stron in itsclf,
and the lady was pretty, pleasing and fairly ta ented, she
really made what is nown in theatrical parlance as a “ hit.”

The theater was crowded nightly—not all paying patrons,
to confess the truth, for the sagacious business manager be-
lieved in “full houses,” and distributed free tickets where
the would “ do most good,” in an extremely liberal manner,
am it really happened on two or three evenings during the
first week of the lady’s engagement, that patrons with money

in their hands, eager for tickets, were turned away from the
i doors of the theater, with the announcement of “ Standin

room only,” while there were four or five hundred “dea -
heads ” occupying good seats in the auditorium.

This was very shrewd policy.

The attraction that was crowdinghe theater nightly, and
turning mone awa besides, must worth seeing. So rees-
oned the pub ic; while the self-confident business manager of
Miss Ellen Desmond compared the great public to a flock of
geiese:—-where one goose goes, the rest all want to go, like-
w so.

The actress did not go to a hotel upon her arrival in the
great metropolis, but had been hidden away by her sagacious
manager in apartments on Broadway near Twenty-ninth street.
He reasoned that, when we make an article common, it de-
preciates in value. The actress who could be seen during the
day at her hotel, the pea le would not care to come to see at

l Di hi. and pay, besides, or the privilege of so doing.

2 he actress was guarded from intrusion by a huge negress,

who bluntl repulsed all intruders.

Her mes s, sent in from a neighboring restaurant, were re-
ceived by the negress, and so Miss Ellen Desmond was kept
entirely secluded from the view of the curious public. She
even had a carriage to convey her to and from the theater,

1 and thus escape scrutiny.

The apartments of the lady consisted of three rooms, plainly

fl l but neatly furnished.

In the front reom, the windows of which looked out on

i Broadwa . the actress was seated. The hour of ten had just

! chimed mm the little clock on the mantle- iece. The break-

‘ fast-service was on the table, and Miss Elen Desmond. the
“bri ht, particular star,” in a handsome morning wrapper,
seats by the table, was looking over the morning papers.

And as one looked upon the delicate beauty, utterly un-
adorned by the witching hand of art, in her breakfast “un-
dress,” wrth her hair drawn back carelessly from her temples
and wound into a knot behind, it was not strange that, on the
stage at night, behind the mystic “ foot-lights,” with the glare
of the gas upon her and the intoxication of acting swelling in
every vein, and beating in every pulse, she seemed of more
mincpiortaoldbeautyihto possess mlore than earthly gifts, and

term ,asw ama ics l r
of "we New York. g pe w hug from fairy lors,half

Little wonder that the women pronounced her “sweet,” and
the men came, night after night, to revel in the beauty of her
wtxtéigrful faced“

as she in the eas -chair to i with the
heicfimiolate, :de stein descrtybe her.’ y n3_ moon or

tt 9 roe see, not larger hardi than the face
child; the skin white as alabaster, and 3m; just the fanatic:
tinge of color in the checks; the nose. straight as the line of
the Grecian Hebe; the mouth, red-lipped as the coral from
the depths of the green ocean, and in shape like the curved
bow of the ancient Eastern warrior; her chin, dimpled as by
the cunning art of a craftstnan’s master hand ; her hair, wavy
in curling tresaes, yellow as strands of -beaten gold, and-—
? strange contrast—her eyes were dark-brown, and her eye-
; broWs and eyelashes were black. Perhaps this it was that
gave the charming expression to the face.
Q ldl)’ “10 newspaper 511'0 pod from her hand to the floor, and

a dreamy look of meditat on came over the fair face,

She was aroused from her abstraction b the negress knock.
ing and then entering thea artment. he announced that
the business mana er, Mr. lmer Medham, Esq, as he was
generall announc on the “ small-bills,” was coming up stairs
and bar ly had the servant withdrawn into the inner span.
ment when Mr. Medham entered the room,

The business manager was a fat, jolly fellow, of thirty-five
or thereabouts always overflowing with good-humor.

i, . In his hand he carried a bouquet, designed in exquisite
_:- taste. and composedof the rarest and most costly flowers.

“ Well, how is the little woman this morning?” he asked
as he seated himself unceremoniously by the uble 3nd tossed
the bouquet into her lap.

“ Oh, very well,” she replied, languidly. “Whu . bunt].
ful b‘guqugt this is.” ‘

“ as, t at s a feather in our on . tn dear "

is an efpsestiitlm i); triumph upyon his see.y ' he um' ‘mh

" n so ow so " she asked with an me!

She partly anticipated the answer. - human

 

 

 

 

" That is a present from one of the leading gentlemen 01
New York.”

The lip of the actress curled just a little. She did not seem
to be at all affected by the statement.

“ He took the trouble to call upon me at my hotel this
morning. I was introduced to him last night after the ‘ Show
was out.” The business manager would use the slang of tier
“ showman.”

“ Yes?” Miss Desmond did not seem at all interested.

“ He came in this morning and wished to know it' you would
accept a few flowers. 0t courseI replied that if there was any
thing in this world you really did admire it was flowers. So
he requested tne to walk down to the flower-store, and there
he had that bouquet made up, and then he requested me to
hand it to you."

“ Of course he wants an introduction,” the actress said,
quite contemptuously.

“ Well, he didn’t say any thing about that, but I suppose
he does of course,” Medham replied.

“ Strange that he didn’t imagine that he could come right
up withdyou at once; that is generally the idea they have.
Juno he to put one young fool out by main force yesterday.
He insisted upon coming up. He pretended that he was con-
nected with one of the newspapers, and had come for the
par 8 of interviewing me.”

edham laughed. '

“ Oh, this is a gentleman, one of the old New York stock, a
lawyer and a millionaire—Mr. Nicholas Bruyn.”

The actress sprung to her feet with a bound.

“Nicholas Bruyn wish to see me 1” she cried, her face as
white as the napkin in her hand.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
'rna FIBHMAN.

In Market street, just a block above the house wherein the
wounded man lay, was another tenement-house, almost a
counterpart of the first, except that the lower floor was occu-
pied by a grocery store.

And just about the same time of the interview between the
Doctor and the pale, sad-faced woman, in Cherry street, a
young man and woman, seated by the door of the tenement

ouse on the coal-box belonging to the grocery store, were
holding a busy conversation.

From the manner in which the couple sat on the box, so
near together and so comfortable, it was evident that they
were lovers.

The girl was a younger sister of the sad-faced wife of Gen-
tleman George, by name, Artemisia—which appellation was
generally shortened into Arty. She was the second daughter
of the individual known as Christopher Walebonc, so (graphi-
cally described by the girl, ‘Molly Bawn, as “as 01 bum-
mer. ’

Art was strikingly like her sister, Hero, in the face, but
lacke her sad air; she was small in stature and as lively as a
cricket in disposition.

The youn man was a stoutly-built youn fellow, with an
honest, good-natured looking face; his heat. was round as a
bullet, and his dark-brown hair was cropped tight to his head.

Billy West—so this sturdy young fellow was called—was a
regular New York boy, born and bred. Left an orphan at an
early age, he had had a pretty hard time of it. Thrown by
chance in with the flshmen of Fulton Market, when only a
youngster, he had learned their business. And as he grew up
a stoutly-built, muscular lad, quick on his legs and handy with
his fists his associates, fond of manly sports, were often in
the habit of pittin him against some other promising young-
ster in a game of sticufis, and by the time Billy West got to
be eighteen , he had the reputation of being an ugly customer
to tackle; not that the lad was inclined to be at all narrel-
some, but he didn’t let anybody walk over him wit out a
“ turn-rig," to use the lan uage of the “ boys."

That illy West would have inevitably become a profes-
sional prize-fl hter was almost a.fore one conclusion, had he
not met with rty Walebone. That roe-spoken young lady,
when the gentle fishman had bashfully sug rested that he
would like to keep company with her, instant y replied that
she didn’t want any “ nasty fighting-man hanging round her.
She didn’t believe in men making beasts of themselves, and
would have nothing to do with any fellow who turned him-
self into a bull-dog.

Billy West went home to his six-by-nine garret, “ put him.
self in his little bed,” and pondered over the pointed remarks
3:) the lively and independent daughter of the house of Wale-

no.

And when in the first ray light of the early morning he
opened his eyes and stared around him, his mind was made
up.
He gave his professional friends in the fisticufl‘ line the
cold shoulder; no more did he don the “ gloves ” for the bene-
fit of “ Cast-Iron Jack," or “Jimmy, the Mouse,” and in the
best of humors proceed to “ put a head” on some other am-
bitious craftsman of the “sloggiug art.” No more did the
Fulton Market Pet—as lely was fondly termed—“ stop. 10!).
and get away,” in first-class style with some other exponent
of the “ manly art of self-defense," to the admiration of the
“ coves wot love a mill.”

 

 

8 Gentleman George.

 

 

 

And from the day when he cast aside the “ gloves ” forever,
and made up his mind to become a decent member of society,
and no longer abuse the tnanly gifts that Heaven had given
bitu, Billy \Vest prospered.

A woman’s '\\ ill worked a wondrous change in the. fortunes
of the Fulton Market, boy. The money which he had fornn rly
been in the habit ot squandering in the corner liqttor store
with the “ boys,” he diligently saved up, 'lllti within a year
from the time the young Working girl had quietly told him
that he nould have to choose between htr anti his pugilisttc
friends, Billy West. asionished his “host” by announcingr to
him, one Saturday night, when he reCeived his want-S, that be,
Billy, should be obliged to leave him, as he was going to buy
a horse and wagon, and go into business on his turn account.

And so Billy joined the great army bearing the generic term
oflicensed venders, and he still prospered, much to the troll-
der of his old assot'lnlcs, wlto turned up their noses when
thev spoke of Billy‘s desertion of the “manly air.”

lint -ittle cared Billy for tlteir sneers as long.r as lit" girl of
his l-t. rt smiled kindly on him. Only one thing troubled
him; \V'alebone, tlte “ hard-handed mechanic,“ as he dt lighted
to eall himself, did not. appear to regard Billy with a friendly
eyes. West and been keeping compan with the girl for
nearly three years, and although old alebone never had
openly objected to the arrangement, yet whenever he had a
little too much liquor on hozn-d—which was generally every
night in the week regularly—dry the, honrttf ten—he would
make sarcastic remarks about the iish-trade, and the dealers
in .hat brain‘produeing food, and cry aloud that the mechanic
was Nature‘s noblest Work; and then in a flood of tears, he
Would lifa up his voiCe and lament that no child’of lns had
ever married one of the noblemen of Nature or was likely to
marry one. ,_

WheneVer Billy had happened to be present on these occa-
sions, when the aged Walebone told his sorrows, the blood of
the iislnnan would rise in his veins; he would seize an early
opportunity to retire, and in the solitude of the entry would
Contide to his beloved Arty that, if the “old cuss " wasn‘t her
father, he’d take an intense pleasure in giving him “ a belt tn
the shoot.” - _

’l‘hen Arty Would put her arms round his neck and beg him
to remember that the Speaker was her only parent, and that he
always felt. bad when he reflected upon the condition of the
down—trodden working-man.

To which Billy would reply that rum had a good deal more
.0 do with the aged Walebone’s remarks- than any thing else,
and that he’d like to see the “old man” tackle a job 01 work
instea‘d of “jawin‘ ” so much about it“ with his month.”

As a final result Billy Would go away quite contented, but,
when he got home to the solitude of the six-by-nine attic, the
way he would “ cuss” the single parent of his beloved was a
caution!

The two, sitting together so cosily on the Dutchman‘s coal-
box, were discussing the chances of gaining the “old man’s"
ConSent to their union.

The girl seemed very doubtful; her father did not. look
upon the tishman with favorable eyes. " He keeps saying that
I Ought to marry a hard-working mechanic," she said.

“ Well, I ain’t a wood-hotelier nor an iron-sp’ilcr, but, if
there is any two-legged man in New York that works any
harder for a livin’ than I do, I'd like to see him trotted out, that s
all 2” Billy exclaimed, indignantly. ” And as for your dad a-
talkiu’ all the time about a hard-handed son of toil, I’ll bet
two dollars an’ a half that my hands are as hard as any of ’cm.
1 don’t go an’ howl round, t ither, ’bont being abused and trod
on, but, if any Sltfltlzl‘l' tried to walk over me, I jes‘ tell him
quietly that I ain’t at'eard of any man of my weight, and if
he's on his muscle to peel and wade in. Arty, I dont Want
to say a Word ag’in’ the old man, but ifhc’d do less work with
his thonth, and more with his hands, it would be agood thing
for his family.”

“Now. Billy!” exclaimed the girl, in remonstrance, “ you
mtisn’t say any thing about father, beettnse if he don’t work
himself it is because he’s trying to better the condition of
the working men."

" Yes, there's four or five on ’em meet at a tummy on East
Broadway, an’ a heap of gas they talk ’bout what they’re oin’
to do for the \rorkin‘-men, but nobody ever see’d any o ’t-m
work." liill repl:ed. “I ain't got no use for siclt sno.izer8."
’l‘lu- tishman was thoroughly in earnest in his remarks.

“ l lh. Billy, you mustn’t. Father says that when the work-
tntnmen all stand torn-titer they will rule the whole country;
an: that all the money the rich people have really belongs to
Illl'llt. anti that they ought to have it,” the girl said, repeating
what sht- bad so ot'ten heard.

" (ill, of t-onrse," Billy retorted, sarcastically; “ the avenue
folks didn’t work for it, or nothin’; oh, no! I s’pose 1 Until”
for to share my boss and wagon with 'em. I think 1 will, too
-. .n h horn l” And then a sudden thought struck Billy.
“ Arty. where’s your sister—the one that married that Dotnin~
b it " ls sh: round ?-~’eos I‘m feared that he's in trouble.
t apt tltl .\lnrphy—lte’s the police captain of this district—wall
uyin‘ to pump me about your sister to-day."

 

CHAPTER 1X.
BILLY’s s'roax.

Tar. girl looked at Billy in astonishment.
W hv, what do you suppose the police want toknow about
either Hat-o or her husband t" she asked.

 

“ How should I know it" replied Billy, evasively.

“ But what did the policeman say ‘8"

“()h, not much. 1 met h;m about five o’clock this after-
noon. I sold out pretty soon to-day, and [was jt-s’ pnttin‘ the
horse up when the captain came by, anti he jes’ asked how
things were workine', and leanel up ag’ih’ an awning-post,
jes’ careless-like. “yell, I told him that times were pretty
middliu’; then be up an’ axed me if I was keepin’ company
with you."

“ And what did you say?”

“ ljes‘ told him that I hung out round here sometimes, an'
then he said—jes’ Carelessslike, you know, as if it wasn’t any
account to him—didn’t a sister of yours get married some time
ago. Now, you see, Arty, this jes’ opened my eyes, ’eos I’ve
seen the captain afore, an’ I knew when be commenced to talk
’hout. your sister that it meant business. i didn’t let him see,

on know, that I had ‘dropped on him,’ so I jes’ answered, as
innocent as a young porgy a-playin’ on the Jersey flats, that
you slid have a sister, an‘ that she did get married, some time
ago.

“And what did he say then?” asked the girl, deeply inter
cstcd.

“ Well, he looked up at the sky an‘ axed me if I thought
that it was going to rain, an’ it weak-fish had Commenced to
run yet. I never let on, you know, an’ answered jcs’ as nice
as if I .lidn‘t know what he was arter. Then he said that I
had a good horse, an’ then axed what was the name of your
sister’s husband. I told him Dominick,an’ he ’pearcd to think
for a moment. an’ ’Iowed that he thought he knew a man by
that. name, an’ Wondered if it was the same one. In course I
went on tmharnessin’ the boss, an’ kept as still as a mouse.
Then the captain sed that he really believed ’twas the same
man, an’ axed the ifl had eVer see‘d him. I told him I never
tlid. Then he talked a little while ’bout what the chances
were for the next ‘lection; how the ward would go, etc., and
then come plump to the p’int, au’ axed me if your sister an’
her husband were living round ’bout here, or if I had seen ’em
lately. I told him that I hadn’t."

“ Did he ask any more questions?"

“thin' to speak of; he talked live or ten minutes more,
maybe, but set] nothin’ particular,” Billy replied. “ Then he
walked off up the street, an' Isee’d a little man in dark clothes
jine him.”

“ Did you know the little man, Billy?” \

“I bet ycrl" he replied, emphatically; “ it was one of the
detectives from the Central Otiice. I tell you, Arty, if Hero
and her husband are round there’s trouble ahead fur ’cm.”

The. girl remained silent for a few moments, evidently in
deep thought ; then suddenly spoke:

“ I’m afraid there is something the matter, for my sister was
at the house to-night, just after dark, and she looked real and
and careWorn.“

“ Did she say any thin’ 'bout her husband 1’"

“Nothing particular. I asked her where she lived now,
bttt she said that I mustn’t ask questions, and I know, of
course, that. she had some reason for not. telling.”

“ What does Dominick do for a living, anyway ?” asked
Bill , suddenly.

_, “ don’t know exactly,” the girl replied. “ I believe that he
angels, and sells goods by samples, or something of that

in .

“ You know Mickey Shea, don’t you, Arty 1’” Billy asked,
after pondering over the matter for a few moments.

“ Yes,” replied the girl, wondering at the question.

” Do you know how he gets his livin’?”

“ Well, I have heard people say that he isn't any better than
he ought to be."

“ He’s a regular black sheep, he is, Arty,” Billy said, decid-
edly. “ He’s a dock-rat—steals any thing he kin get his hands
on. He’s hin up to the ‘Island’ half a dozen times. Was
sent up to Sing Sing once, for five years, but he’s a big man
in the ward ’rouud ’lection time, an’ his gang got him par-
doned out, Then they had him up once fur stabbing a man
down in South street, an’ how he ever got out of thatl don’t
know. I reckon, though, it was political influence that fixed
the ob. Mebhe they pigeon-holed the indictment."

“ Vhat’s that, Billy ?"

“ Why, suspended the case an’ let him go on straw bail; put
the papers in a pigeon-hole; so, you see, if he don’t work jes'
right ‘bout ‘lt-ction time they kin take the papers out an‘ put
hint through,” Billy explained.

" But why did you Want to know if I knew him ?"

“‘Cos I heard him mention George Dominick‘s name, the
other night, in a liquor saloon up the street. The place is kind
of a crib where the snoozers hang out. You see, I met my
old boss, an’ we went in to take a smile. An’ while we were
h’istin' our p‘ison I hecred this Mickey Shea, who was talkin‘
in a corner with another rounder, say somethln‘ ’bout George
Dominick. In course I couldn’t make ont. what they were a-
talkiu’ about. I only heered the name. Butl kin tell on
One thing, Artv, if your-sister’s husband is any friend of Mic ey

hea’s, he aiu t the kind of man fur your sister to tie to."

“ I‘m afraid that Here ain’t very happy," the girl said
slowly; "she don’t look Well at all; she’s real thin, and I
never saw her so pale and careworn before."

“ Well, I hope that her old man hain't got into any trouble.
but I’m afear-l that he has," Billy remarked. “ I don't believt
the captain would take the trouble to pump me about him if
there wasn‘t sotnethln’ up.”

“ She is living: round herc,somewhere," Arty said, suddenly,
“though she didn’t say where she lived. lam pretty sure
that it ain't lur elf. Do you s'poSt: that anybod saw her when
she came to see us to-dayf any of the police, mean t"

a...“ «-m t.

\« ....._ __ _.. w.“

 

 

knwfl. 

 

Gentleman George. 9

 

 

Billy gave a tow and prolonged whistle. It was evident
that he elt uneasy in his mind.

“ Well, Arty, I don’t want to discour c you, but I’m a leetle
afeard that they are close on her track, he replied. “ Seeing
the detective with Captain Murphy looks kinder sus icious."

“ What do you an pose that they are after Mr. ominick
for f" Arty as ed. w th a shudder.

“ Didn't you read ’bout that fight on the river, the other
night, between the Harbor Police and a party of river-thieves,
when one of the oflicers was shot i”

“ Yes, I read it.”

“ Well, do you know it struck me when I read ’bout that
fuss that Mickey Shea an’ his gan had somethin' to do with
it," Billy went on to explain. “ on see, Arty, I used to go
’round with the boys 9. good deal in the old time, an’ I knew
a heap ’bout these river-rats, as they call themselves. This
Micke tried one night to rope me in to go with ’em, an’ I jes’
told him what I thought of im an‘ his crowd in pretty plain
words; then he got mad an’ picked a muss with me, an‘ it
took me ’bout two minutes to warm him so that his oWn mam-
my Wouldn’t have known him; an’ he had his crowd with
him, too, but there was five or six' of the Fulton Market fel-
lows round, an’ theyjes‘ see’d that I had a fair show. Mickey
threatened to lay me out, but he knows that I can flax him
all]? any two of his gang all put together if I only have half a
c ance.”

“ Do you suppose that my sister's husband had any thing to
do with shootin that oflicer i” asked the girl, anxiously.

“ 1n course I on't know any thin’ ’bout it,” Billy replied,
with a shake of the head. “But, when the, captain tried to
wimp me to-day about Dominick, an’ I remember hearin’

tckey speak ’bout him, it ‘es’ struck me that mebbe he had
omethin’ to do with that a air."

“If the police Were on the watch, perhaps they followed
Hero from the house to-day l"

“ That’s what I'm afeard of," Billy observed, thoughtfully.

Then up the street with uncertain steps came a fat, elderly
man, gray-haired and heavily jowlcd.

It was the venerable Christopher Walebone.

He beheld the couple seated u on the coal-box and straight;
ened himself up in righteous indignationx

CHAPTER I. -

’I'IKILY AID.

Tn woman roceeded onward with rapid steps and the
Doctor followe close behind.

She entered the door of a large tenement house, situated on
Market street, turned her head as if for the purpose of seein
that the man whom she was Conductin ‘was at hand, an
thcnt, satisfied that he was following close y behind, proceeded
up s airs.

The Doctor followed silently; the rustle of the woman’s
dress was his guide throu h the dark passages.

At a door on the upper ending his conductor halted.

“ This is the place,’ she said, opening the door and enter-
ing the room.

The Doctor followed, and at a single glance noted the scanty
{Ern‘i’tn‘re of the apartment, and the sick man extended upon

c c .

“I will be back soon," and turning round, the Doctor ob-
served that the Woman had left the apartment, closing the
door belnnd her. He understood at Once that it was her ur-
pose to leave him alone with the sick man, and advanc to
the bedside. ‘

Gentleman George nodded his head in salutation. “You
are a doctor?”

II Yes.”

“I’ve got a bullet in my shoulder. I thought that it was
Only a scratch, or that the bullet had passed clean throu h,
but from the way it pains me I have come to the conclus on
that the lead is still in the shoulder."

ln‘ilfntly thefDontor examlfngd the wound; then he took out
a , e case 0 ms ruments m
'ected n “ “me.” his pocket, opened it and w

A city (I) (pininlclntn: from the lips of the wounded man, de-
a iteis n au-i e ardihood,ast ' ‘

i: search of the ball. he mammal“ was Inserted

“The wound is inflamed,” the Doctor said- “ it is lucky
that you called in medical aid; ten hours more, and it Would
have b.-en too late. It is not dangerous with proper care.”

Then another groan of pain, and the Doctor held up the lit-
tle conical piece of lead between his thumb and forefinger.

‘ There it is, you see.”

A long-drawn breath of relief came from George’s pallid
H is.

“ That’s a weight 0E my mind,” he muttered. “ I was be-
ginning to fear that I should lose the arm,"

“ As I have said, if it had not been attended to within ten
hours, it would not only have cost you your arm but in all
probability your life." The Doctor spoke gravely’.

“ A narrow squeeze, eh?” Dominick exclaimed, with a light
laugh.

“Yes: and even now you must be careful and not take
hold; the wound is very much inflamed."

“ That comes from neglecting to take care of it.” the

 

Wounded man confessed ; "but I had no idea I was so badly
hurt. How much do I owe you, Doctor 1’”

“ Nothing,” replied the stranger, wiping the instruments ofl
carefully and returning them to the box.

“ Nothing ?" exclaimed Dominick, in astonishment.

“ That is correct,” said the stranger, quietly. “ I am not a
regular doctor, and do not practice for a living, but I am
always glad to place my professional skill at the Service of any
one who needs it."

“Men like yourself are rare in this world,” Dominick re-
marked, thoughtfully.

“ Is that true ?” queried the stranger, smiling as he spoke.
“ And now let me tell you what you must do to complete your
cure,” he continued. “ Apply some cooling dressin to the
shoulder, and remain in absolute quiet until the woun closes;
that should be within a week at the most.”

“ I’ll have it attended to the moment my wife comes back."

The Doctor turned toward the door, and the invalid watched
him with a nervous face.

“Oh, Doctor!” Dominick said, suddenly.

“ Well l?" and the stranger turned toward the speaker.

“ If I might ask another favor of you—”

“ Certainly; what is it t"

“ If you will keep your visit here a secret—”

“ Of course,” the visitor answered. “ Your wife requested
that and I willingly gave her the promise.”

“ here are sometimes reasons for things which a man can
not explain.” I

“ Oh. yes, I understand that,” the surgeon remarked, in an
absent sort of way, as he took a long look at the man stretched
upon the bed.

Dominick observed the glance, and wondered at it.

Then the Doctor turned again and advanced to the door;
but, with his hand upon the knob, again he hesitated, and
turning, faced the sick man. From the expression upon his
flace it was evident that he wanted to speak, but hesitated to

0 so.

There was a slight pause, during which Dominick surveyed
the man, curiosity strongly written on his face.

“ I beg your pardon,” the visitor said, abruptly, “ but your
face is very familiar to me, and yet I can not remember that I
have ever met you before.”

George was somewhat astonished, for he was sure that he
haddnever seen the stranger before. He therefore shook his
hea .

“ You do not remember to have ever met me before f" the
Doctor remarked.

“ N o; in fact I am almost certain that we never met unti.
you came into this room to-night,” was Dominick’s confident
answer.

_ “It is very strange indeed," the visitor said, in a dreamy
sort of way. “ I could have sworn that I had met you before
-—not recently, but a long time ago.”

Again Dominick shook his head. “I am certain we never
met before. I have a most excellent memory for faces, and I
should not be likely to forget one as strongly marked as your
own.

“ Have you any objections to tell me your name i" the Doc-
tor asked, suddenly.

Dominick thought over the question for a minute or so.

“I don’t know why I should have any objections,” he at

length answered. “ I am sure that you would not use the
knowledge to my disadvantage.”
“ I give you my word as to that,” the other said, quickly.
“ I on wish to know to satisfy myself upon a certain point,
and I reely promise to forget your name the moment the door
of this room closes behind me.”

“ That is fair enough,” Dominick continued; “ and as you
have favored me I will try and oblige you. My name is
George Dominick."

The Doctor shook his head; it was plain that he was disap-
po‘i‘néeda’then he asked: “ You were born in this city f”

es.

“ Are your arents living?”

“No, both ead. My mother died when I was only an in
fant—I do not remember her at all—and my father some four
years ago."

“ It is a most singular circumstance,” the visitor said, reflec
tively; “ your face reminds me of a woman whom I once knew,
and yet you do not in any particular feature resemble her at
all.”

“ That is strange.”

“ Yes; her eyes were brown, while
dark also, and et, the very moment
put me in mind, of her."

“ What was the name of the woman l’” demanded Domin-
ick.

The question was but an idle one, and he himself, if ques-
tioned, could not have explained why he asked it. '

“ Lina Aton.”

“ A strange name,” Dominick remarked. “ I do not think
that I ever hear it before.”

“ Yes, it is strange; well, good-night, and I hope that you
will speedin recover.”

The Doctor passed out of the door into the darkness of the
entry.

ours are blue; her hair
beheld your face, you

 

 

10 Gentleman George.

 

CH A PTE R X I.
HUNTED DOWN.

As the Doctor advanced along the narrow dark entry
toward the head of the stairs, he became conscious t t some
one was in the passage-way; he could hear the quick reath-
ing, and then the rustle of a woman‘s dress fell upon his car.
He guessed at once that it was the wife of his patient, so he
paused, and the woman came up to him.

“ Well, Doctor,” she inquired, anxiously, “ is there any
danger f”

“ Not the slightest unless he takes cold. I have extracted
the ball.”

“1 am so thankful !" with a sigh of relief. “Here is five
dollars, Doctor; is that enough?”

As she spoke, the woman endeavored to put the bill into his
hand, but he gently repulsed her.

“I do not require any pay, madam,” he said, firmly, but
kindly. “I am not a regular practitioner; only an amateur.
It Would be dowuright robbery to take pay for the slight
service I have renderet .”

She did not attempt to force the money upon him, realizing
that. the effort would be fruitless.

“ You are ver kind, indeed, sir,” she said, in avoice full of
gratitude; “ antlyI trust you will not feel hurt if I request that
you will not mention your visit here to any one.”

“ Certainly not, madam l” he replied, ravely. “ Rest assured
I will keep it a profound secret; and i you should 'haVe an
further nee'tl of advice, do not hesitate to call upon me. I
shall he most happy to oblige you.”

“ Thank you, sir; I shall not forget your kindness although
I may never have the Opportunity to repay you for t. Good-
night, sirl"

She passed swiftly along the entry, and entered the room
wherein the wo'unded man lay, while the Doctor proceeded
down-stairs, his mind busy in deep refle‘ction.

“ it is very singular,” he muttered, as he descended the
narrow stairs; “ but the very moment my eyes fell upon the
face of this man, Lina’s image rose before me; and yet there
is not a single individual feature in his face that resembles her.
It is only in the general expression. If she had married a
man of the German type, large, blonde—a very fair-haired
Saxon—the child of that union would have looked like this
Dominick. It is only a fancy of mine, however, for he knows
both his parents, and can not be the descendant of this girl
who possessed the face of an angel and the heart of a fiend.”

I’d’ndering over the dark memories of the past, the olive-
faccd stranger descended into the street.

The girl, Molly Bawn, concealed in a neighboring doorway,
was eagerly awaiting him.

“Oh, Mister! come here, quick 1” she exclaimed, mysteri-
ously, as he came from the door of the tenement-house, and
she stuck close to the place of concealment as she spoke.

“ What’s the matter, Molly ?” he demanded, advancing
toward her.

“The cops! Come into the doorway, quick!” she cried,
with fiery energy; and as she spoke, she reached out her little
hand, as if to pull him into the darkness of the doorway.

'5‘ What of them?” he inquired, taking a position y her
s1 e. -

“ They’re artcr somebody, and I thought maybe that it was
you,” his little companion explained.

“ How do you know that they are after somebody l’”

“ Why, 1 sce‘d ’em l” was the confident reply.

“When?”

“Just arter you went inter that old barracks with that wo-
man. ’l‘wo of ’em came down the street, an’ they had a talk
right in front of here, an’ I know’d ’em. One of ’em was
Cap’n Murphy, an’ the other a p’liceman on this beat; an’
they’re arter somebody in that house—the one you went into,
an’ I thought maybe that it was you.”

“ I guess they are not after me,” the Doctor remarked; but
as he spoke, the thought came to him that he could easily tell
who the oilicers of justice were after if they sought some one
in the tenement-house which he had just quitted.

Then the idea occurred to him to warn the parties of whom
he guessed the ofiicers were in scnrch.

“ You are sure, Molly, that the police are after some one in
that house?” he said.

“ I bet you i” replied the girl, emphatically. “ I heered
Cap. Murphy say so when he passed by here. He p‘inted
right to that old barracks an’ sed, ‘He’s in the upper front
room,’ an’ then I didn’t hear no more l”

“ it is Dominick, then i"

The quick ears of the girl caught the muttered words.

“ Did you say Dominick?” she exclaimed, impulsively; “ an’
is it him they’re arter an’ not you?”

“ They are not after me, that‘s a sure thing,” he replied.

“ I bet you I‘m glad!" cried Molly. \

“ You know Dominick ?”

“ Yes, when I see him.”

" He’s in an upper front room in that house and sick; I’m
afraid that it is he the police are after.”

“ Why, what has he done ‘3" Molly asked, in wonder.

“ I don’t know that; but, Molly,l think we ought to let him
know the otlieers are after him.”

“That's so!" she exclaimed. “ S’pose I run up stairs an'
tell ‘etn that old Murphy is arter ’em ?”

“ Just what 1 was going to suggest,” the Doctor said. “ Do
£011“),in you can find the room? It’s on the upper floor

out.

val

 

fir?

‘1 know the one, I guess! I see’d a light in ital was
comin’ down the street.’

“Just knock at the door and tell Mrs. Dominick what you
heard; say that I sent you; say the Doctor—they’ll understand
who you mean." ‘

"I’ll do it up first rate!" cried Molly, ste ping down to the
sidewalk, but then in a second she hopped ack to her hiding-

lac again. '

“ t’s too late l" she cried. “ There’s the peelch on the
other Side of the street now."

The girl’s sharp eyes had detected the truth. 0n the op-
posite side of the street, approaching with measured steps,
were five men- four of the were the blue uniform of the
Mdtrop litan Igolicc, while t e fifth was clad in plain clothes.
guess a l crossed the street and halted in front of the tenement.-

ouse.

“ That bi man is old Murph ,” the girl said, in a whisper.

From the r concealment the octor and Molly commanded
a view of the squad, and were also near enough to hear their
conversation.

"I sit pose that we might as well go for him, right away,"
the pol ce captain said, addressing the gentleman in dark
clothes. who was one of the detectives from " Head-quarters."
‘ ” Yes; he’s tip-stairs, safe enough. I tracked his wife from
her father's place here, this evening, and I found out from one
of the people in the house that there was a young man with
blonde hair and mustache lived with his wife 11 the front
apartments, on the upper door. It’s our bird, fast enough."

;“ Do you suppose that he will ofler any resistance 1’” Murphy
as e( .

“I think not,” the detective replied. “ If Mickey Shea
spoke truth, he’s (pretty badly hurt."

“You and I hp better go up together; that will be enough,"
the police captain said.

“Just so,” and into the tenement-house went the omeers,
leaving the three “ Metropolitans ” on guard at the door.

 

C H A P T E R X I I .
'rnn wonxmousu.

Cnnrs'rornan Wannnomt was a man of sixty, a heavily-
built, gray-haired, pig eyed man, with a fat, unmeaning face,
always untidy-looking in his appearance, despite the are of
his two daughters; his necktie was never properly ad usted,
and his frowsy pepper-and-salt suit hung, baglike, upon him.

A decided character was the “ hard-handed workingman,"
as Walebone delighted to call himself.

Staggering up the street with uncertain steps, returning
from is accustomed haunt, the corner liquor store, Walebone
beheld his daughter and the young fishman seated so cozil
together upon the coal-box of the Dutchfrocer man. e
at once paused in his unsteady rogress an lifte both eyes
and hands to heaven as if appea ing for the clouds to fall and
hide the terrible sight from his view.

The girl regarded the movement in dismay. That panto
mime revealed to her the state of her father’s mind as plainly
as though he had expressed his ideas in words.

“ Oh, run, Billy 1” she exclaimed, nervously; “father don't
like to see you here, I know 1”

“ N ary run," responded the courageous youn fishman.
“ I ain’t afeard of t 9 old snoozer, if he is your d . I might
as well cheek it out now as any other time."

Then Walebone, who had halted a dozen yards or so away,
looked around him for a moment as if in search of something,
and a moment after lifted his nose high in the air as if in-
spired by intense d ust.

“ Oh, how it and s of fish 1" he cried, in aloud and senor
ous voice as though he was addressing his remarks to I crowd
assembled in the street and utterly ignoring the two who sat
on the coal-box side by side. “ Oh, how it does smell of
fish," he repeate ; “ of fish that are not fresh, and whose
rankness smells to heaven. Bah l”

The blood of Billy West boiled in his veins; the stubby
hair on his tightly-cropped head rose in indignation, and it
is more than probable that if the girl had not pressed the hand
of her lover within her own soft palm, the indignant fishman
zould have “gone " for the aged Walebone, there and
t en.

After he had- relieved his mind, Walebone again advancfi
and as he came close to the door of the house, he pretend
to see the couple on the coal-box for the first time. Imme-
diately he straightened himself up and bowed with stately
dignity to West, a salutation which that gentleman returned
in a very sulky manner.

“ if my eyes do not deceive me, I have the pleasure of be-
holding my esteemed friend, Mr. West," Walebone said, with
stolid ignity—” a merchant in the fish trade. Ah, Mr. West,
you do not visit my humble mansion often enough. Why
do you tot let us see more of you? ‘ Oh, Willy, we have
missed y m l' "

Considering that the oung fishman visited the lively daugh-
ter of the house of alebone seven nights aweek, on the
average, it will be seen that the stern parent of the fishman’s
love spoke sarcastlcally.

But, when it came to chopping, Jack was as good as his
master, and Billy West had not been brought up such; the
fish-boys of Fulton Market for nothluir.

 

 

Gentleman George. 11

 

 

" I’m very much obliged to you, I'm sure, Mr. Walebone,”
Bill retorted, with a great deal of mock respect; “ the fact
is, in kept so bus at my trade that I don’t have much time
to make calls in, at hereafter I’ll tr to come and see you
oftener, and I feel very much oblige to you for your kind
invitation."

Walebone gazed at the two for a moment, with a stolid
face, supporting himself by holding on to the doorway with
one Hand; he was not so much under the influence of liquor
gsonzt to understand that he had gotten the worst of the first

u

“ Artemisia, eldest and fairest bud now left of the Wale-
b0_ne stock, I have been thinking of making‘ ou a present,"
said the old man, slowly and ponderously. §ou have ever
been a dutiful daughter and you have always obeyed your
father‘s lightest wish in re ard to the company you keep.”
More sarcasm on the part 0 the a ed Walebone, which made
Billy grind his teeth, and fervent y wish that he could give
the old‘ soaker one lick “ for luck.” “ You have always
obeyed your father,” repeated the old man, “ your poor aged,
worked-out father, who is but as a worm trodden on by the
foot of the world—Who is a down-trodden workiugman, not
a bloated aristocrat, not even a wealthy fish-merchant,” (an-
other touch at Billy), “ but he is an honest man; though his
coat is ragged, it covers the heart of one of nature’s noble-
men. Iain a mechanic. I do'not blush to Own it—I am a
mechanic!" and Walebone gestieuiated wildly with one hand;
he had sense enough left to know that if he tried it with the
other he would lose his balance, so he clung tightly to the side
of the door. '

“ Where are you working now, anywa , old man?" put in
Billy, suddenly, much to the disgust o Walebone; but he
was equal to the occasion, and paid no attention to the inter-
ruption.

“.I am a workingman—a hard-handed son of toll l" ex-
claimed Walebdne, with a great deal of dignity, “ and despise
the bloated aristocracy who thrive on the life-blood of hard-
working men like me. But, a workin man has feelings, even
if he is ti-oddeh on. I love my chii ren, and, Artemisia, in
my hours of toil I think of you, and 1 have determined to
make you apresent. I am going to buy that coal-box that
you now‘ sit on from Dutch John, and give it to ou. For the
ast three years this eminent fish-merchant, r. West, and
you have sat on that Coal-box nearly every night, and I feel
Within my soul that you ought to own it.”

“ I’m wery much obliged to you i” exclaimed Billy, quick-
ly, “ but. as for me, if I want this here coallbox, I kin buy it
for myself Without axing any odds from any two-le ed ma
and if Dutch John don’t like my roosting on his 0 box, al
hes got to do is to spit out, and I‘ll bet two dollars and a hall
that if he opens his head to me, there’ll be the worst whipped
Dutchman round this block that ever was seen."

‘Artemisia, it is time for you to retire,” said the old man,
gravely, aylng no attention whatever to the excited flsh-
man. ‘f our poor father has come home, tired out by his
dad totl, and requires you to pull off his boots."

Tie daughter jumped down from the box and Billy fol-
lowed her example.

" Good-night, Billy,” said the girl, offering her ha , in
spite of the scowl upon the face of the old man, as he be eld
the‘sécitiork I

' _Y. rt . ’m goin tos kri htoutto theoid roosterl"
exSlsiined Bi’llg, in an Entierme togthe irl.

“ 01:. dyn’t. my I” she protested, hal frightened.

Whats the use of waitin t" the flshman demanded,in
remonstrance, and then he wa ked up to Walebone, who was
still ver steadylng himself by the door.

“ here. Mr. Walebone, Arty and me has his a-keepin'
company now for ’bout three years, and I think it’s about
time that we fixed things. Kin I have her? Bay!"

For a moment the old man glared upon the free-spoken
flshman, as though unable to comprehend his meaning, then
slowly he raised his hand toward the sk .

“ I can not i” he cried, with a wall or anguish, “ I can not
give my daughter to this fish-merchant. I could not fold her
to this hard-handed workinginan‘s heart, with the odor of
salt mackerel and stale porgies fresh upon her. I could not
look upon her face—her resh, young, innOCent face—and
think that she depended for her daily bread upon a man who
skins eels and opens clams for a living. I can not!" and then
the old man broke down in a torrent of sobs, much to Billy's
disgust and the dgirl’s alarm. “ I have set my heart upon her
marrying a liar -hsnded workingman like I am- a man who
earns his daily bread by the sweat of his brow. If she should
marry you, the very first time you drove your cart through
this street and cried ‘ clams, two shillin’ a hundred,’ my heart
Would break. _ Become a Workingman, like I am, and she's
yours; goodnight—Heaven bless you, though you are not a
iiciimilifi ioill" M b

i then the o ummer sta ed 1- ,
Billy “ mad ” and Artemisia sorroévgfrul. in me doo ’ suing

 

CHAPTER XIII.
'rna nrs'rnnr.

Till cool and self-possessed Business Manager looked at
the actress in utter astonishment. He had never seen her
excited .about anything beli-re. A woman of ice, holdin
her passions under an ron rule she was always calm m3

 

quiet; but, now, with her flashing eyes, quivering lips and
burning cheeks, she seemed like another being.

Medham came suddenly to the conclusion that he did not
real] know the woman, whom but a minute before he had
fancied be thoroughly understood.

Medham did not speak; he waited and watched.

For a minute or so the fiery beauty stood quivering with
passion in the center of the room; then, sudden] , catching
a look at herself in the mirror at the other end 0 the apart-
ment, a low laugh came from her lips, and, with a petulant
cry, she sunk back again into the chair from which she had
men.

The bouquet had rolled from her lap to the floor.

Medham rose as if to pick it up, but with a gesture the lady
restrained him.

“Let it stay there," she said, listlessly; “ sit down and tell
me all about this gentleman—what did you call his name ll”

Medham laughed.

“ Very well played indeed, Miss Desmond,” he exclaimed,
with a bow of mock politeness; “ but you can’t humbug me;
the pupil must not attempt to deceive the master. You will
do me the-justice to admit that I have taught you acting; so
don’t try acting upon me."

Medham resumed his seat, but his quick eyes notiCed the
contraction of the pupils of the brown-black eyes, and the pe-
culiar lines which appeared about the mouth.

Already the beautiful student chafed at the slightest touch
of the rein. _

“Well, I will not attempt to deceive you,” she said. “I
do remember the name of the gentleman. Now tell me all
about him."

“ I suppose he is not a stranger to ou, by the surprise my
announcement of his name caused,” edham said.

” The name is familiar to me,” the girl replied, evasively,
“ but whether the man is or not, is a question I can not an-
swer until I know something about him. Come, tell now,
that’s a dear, good fellow!”

“ I don’t really know a great deal about him," Medham an-
swered. “ I was introduced to him last night by one of our
managers, who merely said that he was one of the great men
of New York, very wealthy, and a great patron of the drama.
He’s one of the big guns in politics, has been a Judge, I be-
lieve; yes, I am sure that one of the gentlemen called him
Jud e, when we were drinking champagne together.”

“ 8 he married or single ?" asked the actress, abruptly.

“ A widower, I think," Medham replied, reflectively. “ I
remember that Palmer said the Judge had not been to the
theater for some time, on account of the death of his wife.”

The actress remained silent for quite a long time, while
Medham watched the expression upon her features, but he
could not read her thoughts; the face was as a blank to even
his sharp eyes.

“ Has he any children?” she asked, with evident interest.

“ No; I heard some one of the party mention that fact
and wonder to whom the Judge’s immense wealth would de-
scend at his death.”

“ Now describe him to me," she demanded, in a tone that
distinctly betrayed some eagerness.

“ He’s a man of fifty or thereabouts, I should say, altho h
he shows ver few signs of age; not a gray hair visible,i I
remember aright; large and portly in form, full face, yellow
mustache and hair, and a pair of full blue eyes.”

“ It is he I” the actress murmured to herself.

“ Does the description answer?” the other inquired.

“ Yes, I think so, although I have not seen him for years,”
she made answer.

It was now Medham’s turn to look astonished.

“ For years, eh ?"

“ Yes; if it is the same.”

“ You must have been quite young then."

“Yes; I was a child.”

The lip of the actress curled contemptuoust as she spoke.
Medham could not understand the reason for it. The whole
matter was a puzzle to him.

“Now, tell me what he said about me," she demanded,
abru tly.

“ ery little to me," Medham re lied.

The actress looked disappointe .

“ He only said that you were a very talented young lady,
and that there was a very bright future in store for you if you
persevered in your profession.”

“That is what they all say," the “ bright particular star"
exclaimed in contempt.

“ But Palmer told me before I met the Judge that he was
very much impressed with on, and had ordered one of the
lower boxes to be reserved or him every night during your
enga ement.”

“ hat is a compliment.”

“ Yes; not only a compliment, but good hard, solid cash,"
re lied the Business Manager, with an eye to the main chance;
“ wish that a half a dozen of your other admirers would do
the same thing.”

“ How much was in the house last night i" the actress
asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“ Guess!”

“ Twelve hundred dollars 1‘”

The Business Manager whistled.

“ My dear, you mustn’t imagine that every one that come!
in front pays for it.”

“ I allowed for a large number of dead-heads, for they
said on the stage that there must be from fiheen to eighteen
hundred in."

 

12 Gentleman George.

 

 

“ The people on the stage are generally had judges.”

“ But how much was there ?”

“ Eight hundred dollars—a few dollars over that; I forget
exactly how much.”

“ That is not so bad,” the lady said, thou htfully.

“ No, not after playing in the West for grout fifty to three
hundred per night.”

h“ We shall make some money out of this engagement,
t en 2’”

“ Yes, a couple of thousand dollars at the least.”

“ There is money on the stage, then?”

“ For one out of a thousand,” replied Medham, dryly;
” the rest make a bare living."

“ About this Mr. Bruyn.”

“ Well, what of him? ’ demanded the Manager, surprised at
the sudden question.

“ He did not speak as if he had ever seen me before i'”

“ N o,” replied Medham, much astonished at the question.

“ Or that I reminded him of any one?"

u N0.”

" Ah.”

Now Medham’s curiosity was excited.

“ But haVe you ever met this gentleman before?” he asked.

The actress appeared to be astonished at the question.
“ Why, what should put that into your head ?”

“ From what you have said about him, you appeared to be
acquainted with him—at least one would t ink so.”

“ You do not seem to understand that I might know a
great deal about a gentleman occupying a prominent posi-
tion in the world—as this gentleman does—and et notbe
personally acquainted with him,” she replied, quiet y.

Medham understood at once that he was not to ask'any
more questions in regard to the matter.

“ If he wants an introduction shall I give it to him f" said
the Manager.

“ Yes,” replied the actress, promply.

“ All right.” Mudham took up his hat to leave. “I so ,
Nell, if you should happen to fascinate the Judge, that won d
bcthtitfer than acting. What a shine you could cut as his
w: e

The girl’s lip curled in contempt.

“ That can never be."

Her words were decided, and Medham departed, consider-
able mystified.

C H A PTE R X I V.
'rnn mth’s swoon

UP the narrow stairs of the tenement-house Captain Mur-
phy and the detective from head-quarters proceeded with
cautious steps; not that they feared alarming the man whom
they were after, but the entry was dark and the turnings
abrupt.

“ I suppose that I ma as well have my revolver ready in
case resista ice is offered, ’ Murphy whispered.

“Hardly necessary, captain,” the detective replied; “ the
man is too badly wounded to try that game.”

“But if there should be any of the gang there f” Murphy
suggested.

“ Not likely,” replied the detective, tersely.

“ They’re a rough Set—river rats, you know; knock a man
in the head almost as soon as look at him. I’ve had my eyes
on the gang fora long time, but have never been able to get
one dead to rights, yet."

“I’ve got the Rats this time,” the detective exclaimed, in a
tone that betrayed a great deal of satisfaction.

“ That’s more than any other man ever could say,” the
police captain remarked. “ I wonder how you contrived to
get the crowd in a hole f"

“ A little streak of luck and a quick following of the luck
up,” the gentleman from head-quarters rejoined, complacent-
ly. “ You see, the Englishman reported the loss of the dia-
mond jewelry at head-quarters, about midnight, and the re-
port of the fight between the harbor force and the thieves
reached there about the same time. From the description I
jumped at once to the conclusion that some of the East-side
gang had a hand in the affair, although it was really a cut above
their way of doing business; more in the bank-robber style.
I started on the scent at once, and by three o’clock in the
morning I had a clue to the man I wanted. I ran across a
dock-thief down by Catherine Market who used to run with
this Mickey Shea, but has been out with him for some time,
for some ill-treatment on Mickey’s part, and of course m
bold laddie was only too glad to ‘give Mickey away.’ 0
told me that he had seen Mickey and another one of his gang
about twelve o’clock, going up Market street, supporting a
man between them, who was either very drunk or badly
wounded. As luck would have it, he knew the man, too,
one George Dominick. I guessed at once that it was our
Gentleman George, and saw that I was on the right track.
The sergeant ol' the police-boat reported that he believed one
of the ltats to he wounded in the skirmish on the river. I
understood the trick. Dominick, down on his luck, had hap-
pened to learn in some way, of the diamonds that the Eng-
lishman had, and had gone in with Mickey Shea and his
crowd to relieve the Briton of the sparklers As I told you,

 

the moment I heard of the affair, l knew that it was too nice
a stroke of business for any of the common river-thieves. So
after receiving this information I went for Mickey Shea in-
stanter, and by five o’clock I had the bracelets on him and
my gentleman safely jagged. He stood out for a long time
that he was as innocent as a baby in regard to the whole at-
fair, and that he had never seen, heard, or even dreamed of
any such man as George Dominick. But the Superintendent
and the District Attorney got hold of him, and now he
' squealed,‘ and gave the whole thing away."

. “ Made a clean breast of it, eh i” the captain said, listen-
ing intently to the recital as he climbed the stairs after the
astute detective.

“ Yes, only he either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell where Domi-
nick was concealed.”

“ But the woman fixed him i" the captain exclaimed, tri-
umpbantly.

“ Yes, but if Mickey hadn’t eached, I should never have
thought of a man like Dominic being concerned in such a
job as this one."

“ It will be something of a feather in your cap to lug
Gentleman George by the heels,” said the captain, in a reflec-
tive manner.

“ You can bet your bottom dollar on that,” the detective
answered, complacently. “ It will be the first time that the
steel bracelets have ever closed on his delicate wrists. He's
been a deuced luck fellow, but the pitcher, you know, will
get broken at last; at here we are l”

The two men halted in front of a door from the transom
over which came a dim li ht.

The hunters had tracke their prey to its lair, but now hesi-
tated to enter. Did they fear that, tiger-like, the human
quarry would turn and rend them i

Softly, and with smothered voices, the two had ascended
the stairs and stolen along the entry.

“ Shall I kick the door in t” Murphy whispered in the ear
of the other.

“ No; wait.”

The detective stooped and applied his ear to the key-hole,
but the key being still in the lock prevented him from view-
ing the interior of the room. -

“ Curse the key l” muttered the detective, as he rose from
his stooping fiasture, and as he did so, he came in violent
Sontact wrth urphy, who had approached quite close to the

cor.

“ Blazes, you’ve made my nose bleed, I believe i" Murphy
growled, ruefully rubbing his nose with his hand.

Sli ht as had been the noise of the collision, it was plain
that it had attracted the attention of some one within, for
they could plainly hear the rustic of a woman’s dress and a
light footfa 1 moving tow'ard the door.

“ She has discovered nit—Dominick’s wife, I suppose," the
detective whispered.

“Better knock and see if she will open; if not, smash the
lock in,” Murphy suggested.

The detective gave a thundering rap at the door.

N 0 answer came from within. .

Again the detective beat his iron-like knuckles against the
pang, but elicited no response.

“ t me try my foot at it," Murphy said. “ One good kick
will smash the lock right. in."

The detective stepped aside, and Murphy, bracing himself,
dashed his foot violently against the door.

The heavy sole striking just above the lock the door darted
wide open as if by magic.

Within the room George Dominick lay, extended on a bed,
while Hero, his wife, stood in the center of the apartment, a
cocked and leveled revolver in her hand.

Both Murphy and the detective were brave men, used to
facing dan er in a thousand shapes; but both hesitated when
the behel the woman. There was something in her eyes
wlnlfh said “ shoot,” as plainly as though the word had been
spo en.

Just a second or two the tableau lasted, but Dominick rais-
ing his head from the pillow, and catching sight of the do-
tective, broke the silence.

“ Jim Lane, eh i” and then with a look of despair, the
wounded man sunk back a sin on his bed.

“ Sorry to trouble you, eorge, but I’ve come for you,” the
detective said, blandl .

“ How do you do, rs. Dominick 2" said 'Captain Mur by,
persuasively. “ I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you s nos
your marriage."

Still the woman held the leveled weapon at the poise; still
the word danger was written on her face.

“ I suppose you understand, George, that it is useless to of-
fer any resistance,” the detective remarked.

“ Yes,” with a sullen groan. “ Drop your hand, Hero, dear.
It’s no use making any trouble. I couldn’t run even if you
win ed both of these hawks.”

urphy lqoked decidedly uncomfortable at the thought. 1

“ Have you a warrant for her too?" George asked, as Hero
quietly let down the hammer oi the revolver and thrust the
weapon into her pocket.

“ No; for you alone,” the detective replied. “ We‘ve got
you this time; Mickey has given you away.”
h“Gleorge ground his teeth together, and a groan came flour

is Ips.

An hour later and the Tombs prison held Gentleman Georgo.‘

.__.....,I. A

Gentleman George. 13

 

 

CHAPTER XV.
NEIL summon.

A QUARTER to eight, and the large and magnifiCent theater
known as Niblo’s Garden was twoéthirds full, and the people
were still pouring into it.

One of the mana era-a dapper, plump, jolly-looking gen-
ili'llliln with a Non e mustache—and Miss Desinond’s busi-
lit-as agent, Medliam, stood near the bouquet-stand, in the
i'i'otit lobby.

“ They are coming in pretty fast,” Medham remarked,
with a look at his watch; “it wants a quarter to ‘ringing—
up ' time.”

“ Yes; We’ve got ’em,” the manager replied, complacently,
carefully twisting the ends of his weil~waxed mustache.
" Friday night is a bad night, too; we’ll have a house to-
morrow night that ‘will make you open your eyes. This is a
little different from playing in the Western barns which they
callopera-houses, isn’t it?’

“ Yes, rather."

“ When we et a house here it means twelve hundred to
two thousand ollars. Hallo, there’s the J udge—Bruyn, you
know ; I introduced you to him the other night."

The Judge, with a party of three gentlemen, attended by
a colored servant, was just at that moment passin through
the lobby on his wayto the private box that he ad taken
for “ Miss Desmond’s nights,” to use the booking term.

The colored servant carried a large bundle, wrapped up in
white paper, carefully in his hands.

“Bouquets,” said the manager, with a laugh, referring to
the parcel that the colored servant bore; “ the Judge is a
gireat theater-goer, but I never saw him so interested before.

edham, my boy ”-—-and the manager patted him softly on
the back—“ there's nothing like a pretty woman to fetch em;
talent is all very well, but f talent is ugly, talent won’t draw,
and we run theaters to make mone .”

And then the mana er paused n his observations to bow
to an olive-faced, we] :huilt gentleman, dressed entirely in
W301i. who chanced to pass just at that moment.

‘ Hallo, who’s that f” exclaimed Medham, attracted at once
by the stranger. “ He looks like a cross between a Spanish
popes and a leading tragedian."

DO you notice what a remarkable resemblance he bears to
the pictures of the Napoleon family f” asked the manager,
WP}! 108 t0 One question by askin another.

“ Yes; that is what suggeste the Spanish prince; he
looks too deuced solemn to suit my ideas of a Frenchman.”

“ He’s a wealthy New Yorker—lives up-town somewhere;
I methim first, years ago, in Paris, across the water. He was
studying medicine then."

“ h, a doctor 1"

“ es, but he doesn’t practice, I believe; he’s enormously
wealth ; an uncle died and left him a California gold mine;
I hear the story long time ago.”

“ What's his name!”

“ Neil J emmison.” _

And leaving the manager and the agent of the “ star" to
watch the people coming into the theater, and to speculate as to
how much money they would take that ni ht, we will follow
the,dark-faced stranger, who moved amid the butterflies of
fashion—the daintilyrdressed youn gentlemen with roses in
their buttonholes and carefully-oile locks parted in the center
—-like a very king; not one by accident of birth, but one of the
brawny-sinewed rulers of the olden time, who clutched their
scepter With the stron arm and maintained it by dint of
mi ht, backed by a cunn a brain.

own along the night- and lobby Neil Jemmison saun-
tered, until he came tp the third door from the stage. Being
open, it commanded both a view of the stage and the vast
auditorium, now a sea of heads.

The orchestra had just commenced their ovorturs, and the
curtain had not yet risen. ,

Jemmison leaned against the side of the door and listlessly
surve ed the “ house.” We use the term in its theatrical sense
mean g, not the building, but the people in it. '

And as Jemmison—the inheritor of the California gold
mine, as the chatty manager characterized it—leaned against
the side of the door, cold and calm as an iceberg two short-
haired, bullet-headed young men in the lower circle opposite.
dressed rather fiashtly and evidently in the theater strictly on
business—in the pick .ket line—and not for amusement,
caught sight of the tal , lithe figure framed in the open door»
we

y.

“ Oh, Bob 1” cried one to the other and n h
elbow, “ if there ain't the ' Doctor,’ aii‘ dredgei 1&2“. Tp'ohrtlil'g.

The other took a good look and became satisfied that the
dark-faced gentleman in the doorwa was indeed the man
who, in the slums of the East Side, been known 3 « Th.
Doctor.”

“ I nose that he’s here on business too,” and then the second
ni ht- iad grinned Ftltha first.

he s arp e es 0 t e two representatives fro street
had detected t e truth. m w‘m
q‘eil Jemmison and the Doctor were one.
he overture ended—the curtain rose.

Jemmison, like the rest of the audienm, turned his atten-
tiou to the stage.

The is progressed, the story began to slowly unfold it-
self, an t en, after due preparation, the “star of the even.
ing " made her up earance—habited as an Indian girl, adaugh-
ter of the great omanche nation-t0 a wild burst of music
from the orchestra

 

A “round” of applause came from the vast audience and
half a dozen bouquets fell at her feet—one elegant bouquet
coming from the box on the left, occupied by Judge Bruyn
and his friends.

The actress bowed her thanks, gathered up her floral
tro bios, and the play proceeded.

. emmison, who had sauntered into the theater for an hour's
amusement, not knowing what was to be played or who was
to play it, had listened to the opening dialogue in his curt-less,
listless way, but on the appearance of Miss Ellen Desmond his
manner had undergone a wonderful change.

At first he had started and stared at the stage, and all the
time that the vast audience were applauding and the actress
was bowing her thanks, picking up her bouquets and dc-
positing them on the table whereon reposed the buffalo—
tongue, the supposed product of the young Indian girl’s ritie,
he had been rubbing his eyes and staring at the beautiful girl
with her long raven tresses ; Miss Desmond wore an “ Indian
wig " over her own fair locks to carry out the idea of the
dau hter of the prairie.

“ y Heaven! it is the woman, or else I am going mad l”
he muttered, between his firm-set teeth. “ But her hair was
not as dark as that, nor as long.”

Then the thought of the stage disguises came to him.

“ Oh, what a fool I am; it is a wig she wears; her own
brown tresses are underneath. The man who would put
such a strange incident as this into a novel would he laughed
at, and yet it is reality. The woman that I have searched
for amid all the low haunts of crime in this great city—whom
I imagined that I would find poor, depraved, a wreck of
what she formerly was, flashes before me on the stage of one
of the leading theaters of New York, the star of the night—-
the magnet which has drawn a couple of thousand people
together, more beautiful, younger looking—more fascinating,
more,dangerous than when I first met her, some twenty years
a 01’

8And, by the time Jemmison had come to the end of his un
spoken speech, the actress opened her mouth and spoke.

f the “Doctor” had been astonished at the sight of the
young and beautiful Miss Desmond, he was no less surprised
when the tones of her voice fell upon his car.

A ain he stared blankly at the stage, then he passed his
hand over his forehead and endeavored to call back the sound
of the voice of the woman, who, twenty years ago, had been
(tie him as the guardian-angel who held ajar the gates of Para-

me.

The face astounded him and the voice perplexed him.

The face was familiar to him; he would have recognized
it among a thousand, but the voice—if he had heard it com-
ing from an adjoining apartment and had not seen the speaker,
he would willingly have sworn that the owner of the voice
was a stranger to him.

“ What can this meant” he muttered, in agitation. “ Am
I mad or dreaming it”

CHAPTER XVI.
THE ROSEBUD.

Tm! speech of the Indian girl was ended ' it was a “ tell-
ing” s eech—stage parlance again—full of flowers, freedom
—and athos. Again the audience had signified appreciation
of that sort of thing coming from a pretty woman.

Jemmison was in a maze; clear, cool-headed fellow that he
was, his brain was in a whirl.

Again he looked upon the sweet, fresh young face of the
actress—an Indian girl, white as pearly water-lily; such little
inconsistencies are the charm of the drama—and as he look-
ed he was sure that it was the face of the woman who had
pillowed her head upon his breast, who had been the mother
of his child, but who had wedded herself to evil, and plung-
in into the world, had disappeared beneath the great life-
ti e as suddenly and completely as the poor wretch who
seegrs the dark waters of the rolling wave to find forgetfulness
an rest.

But when she s oke, his heart answered not to the voice;
it was the tones o a stranger that he listened to.

“ Years change voices as well as faces,” he muttered.
“Time, that has spared her angel-face, may have worked its
will upon her voice, and yet, the voice of this woman is like
liquidmusic. 80, too Lina’s voice was pleasant to the ear,
but far less stron , an with a different ring to this one.”

Intently Jemmison watched the progress ofthe play. Every
look, every action of the woman he recognized, and when
shyly, durin the course of the scene, she withdrew herself
from the em race of her lover, the gallant young American
gold-hunter—represented by a mature gentleman o forty, with
the obesity of an inn-keeper, and a Voice like the roar of a
bass-drum—Jemmison remembered how often in the old time,
before the wedding-ring had s anned her finger, she had acted
in a like manner with him. he coyness was séting then, as
now, and the darkefaCed man ground his teeth violently as
the thought came to him.

When she was silent he was sure that the actress, Ellen
Desmond, was the woman whom he had known, years before,
as Lina Aton; but when she spoke, he doubted.

The end of the scene came. and the actress disappeared—
amid a burst of applause, as usual.

Then, losing at 'i terest in the mimic scene, Neil Jemmison
cast his eyes to the floor and meditated.

 

‘

14

Gentleman George.

 

 

" Is it, or is it not?" he muttered; like all men who are
solitary in their natures, Jemmison Communed much with
himself. “ Shall I satisfy my curiosity, or, now that I am al
most certain that I am face to face with the woman that]
have sought, shall I pause and not convince in self?”

Long he pondered over the question, but at ast he decided.

“I’ll satisfy myself,” he said, shutting his lips firmly to-
gether. “ Teaching, thorough culture, may have produced
the change in the voice; besides, sometimes the who in sing-
ing sounds altogether different from the same in speaking; it
may be the same effect here. I will get nearer the sage;

erhap’s 1 shall be able to decide, if I am close to the foot~

i lits.’ ,

gJemmison left his position by the door and walked through
the lobby until he came to the door nearest the stage. Open-
ing it, he found that he was within some twenty feet of the
magic circle of lights which guarded the realm of the buskined

ueen.

q Four or five young men, elaborately “ got up,” with flowers,
kids and perfumery, were gathered in a little knot just inside
the door.

Jemmison, tall and stately, clad in complete black, leaning
carelessly against the side of the doorway, appeared like a
prince surrounded by a train of bowin courtiers.

Standing as Jemmison did, he cou d not help overbearing
the conversation of the knowing young gentlemen who com.
prised the group.

“ Say, Fred, did you see that bouquet that the Judge threw
the little girl?” asked one of the young men, addressing the
one next to him. I

“ I bet you i” replied the other, languid] ; “ it must have
cost ten dollars if it cost a cent. Hang it what chance can
us tellers stand, if a swell like old Bruyn is going to enter for
the race? He owns about a dozen banks. I tell you what,
fellers, this chicken don’t throw away any more stamps on
bouquets while that old monster over there is around.”

By this time Miss Desmond was on the stage again, and
Jemmison, looking over at the box opposite, attracted by the
coaversaiion that he had overheard, could not help noticing
how visibly Nicholas Bruyn seemed to be impressed by the
looks or talents—or both combined—of the actress. And
watching the stage closely, too, as well as the occupants of
the box, Jemmison, old theater-goer as he was, could not help
noticing that the pretty actress played more directly to the
private box than she did to the audience in front.

“ Is it possible that she has fascinated a man like Bruyn i”
Jemmison asked, again communing with himself. The Judge
was well known to Jemmison. He knew his iron nature, and
wondered that any woman could cast a spell over him. “ It
is such women as this fairofaced demon that make men
ruin themselves, and then laugh at the mischief they have
wrought."

Closely and carefully J emmison watched the stage until the
tableau at the end of the first act came, and the curtain do»
scended. ’Then he went to the stand in the front lobby and
procured an opera-glass.

“ This may enable me to penetrate the illusion that art has
cast around her, and to decide whether she is the woman that
I think she is or not," he muttered, as he sauntered along
through the lobb to his old position. '

Regaining his ormer station, he pondered over the memory
of the past.

“ If it Were not for the child, I would let the woman‘go,”
he murmured; “but I can not forget the child. I must learn
whether it is livin or (lead. True, I have this r little wait
that I~have picks out of the gutter as it were, at still I can
iiot.pf’?atisfied until I learn the fate of the other; and learn it

Wi .

The music ended, the curtain rose on the second set. First
came a long scene between the villain of the lay, the Spanish
commandante, and the guileless Mexican gir ; t on come Misn
Desmond again, and this time amid the raven tresses of her
long hair, she wore a half-open white rosebud, evidently se-
lected from one of the numerous bouquets that had been be-
stowed upon her during the first act.

Jemmison, who had been watching both the actress and the
Judge, through his opera-glass, detected the flush of pleasure
that came over the massive face of the Judge as he noticed the
rosebud in the raven hair.

“ He takes it as a signal to him,” Jemmison muttered.
“ But is the web that this woman can weave strong enough to
hold so big a fly as Judge Nicholas Bruyn i”

A question which time alone could answer. .

Medham had come round, tit the end of the first act, with
the cheering intelligence to Miss Desmond that there was over
a thousand dollars in the house, and he had also asked her if
she had noticed that Mr. Bruyn was in the box.

At which the actress had laughed and pointed dgnificantly
to the rosebud which she was weaving in amid her hair.

“ From him, eh i” Mcdham inquired.

“ Yes; do you think that I would wear it else 1” she asked,
scornfully.

“ It’s a splendid idea i” the man of buainess exclaimed, rub-
him.r his hands together, leefully. “ Every man in front that
throw you a bouquet willgimagiue that that rosebud came from
his bouquet. It’s a magnificent ideal” Then the manager
withdrew.

The actress felt that she had never played better; she tried as
she had never tried before; and yet, in all that vast audience,
she only cared to gain the applause of one man ; and how her
heart swelled with triumph as she watched hisfsos sndssw ll
kindle under the influence of her srt.

 

What power like acting to make a vast audience .sugn or
weep at bare command?

And then, right in the full flush of her triumph,just as she
felt that the world was at her feet, begging that her dainty
slipper be placed upon its neck ; Ijust as she turned away from
the handsome features of the mil ionaire Judge, a face, so cold
and stern that it chilled the life-blood in her veins, rose out
of the vast sea of heads before her as distinct as thou h the
great audience had but one face, and that face was 0 one
that frighted her.

 

CHAPTER XVII.
A woman’s Donors.
'f‘rm fright of the actress lasted but for a second, and then

‘ her self-possession returned to her, and she went on with her

speech.

That brief hesitation was noticed, both b those engaged in
the business of the stage and the vast au ience in front, but
none (guessed its cauSe except the dark-faced gentleman, who
leane against the side of the doorway, motion ess as a marble
statue.

The actress played with s strange and fiery energy now, and
ever and anon a hectic flame burned in her cheeks, paling the
color of the vermilion with whichihe art of her dressing-maid
had adorned her as a corrective of the yellow, ghastly glare
cast by the footlights.

The second act followed the first- the third the second,
and then the curtain descended, vailing the face and ii
of the actress, and the audience began to pour out of the es-
ter.

Jemmison, still undecided and uncertain, followed the
throng. Acting upon a sudden impulse, he proceeded at once
to the back-door of the theater on‘ Crosby street.

A little crowd of people were hanging around the portal
which gave entrance to the charmed precincts of the stage,
and a c ose one-horse carriage was drawn up near by.

The little knot of people around that bac -door 0 the theo-
ter were composed of some half-a-dozen of the young gentle-
men who usually make themselves so conspicuous in the front
of the house, and six or eight half-grown boys, the ode of the
glallery, all intent upon seeing the performers in t eir street-
c othes.

Pushing his way boldly through the throng, Jemmison
walked up to the deer and entered the narrow passage-way
which led into the interior of the building.

A bluff, hearty old fellow, in shirt-sleeves, guarded the en-
trance. '

“ Is it possible to see Miss Desmond i” Jemmison asked.

The doorkeeper surveyed the questioner fbr-a moment; saw
at a glance that he was different from the usual run of gentle-
men who besie e the back-door to see favorite actresses, and
civil% replied t at it was not possible.

“ ill a five-dollar bill aid me in any we r” Jemmison in-
anired. “ I thought that I reco izsd t e lady from the

out of the theater, and I should ike to satisfy myself who-
ther she is really the person I think she is or not.”

“ It's no use m taking your money, sir,” the door-keeper
said, honestly. “ f I’were to let you go inside, you would
Only be turned out by the first person you met, for the
would detect in an instant that you were s stranger. t
would cost me in situation, too, and without doing you sny
good. You e'oul n’t see Miss Desmond even if on were in-
side. She’s in the dressing-room, now, and afters e is dressed
she will go right home in her carriage.”

“ Is that her carriage standing outside!” Jemmison sskod.

"Yes,‘slr.”" " ' ‘ ' ‘ - "

“ 1 am much obliged for the information.”

“ Not'at all, sir,” replied the door-keeper, civilly, snd then
Jemmison retired. "

Outside the door, he took I: a position on the curbstono
near the carriage, a little apart rom the knot of loungers who
were watching the door.

The people concerned on the stage began to issue from the
back-door, and depart for their homes.

First came the scene-shifters and “fly-men ”--the work-
men who sttend to the borders suspended over the stage,
representing the sky, drapery, etc; after them came the su-
pernumeraries—the ambitious youn gentlemen who seek, in
slowly way, to sin some knowie gs of‘the histronic art;
then the ladies o the corps do ballet, one by one and two by
two, ill-paid and bsdl dressed,‘ hurrying to their humble
homes; then the prom nent people, the actors and actresses,
began to come forth; their dresses,‘being more elaborate, re-
quired more time for their removal.

Foil twenty minutes Jemmison had waited and yet ssw no
signs of Miss Desmond, but the carriage still remained.

“ As ion as that stays I am safe to wait,” the watcher rs
fiected, as e noticed the dark forms emerging from the door,
one b one. “ Naturally it will take her some time to dress;
s hal an hour is not too long a time to allow." -

And just as Jemmison had made up his mind that it would
be fully ten minutes more before the woman would come for
whom he waited, a bright, sharp-looking lad came out of the
back-door, went up e drivar 'of the carriage, snd ssid
something to him in s low tone, and then went back in-
to the theater. '

Gentleman George. 15

 

 

The man on the box of the carriage took up his reins,
whistled to his horse and drove off up the street.

Jeunmson Was somewhat astonished at this movement.

“ She will not use the carriage to-night then," be mut-
tered; “that is strange. Can it be possible that she has dis-
coVei-ed, in some wa ,, that I am here, and thus seeks to throw
me of! the scent? y Heavenl [am sure now that she is the
woman; Ellen Desmond is Lina Aton!"

Then a sudden thought occurred to him.

“ Perhaps she has ordered the carriage round to the front
of the theater!" he exclaimed; “ that is easily ascertained 1”

So, without loss of time, Jemmison hurried round to Broad-

wa .

’{wo or three carriages stood in front of the hotel and near
to the entrance of the theater, but a single glance told Jemmi~
son that the vehicle he sought was not among them ; all were
two-horse coaches; the modest little one-horse coups of the
actress was not there.

“I am outwitted l" Jemmison muttered, as he stood in
that of the new dark and desolate theater entrance; “but,
the very precaution that she has taken to avoid me roves
that'iny suspicion is correct. She is the woman that think
she is. The whole proceeding is strange; she must have
discovered that I Was in front of the house and anticipated
that I would disbever and lay in wait for her. I swore to
her once that, if she ever played me false, I would kill her
with as little-mercy as though she was a snake coiled in my
path with head upraised to strike. Perhaps she remembers
my words and fears that I will attempt to make them good,”
find”. Is he spoke, Jemmison laughed bitterly to himself.

His meditations were disturbed by the rruption of some
half a dozen young men from the saloon attached to the
hotel. They gathered on the pavement right in front of hi
shd‘Jemmlson'discovei-ed that it was the same party who ha
Is in front of him in the theater. _

hm plainly evident the young men had been drink‘
more strong liquor than was good for them, and that midi,
weak heads were now in a sad state.

J“ I am done for, Gus l" exclaimed one of them, who seem-
ed to be a sort of leadin spirit, and who was elaborately at-

in a costume of wh‘ ch a light yellOw overcoat and a red
no tie were the leadin features. ‘ goose is cooked l"

‘ he tone of the gen eman with the red necktie was des-
pairing in the extreme. '

“ But is it a sure ’nuii' fact, Fred?” demanded another, who
w endeavoring to steady himself by the aid of a cane about
sh ground as a lead-pencil.

" on can bet stamps on it i" replied the first speaker, em-

'phatically.

“ "Oh, I loved her and she might have been the happiest is the land,
Bagging away with Bruyn the lawyer. who earns with a German
‘

howled the youth, discordantiy and disc‘onsolately.

aha name of Bruyn attracted Jemmison’s attention to the
m diin tittethqu dfthe devotees of fashion.

" Who saw. her go, sumac" asked another of the party,
whcwas holdi up‘ the l- ard in front of the saloon with
the small 'of his' k, and who, by this simple device, was ena-
bled to preserve a N; it right carriage.

“ I saw it, myself, u d the red necktie entlcman. “ I
came to the  here, after that first cocktai , while you fel-
lers were chinnin' it inside, and I saw old Em and Palmer
talking together, and then Medham—that’s iss Desmond‘s

t', on know—came out and joined them. I heard him

, ‘ a minute, she's nearly dressed,’ and then he went

in a sin. Oh, gents, when I hard that, and saw that old

title of a lawyer waiting for the woman that I was willin to

W' all my'dals‘mn, I felt as if I would have liked to

masseuse“ for ' -I stood right here, goats and saw

the woman that I adore into a carriage with bruyn and

Palmer, and that sneak o a businessaagcnt who protubed the

“introduction toner, and. saw 'em 0 off—heard old Bruyn
tell the coachman to drive ’em to the siscn Dares."

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
m smut.

As the curtain touched the stage and the actress rose from
are mimic couch of death, wherecn the Indian girl had yield-
ed up her life to the deadly bullet of the Spanish comman-
dame, she found Medham awaiting her at the wing.

lie followed the exhausted girl to her dressing-room where
the n as was in attendance.

Ml Desmond sunk down breathlesst into a chair.

“ Splendid l” exclaimed Medham, enthusiastically. " I
never saw you act better than you did to-night. We’ll get ’em
to-morrow night. I wouldn’t take fifteen hundred dollars
cdh down for the house this minute. Don’t you remember,
I told'youwhen you were playin in those beastly little one
not» towns, to fifty dollars a n t, that the time would come
when we’d pull ‘em to the tune of a thousand? and after this
any: ' , out we can sweep the whole country, my dear; these
cons of managers wil change their note now. I tell you
Mam-ts, levellest of your sex, there’s nothing in this world
so successful as success."

" Oh, I am tired," the actress murmured, as she removed
the ralen wig from her head. exposing he own golden

 

“Palmer is delighted; he declared that business will
still better next Week. He’s going to put out two lll0ll881‘lh
extra sheets of printing Saturday night, and I‘ve engaged
three men to go and chalk your name on the pawments til]
over the city, so that when New York wakes up Sunday
morning it will see nothing but the name Desmond staring
them in the face.”

The lip of the actress curled in contempt.

“ If I am as talented and attractive as they say I am, I do
not see why the people will not come to see me without all
this advertising.”

“You‘ve got to do it, my dear; you can’t hide your light
under a bushel, now-a-days, and expect people to see it.
Placard on every dead wall, and in every newspaper, that
Miss Ellen Desmond is the greatest actress that ever was or
ever will be, and two-thirds of the people who come into the
theater, and pay for coming, will be perfectly satisfied that
she is, before the curtain goes up and they see her at all. The
peeple who pay come to be amused, and it doesn’t take much
to please them, either; and as for the critics, they are a set of
donkeys who wouldn’t know good acting if they saw it."

Miss Desmond laughed ; she knew the business manager's
contempt for the men whom’he so cleverly used to advance
his own interests.

“ Well, I’ll say what I came to say, and then get out and let
you dress,” Continued Medham. “Mr. Palmer presents his
compliments to you and would like to have the pleasure of

our company at a little supper as soon as you are ready; and
re would like also to present to you an esteemed friend of his,
Judge Bruyn, if you have no objections.”

The eyes of the actress flashed, and the hot breath came
quick and strong from the parted lips.

“ The Judge will make one of the party, then f" she asked.

“ Yes; there will only be Palmer, the Judge, and myself."

“ I will go, of course!” she exclaimed, with quick decision.

“ I tell you it’s a clear case,” and Medham winked at the
actress. “If you play your cards well, it will be the most
successful engagement of your life.”

“ Do you think so ?”

Absently she spoke, and the fair brow was clouded over
with thought.

Little did the business agent, Almer Medham, know in re
gard to the past life of the actress, Ellen Desmond.

“I’ll tell Palmer that you will come as soon as on are
dressed. Do on want the carriage to go home in? cu can
have it as well' as not i”

Medham addressed the negress.

“ N o, t’ank you, Massa Medham; I‘d rather walk,” the ser-
vant replied.

“ All right; I'll send the carriage off, then. The Judge has
his own vehicle outside, two stunning blacks, gold-mounted
harness, and all that sort of thing. I’ll tell Palmer that you‘ll
go and then come back after you.”

Medham withdrew. With the assistance of the negress,
Miss Desmond proceeded to discard her fanciful Indian dress
and array herself in a walking-garb. Plain and dark was the
suit, a somber contrast to her own bright beauty.

Dressed within fifteen minutes from the time that Medham
had left, on opening the door of her dressing-room, she found
that that gentleman was in attendance.

Together the two proceeded through the now deserted
theater to the front of the house, where the manager and the
Jud s were waiting in the vestibule.

ith the urbane gallantry so characteristic of him, the
mana er introduced the actress to Judge Bruyn.

Mo estly with quiet retirement, Miss Desmond acknow
lodged the Judge's expressions of pleasure at making her so-
quaintance.

And as the little party passed from the vestibule of the
theater to the carriage in waiting, at the curbstone, the Judge
got a good look at the features of the actress. If Miss Des-
mond had appeared beautiful on the stage, amid the glare of
the gas and the illusion of the surroundings, she looked fully
as pretty in the dim light shining from the gas-lamps of the
street, and clad as she was now in a simple walking-dress, un-
relieved even by a single glare of color.

Only a few words of conversation were exchanged during

the short ride to the famous restaurant.
' But at the Maison Doree, in a ‘rivate room, with a delight-
ful supper spread upon the tab 6, and the sparkling cham-
pagne passing freely, the ice of reserve soon melted away,_and
the conversation became general.

The actress, modest and retiring in her manner, charmed
the Judge fully as much with her remarks as with her beauty.
Wit and good sense were skillfully blended in Miss Des-
mond’s conversation.

Bruyn felt that he was becoming deeply interested in the
beautiful girl; there was a fascination about her which he
could not understand. As he looked back over the record of
his life he could not remember to have ever met a more charm-
ing woman.

And yet, strange to say, at the very moment that he was
most enjoying the society of the beautiful and sensible girl,
there came over him a peculiar sort of feeling; he could not
understand it, could not explain it; could assign no reason
for its coming, no reason for its stay. It was like a nervous
sort of apprehension—not exactly of danger; in fact, he could
not tell what he apprehended, and finally he made up his mind
that he was jealous—jealous that any one else might attempt
to claim: the thoughts of the fair woman, whose face seemed
like a truthful crystal mirror whereon faith and goodnels
alone could shins.

\

 

13

\

Gentleman George.

 

 

ran] hour of mirth and social chat, and the supper was
en er .

Never had an hour passed more pleasantly.

As the party rose to depart, the Judge gallantly assisted
Miss Desmond to don the light sack which she wore, and
trusted that it would not be the last time that he should have
the pleasure of meeting her.

With great modesty, Miss Desmond thanked the Judge for
his kindness, whispered how grateful she was for his kindly
Words, but said no more.

Bruyn was disappointed; he expected that the actress would
have invited him to call. Again he felt the strange sensation
creep over him, and this time he was sure that it was jeal-
ousv.

As the party crossed the sidewalk to enter the carriage
again, a man stalked so near the actress that he could have
touched her.

The face of Miss Desmond turned pale, and her eyes flashed.
The man was Neil Jemmisou, the “ Doctor."

 

CHAPTER XIX
m'mn TOMBB.

LEGAL business took Judge Bruyn down to the Tombs
prison on the next morning after the supper with Miss Des-
mond, the actress.

The Judge saw the party whom he had come to visit, and
held a long conversation with hiru. It was a ward-gang leader
who had got into the stern clutches of the law foralittle
playfulness with a stranger, passing by night through the
‘ stamping-grounds” of the aforesaid politician. The result
oi the interview between Tim Driscol—the ward leader—sand
the guileless man from New Jersey, was that the stranger lost
his watch and pocket-book, and got a choking which forciny
conveyed to him an idea of what strangulation consisted.

Tim. retreating in triumph with the spoils of war, had been
unfortunate enough to run into the arms of a policeman, and
that blue-coated worthy had conveyed the valiant Tim to the
Tombs, not without a struggle on the part of the ‘ ward ii ht,’
though, as the uniform of the policeman, and a chawe -up
finger could testify ; but a free use ofthe locust club had soon
taken the light out of Tim, and he had been run into the
Tombs in an extremely demoralized manner.

Tim had sent instantly for Judge Bruyn. He had some
little claim on the Judge for services rendered on election-

(la .

The Judge had listened to Tim’s etc and had quietly in-
formed him, after he had got throng , that he thoughtithe
chances were just about a hundred to one that he would have
a chance to do the State some service at Sing Sing.

Tim listened in hol horror, and his short thick hair almost
stood upri ht at the udge’s words.

“ Sure, Judge, dear, ye won‘t be after lettin’ ’em send me up
the river 1’” he exclaimed. “ Why, Judge, don’t ye remember
your last ’lection ? I was worth two hundred votes to yees, in
one ward, that day l”

“ I am not on the bench now, Tim, and you don't seemto
understand that things are changed from what they were.”

“ Sure, you kin bail me out, Judge—get some of the byes to
go me security, an’ then I’ll hop the bond,” Tim cried, anx-
ous .

“ an’t be done, Tim,” the Jud e announced, decidedly;
“ can‘t run in straw-bail :"~= in the 01% time. I don't think they
will admit you to bail at all. They won't, if the man you went
throu h appears to prosecute you."

“ in, the unhun villain i" exclaimed Tim, in ri hteous in-
dignation; “ sure, only choked him till he was b aok in the
face. Bedad i he couldn’t make more fuss about it if I had
hilt. him outright!”

“ The only way to do is to hire this fellow not toprosecute;
but then there’s the assault on the officer.”

“ The murdering thafe l” exclaimed Tim ; “ sure, if it hadn’t
'a’ bin that he hit me forninst the nose wid his club, I‘d have
bate the divil out of him."

“ The district attorney may take it into his head to make an'
example of you,” the Judge suggested.

“ But, Judge, dear, you can run me out of it," the rquian
persisted, persuasively. “ Get me out, Judge, and I’ll do any
thing you pl’ase for you, from stuflin’ aballot-box to stick.
in’ a man. Sure, ye know, 8 might have an inimy wan oi
these days, an’ it would be mighty handy to haVe a dacint bye
like meself to hate him for you.”

“ Well, ’l‘im, if I can do any thing for you I’ll do it for the
old time, not for favors to come, although I’ll bear in mind
what you‘ve just said."

“ You know 1'“ live up to it, Judge,” the rough said. “ I’m
a man of me word; divil a man breathes that I iver promised
a b'ating to that he didn’t get it, unless maybe he gave the
b‘atin v to me," added truthful Tim, thoughtfully. .

“ ho saw your light with the officer 1”

“ A whole crowd, an’ there wasn’t a mother's son of ‘em
had the dare to give the ‘ cop ’ a whack in the back for me,”
asserted the rufflan.

“ I suppose that you can bring plenty of witnesses to swear
that the oflicer struck you first and that you were only de-
geniding yourself against his attacks 1” ventured the wily

I] n.

 

“ Troth an’ I can i” replied Tim, promptly. “I can i
the names of twenty b es that will swear to any thing you 1
provided that you tel them beforehand what you want them
to swear to.”

“ We can arrange that all right," the Judge said, then ht-
fully. " I guess we can get at the J erse man and buy im
off. If he does not appear to prosecute, by ringing a cloud of
witnesses we may be able to lighten up the charge of assault-
ing the officer. By the way, who got the worst of the af-

a r?"

“ Sure, an' I did,” said the ruflian, ruefully; “ the divil of s
p’liceman used the club on me. It‘s black an’ blue I am from
the crown of me head to the sole of me fut. I only tore his
clothes; I was drunk at the time orIwould have warmed
him so that his own sargeant wouldn’t have known him—the
murderin’ thafel"

“ You had better let the police alone in future,” the Judge
suggested, dryly, and with a shrewd smile.

‘ Faith an’ I will,” returned the rough, promptly; “ the
next time, I‘ll lay for ’em behind a corner, wid a thunderin'
big brick in me fist.” ,

‘ Of course you understand that I can not appear in our
case in person, at all, but I will see that you have a good aw-
yer, and I’ll have the witnesses come to my office and ask
them a few questions, about what they know of the afi‘air.”

“ Put the question the right way, Judge, an’ they’ll say yes
to every one. It’s familiar with courts the are; sorra a wan
of them that hasn’t been on trial a dozen t mes at laste. Sure,
if I hadn’t ran into the arms of the peeler, bein’ blind drunk
:5 I was], all the byes would have sworn that I wasn't there at

, at a . ,

“ I’ll do what I can for you,” the Judge said, rising. "I
guess we can pull you through.”

“ They’ve set the trial for tomorrow, Judge; it’sto railroad
me into State Prison, bad ’cess to ’eml"

“ We'll try and switch you on” on another track," replied
Judge Bruyn, ‘with a grim smile. “Keep a still tongue in
your head.’

And with this parting admonition the lawyer led the cell.

As he walked along the corridor, he ha pened to glance
down to the open‘space below, and saw a emale form, clad
in a dark walking-suit, passing across the courtyard.

The Jud a recognized the woman in an instant. It wed
Miss Ellen esmond, the actress, with whom he had cupped
on the previous evening!

Bending over the rai mg, the Judge saw that she was alone,
and from the direction in which she was going, guessed that
she was about to leave the building,

What could brin the youngtand pretty actress to the Tombe
Not curiosity, sure y, for in I but case she would be attended
by an escort. , ‘

At the head of the stairway, Bruyn met the warden of the
prison. Returnin his salutation, the Judge proceeded to in-
quire regarding Miss Desmond. -

“ The ady in a. dark walking-suit, with blonde hair? Ah,

so! I know her," the warden answered; “she is an actress
iss Desmond, playing at Nihlo's Garden now."
“ Yes, I recognized her, and was somewhat astonished a
seein her here. ’ ‘
. t‘ 0 comes to see one of the prisoners."

“ Indeed l” The Judge was again astonished.

“ Yes, George Dominick—Gentleman George."

.“ Never heard of him.”

“ It’s the first time that he has ever been arrested. He's on
old offender though; bank-robber; a handsome, duby fol.
iowgorfect gentleman in appearance." .

“ id he read for Miss Desmond t”

. “ Yes; we only got him night before last; he‘s got an um
wound in the shoulder. He sent a note to Miss Denna
this morning, and in two hours after shown here."

‘9 That’s rather strange i”

,“ Oh, no; he’s a handsome fellow, and she probably don't
know what a scamp he is." .r 4 , , -

The warden passed on, leaving Bruvn white with rep Ild
jealousy.

 

‘binjtp'rnn xx. '
anoma’s vrsr'ron.

A narrow prison-cell held Gentleman George within its
confirms, scant ly furnished but scrupulous] clean.

George lay extended upon the narrow be .

His e es were closed as if in sleep, but the convulsive , ovo
ment 0 the muscles of the mouth told that he was not the
embrace of the drowsy god, but wide awake and muttering
to himself.

“ Will she come i” , ,

Thrice at least he put the question at intervals.

It was the same old story—sold since the, world WI!

The eastern king who claimed that a woman was I“ 0 50"-
tfiam of all mischief in this world. was not so for wrong, after

i.

" She must come i” he acclaimed, with flame and fiery ut-
terance, openin his eyes suddenly and starin wildly around
him as though 0 expected to see the face 0 the woman of
whom he spoke, gazing at him from some dark corner of the
prison-cell. “ She will not dare to refuse to come,” he mut-

tered, defiantly,_atter quite a long fame. _f‘8he,is bold and
are to provoke rue.r Ibo

reckless enough, but she will not

 

 

a».

Gentleman George. 1'7

 

 

 

 

 

knows me too well, and she has a wholesome dread of my
wrath, cunning and desperate as she is. Let me see,” and
then the prisoner pulled the ends of his long, blonde mus-
tache in a thoughtful manner. “ She will receive m note
by noon, then it will take her an hour or so to reflect w ether
to obey or not. She will think the matter over, see that the
consequences attending a refusal may be very unpleasant,
and decide that it is better to be my friend than to pro-
voke my enmity, and then will come; so I may ex ect her
about three or four o’clock this afternoon.” And, w th this
coinclusiou, Gentleman George turned over restlesst on his
81 e.

The imprisoned man was lying on the outside of the bed,
fully dressed, with the exception of his coat which lay on the
little stool at the head of the bed. As he turned upon the
bed, he felt a sudden, sharp twinge of sin shoot through his
shoulder, and was thus abruptly remin ed of his wound.

“ Curse the scratch I" he muttered, fretfully; “ I wish that
I.knew the name of that doctor that Hero brought the other
night. The fellow had a touch as li ht as afeather. If I
knew where he could be found I won d send for him to at-
tend to this matter. I hate the very sight of these police
surgeons.”

And then, speaking the name of his wife, brought up a new
chain of ideas. '

“ It would be cursed awkward if Hero and this woman
should meetl" he said, musin ly; “ it would be apt to put
me in a precious bobble. ero, patient as she is, would be
apt to make a terrible row, and as for the other one, she
would only be too glad of an excuse to throw me. I must
take care that neither one surprises the other here. By J ovel
between the two women, I should suffer. Hero alread has
a suspicion that she has a rival, and I must be carefu that
she does not succeed in proving the suspicion to be truth.”

The entrance of one of the prison officials interrupted the
meditations of the prisoner.

“ A lady wishes to see you, Mr. Dominick,” the man an-
nounced.

The heart of Gentleman George gave a great leap. His mes«
sa e had been promptly answered.

‘What sort of a looking woman is she I” he asked, in
genite a careless manner, as if it was but an indifferent mat-

r.
1‘ Rather smallish in size light hair."

f Well, I suppose that i may as well see her ” Dominick
said, rising to a sitting sture, perfectly satisfied that the
visitor was the one he h expected.

:1 Let her come up then r" the ofllcial questioned.

Yes; and, by the way, if it is not asking too much, can
you arrange it so that if any one else should come to see me
gigleer’the lady is here, they will not come up until she is

“,Oh. Certainly "the officer replied; “that is simple enough.
I wdl leave wor down-stairs that you are engaged for the
presé‘nt and do not wish to be disturbed."

“ hanks; I shall be ve much 0in if you will have
the kindness to do so; andy if my lawygfdshould happen to
come—I don’t expect him until one or two o’clock though
t:tfilliltn’m that 1 shall not be engaged long, and refine“ him

it .

“ All right; what lawyer is it i"

:: Counselor Watt.”

The ‘ Three-decker f’ I know him. I‘ll attend to it for
you. And With this assurance the official withdrew.

Aha! cried Gentleman George, gleefully, as the cell
dOor closed after the oflcerv “ there’s no chain in the world
so strorig as fear; boasted love is a silken thread compared
to it. er prompt compliance with my reqth proves that
I seei‘lupossess my old power over her.”

in aminnte, the rison omcial returned accom nied
by Ellen Desmond, the actress. , w

'lhe officer politely conducted the lady into the cell and
then withdrew.

Miss Desmond was dressed very plainly, as indeed was
usual with her, but the dark dress only seemed to enhance
her wondrous beauty.

She stood just within the cell, looking at the man whom
she had come to visit with a face that was as expressionless
as a waxen mask.

.Gcorge rose gallantiy from the bed and advanced toher
with outstretched hand.

“ You are ver prompt indeed l" he exclaimed, as he took
the thin, white and Within his own; “ permit me to thank
you for your kindness."

The cold hand that he clasped so tight] seemed like a
norvelcss piece of flesh rather than the hand 0 a fresh, young
woman.

“ My furniture is rather scanty here," he continued, with a
glance around at the narrow prison cell, “ but it is the fashion
of this hotel. You have your choice between the bed and the
stool for a seat; which will on have i"

“ The side of the bed will 0," she said, coldl and quietly.

George retreated backward a few steps, and iss Desmond,
without flirther remark, seated herself upon the foot of the
low bed. Then George brought the stool and sat down by
her side.

“ Here at your feet, as in the old time," he said, with a ten-
der expression in his voice; a trick which was utterly lost
upon the cold and unimpressible Miss Desmond, as she only
curled her lip and looked at him in the most disdainful man-
ner.

 

George watched her for a moment and then burst mtc a
loud lau h.

“ Sentiment is thrown away upon you, eh i” he said.

“ Yes," she replied, cold as an iceberg; “ I should think
that you would know me better than to attempt to treat me
as a child or a sentimental school- irl."

“ You do not believe in the ‘ 01 time,’ then f"

“ No; what is past, is past; let it rest,” she answered.

“It was leasant, though," he said, reflectively.

“ The end) was not pleasant," she retorted, quite bitterly.

The prisoner looked at her curiously for a moment.

“ That remark, I suppose, was not intended to be compli-
mentary to me,” was the prisoner’s half-serious remark.

Miss Desmond looked the prisoner straight in the eyes, her
face a face of wax as far as any expression was concerned, but
she did not repl .

“ Am I ri ht {n my conjecture i" he asked.

” I shoul think that your own heart would be able tc
answer that question without the necessity of referring to me,”
she replied, Very coolly and very calmly.

“ And you have not the highest possible opinion of me!"
he continued.

“ You are quite right in that,” was the calm response.

“ And yet on came prompt y at my request."

“ Becausei am willing to forget the wrong you have done
me, and desire to aid you if I can." _

“ And that is the reason, eh?” George said, a peculiar ex-
pression upon his face.

“ Yes, what other reason should there be i” she demanded,
her manner a decided contrast to what it had been. .

“ I’ll tell you what the other reason is," he returned, his
bold, blue e es fixed searchingly on the face of the woman.
“ You are a raid that I shall pub ish to the world the relation-
ship that existed between Miss Ellen Desmond, the popular
actress, who is nightly filling one of the largest theaters in
the country with an overcrowed audience, that away
ravin of the youth, beauty and talent that thfleiy ave seen,
and eorge Dominick, better known to police 0 cials as Gen-
tleman Geor e, the bank-robber, confidence-man and thorough-
paced scoun l—the man who lives by his wits and trades on
the weakness of human nature, who behaves that ‘ property
is robbery,’ and acts on that motto."

 

CHAPTER XXI.
m moan.

Wm a cold and quiet face the woman listened to the
speech of the prisoner—a speech which vailed a threat, and
vailed it so thinly that she had no difficulty in discovering it.
The face was calm, expressionless, except that there was a
latent gleam of fire in the eyes.

" Perhaps you do me in ustice?” she half queried.

“ Oh, no i" he exclaim ; “ I am quite sure that I am cor-
rect when I say on simply come to see me for fear I should
speak; for fear should tell the world that Miss Ellen Deep
mond, the favorite actress, the sparkling, brilliant dramatic
star, who bids fair to reign as a very queen in the Thespian
world, has stood in a very intimate relation with the wounded
River Rat, who occu ies room 40 in the well-known hotel
commonly called the ombs.”

“ Do lyou judge all the world by yourself i" she asked, sar-
casticai y. .

“ That is quite a sharp reply, isn’t it!" he retorted, disdain-
fully; “ like a skillful move in chess, you attack me while you
defend yourself. < But, to answer {our question, I may not
judge a] the world by myself, but do jud c you. I think
that I know you. You are a woman and am a man, but
there is precious little difl'erence in our disposition. I did not
believe that there was a person in the world so like myself
until I met you."

“ You think, then, that if our fortunes were reversed—if it
was I who occupied the prison cell and you who was follow-
ing a successful career and joying in the triumphs of the
world, it would be fear alone that would make you own that
there had ever been aught in common between us two i"

“ Yes,” he replied, quickly and decidedly.

“ You are worse than I thought you,” she said, coldly and
contemptuously.

“ No, more honest than you thought me. I do not wear a
mask in the presence of a confederate, and try to make her
believe in the trick that has deceived the world. I am what
the world calls a bold, bad man. If there is a hereafter, and
men are punished there for the deeds done in the flesh, the
chances are that I shall suffer. But, if my theory be correct,
that when we die we die, and there all ends, the future will
trouble me but very little.”

“I do not suppose that you sent for me to discuss such
an abstruse subject,” she said, betraying decided tones of im—
patience.

“ I had forgotten how distasteful such subjects are to you,”
he replied, with a light laugh. “ You are like a child in the
dark, who buries his head under the bed-clothes and thinks
by the act to shut out the sight of the hobgoblins which

exist only in his fancy. You would stab aman with your ‘

eyes shut, and then afterward try and persuade yourself
that you had not done the deed, because you did not see the
ow. '

18 Gentlemen George.

 

 

“You are very complimentary," an ominous light in her
dark eyes. a I

“ I am only trying to make on see yourself as you really
are, or, to speak more correct y, to make you own the trut
that you know.”

“Let us stop the discussion 1" she exclaimed, impatiently;
“it will not benefit you nor profit me. You sent for me and
I have come. Now then, what do you wish?”

“Money,” returned Gentleman George, laconically.

“ l presumed as much.”

“I am in a hole, and I need assistance to get out of it.”

“ The expedition that you had in prospect when I met you
in Market street was a failure, then?”

“Yes; did you read the account in the newspapers of a
fight between some of the river-thieves and; the Harbor Po-
lice, in which one of the policemen was shot and dangerously
wounded ‘6”

“ 1 nova read any thing in the newpapcrs but the theatrical
articles," she answered.

“ Well, there was a row on the river, and one of the me-
tropolitans came pretty near receiving his passport to the
other world’s" , ~

“ And you shot the man, I suppose f”

“ i’ll tell you that better after I hear the evidence,” he re-
plied, laughing. “But one thing I can tell you, and that is
thatI havegot an ugly wound in my shoulder, and it is not
over and above pleasant.” I

“ What a pity that the police didn’t send the ball through
your heart," she continued, with scornful accent. ,

“ Well, that is a nice speech for you to make,” he was
CODSil‘aIIlCd‘ totsay,just a little staggered at the coolness of
the woman.

“ I speak exactly as I think," she replied, calmly. “ You
made a‘few remarks a little while ago about wearing masks
and concealini.r thoughts; I trust that you will do me thcjus-
tice now- to believe that I do not wear a mask to you, and
that I speak freely the thoughts that are in my mind. ’

“ And yet, only a few minutes back it appeared to me that
you were trying to persuade me that some other motive than
fear of what might happen, it you refused to come, had made
you obey my wish so promptly.” . ' r

“ It Wns'flot‘ {can um made me come,” she replied; “it was
a wish to serve you if I eculd.” . I I ‘ t- ‘ 4

“ Then why do you say that it was a pity I was not shot
through the heart instead of the shoulder l" he demanded, in
some little astonishment: r - -

“llave you never met with some poor, unfortunate mor-
tal, afflicted in such a way that involuntarily you have ex-
claimed that death would be a blessing?" ,she asked.

“ Oh, that’s the idea, is it?” he exclaimed, making a wry
face. “I am so utterly bad that the best office a friend can
perftfiirrm for me is to- wish me dead, eh '1’"

ti cs"

“Did it. ever occur to ’ou that on are in about the same
boat—that, when Old Nic down be ow pieks outaparticularly
hot corner of his realm for my abiding-place, a similar spot
will be reserved for you ?”

“ Whatever evil deeds I may have committed, I have tried
to atone for them by sincere repentance; besides, I have not
sinned against the world one-tenth part as much as the world
has sinned against me," she answered, with much feeling.

“That is the cant of the Pharisee,” George retorted, con-
temptuously. “Sin until the eleventh hour, then repent and
be saved; ‘I am not wicked by nature, I am only what the
cruel world has made me.’ Bahl I have no patience with
such pretenses. I fight the humans who are more fortunate
than I in worldly wealth, because I think that I have a
right to fight them. The Wall street broker made his money
by anibling in stocks, cheating by means of lying reports,
rob in by pushing Weaker men than himself to the wall,
precise y the same as the foot-pad who throttles his victim
until he gives up his money. The tnerchant robs his cus-
tomers, tricks them in measure and in quality; the manufac-
turer grinds down his hands, produces his goods at starvation
wages to them, and literally coins his mom: out of their life-
blood. If it is a sin to rob these men, then am a sinner, and
on my head be my deeds. But, now to business; as I have
told on, I am in a bobble, and I want some money.”

“ ow much ‘f”

“ That depends entirely upon what you can spare. I don’t
want to rob you ; the world has gone badly with me for
some time past, or I should not have had to trouble you ; but
once I am free from this ditileult the fiend will be in it, if I
do not make up for lost time. he police think they have
got a strong case against me, for one of the River Rats——the
actual leader of the gang. too—has turned State’s evidence
and the expect on his testimony to convict me."

“ Willya hundred dollars be enough 1’” she asked.

“ For the present, yes ; but is that all you can spare?
Mind, this is only a loan; I will pay it back to you, and wrth
compound interest if you like, within thirty days after I am
free from this den.”

“ No; I can let you have four hundred more by Saturday.”

“ That will be quite enough to see me through," George
said, gleefully.

The woman rose, walked toward the door, then turned
abruptly.

“ George, it is not pleasant to have the thought coming to
me eVery now and then that I am in letters," she said, slowly.

“ You wish me to free you, then f" he asked.

“ Yes."

“i ntn agreeable," he said, carelessly; “ the matter can be
arranged easily enough. 1'“ send the proper man to you."

 

" When I” ‘

“ As soon as I am out of this scrape; it won’t be long; be
patient.”

“ Have I not been patient?” the woman asked, a world of
meaning in her voice; then she said “ good-by," and departed.

 

CH AFTER XXII.
THE Tunes-oscxnit.

Gnonen seemed like a different man after his visitor’s de-
parture. = The restless, impatient creature who, stretched
u n the bed, had so closely calculated upon the time when
his request should be fulfilled, was now a joyous hopeful
aspirant for freedom. ~
. “Aha!” he cried aloud, rubbing his hands together, “ the
183::W8 of war are provided; now to make a good fight for
‘ rty." » - _

Then the thought came to him of the man who had so
basely betrayed him to the authorities.

“Curse that Mickey Bheal" he exclaimed, rinding his
teeth; “ I’ll be even with him for this job. If it ad not been
for him I should nevcr'havc been mixed up in the affair at
all. Let me once get out of these ugly via! 3, and I’ll square
the account with the cowardly hound. It serves me right,
though,” he muttered, “ for allowing in self to ban anything
todo with such beggarly beasts. If had but waited and
bided my time, some good fat operation might have fallen in
my way; some job where I might have turned up thirty or
fifty thousand dollars at a single stroke, instead of that paltry
sum that I did get. There's one consolation, though, I've got
the diamonds, and neither Mickey Shea nor his cut-throat
gang shall eVer receive a sin le cent from them.”

A ain the cell-door opene and the officer appeared, eon-
ducting a tall, portly man with a double-chin and a fat face;
aman of huge dimensions and of solid tread.‘ This was the
celebrated criminal lawyer, Counselor Watt, better known,
perhaps to the frequenters of the 'I‘ombs police court by the
appellation of the “Three-Decker,” the name probably be-
stowed on him from his resemblance in size to the fri ates of the
walls of-oak period. And, in reality, the connse or, in his

onderous way, sailed about amid the lesser lights of the var-
ious court-rooms'muclras a three-deck war-vessel of the N a-
poleon time would have sailed amid a fleet of merchantmcn
that she had been detailed to protect.

Counselor Watt racticed solely in the criminal court. A
man reall of deal ed talent in the law, and well versed in
ever; tric and quibble possible in a desperate case, he was
the rst lawyer retained when an leading “ o rator ” in the
art of getting-moneyowithout-wor ing-for-it fcl into trouble,
and was “ gathered in ” by the blue-coated metropolitans.

To use the ex ression common to both thieves and lawyers
—no disrespect ntended to either profession by bringing them
in such close conjunction—in regard to the learned, dignified,
and ponderous counselor, “ What Lawyer Watt didn’t know
about the law wasn’t worth knowing. "

“ Here’s the counselor,” the officer said, introducing him
and then withdrawing. '

“ How are you, George?” said the law or, nodding famili-
arly to the imprisoned man and helping himself to the stool
standing by the side of the bed.

Gentleman George and the lawyer were well acquainted,
although this was the first time that the former had been in
durance vile, and required the professional aid of the disciple
of Coke and Blackstone, but he had employed the lawyer on
behalf of friends of his who had fallen under the law’s stern

ar.

“ Pretty well, considering,” replied the risoner. .

“ Well, they've got you at last,” said att, caressing his fat
cnin in a thoughtful kind of way.

I “ fies, I’m a Caged bird now,’ George admitted, with a light
aug .

“ It doesn‘t seem to trouble you much.”

“ No; why should it?”

“ A weak case against you, ch f”

“ No; on the contrary, a very strong case.”

“ Ab,” and the lawyer looked wise. “ What's the trouble?"

“ Did you read the account of the robbe of the diamonds
from the captain of the English liner, the olden Dragon f"

" ch~a v-er-y n-e-a-t job," replied the lawyer, slowly.

“ If you remember the account published in the newspapers,
alter the thieves got away with the plunder, one of the harbor
police-boats happened to come up and gave chase to the Rats,
and [just as the police got within range, one of the thieves lit
a bu let into the bow-oar of the police-boat, and in the con us-
ion occasioned by that, the Rats managed to pull into the fbg
and et away.” I

“ 'es, I remember all about it,” the lawyer rejoined; “ but
how are you muted up in the affair?"

“ They say that I am the man who shot the policeman.”

The counselor gave a low whistle of astonishment.

“ Well, now, that is a serious charge,” he remarked; “ but,
George, my boy, an accusation of that kind will be pretty
hard to sustain."

“ The clgoverninent has got a pretty good witness,” George
In gestc , quietly.

‘ Who f”

“The man who sat next to me in the boat and saw me In
the shot"

I..-

 

Counselor Watt looked astonished at this statement.

“.in ot' thevtellows has given you away, then ?”

“ Just so."

W‘Wuat reason Y"

“None that I know of," George replied. “I suppose the
police shadowed and pounced on him, and to save himself he
‘ squealed ' on me.”

” Pretty tough witness."

" We can get over him, though."

“ Well, George, really I must be honest with you. It seems
to me that the ellow’s testimony will be hard to shake,” the
counselor was constrained to say.

“ Suppose I’ bring two peo is who will swear that at the
time this aflray took place I Was in a certain place with
them ?”

The lawyer shook his head doubtfully.

“ My dear George, an alibi is the best thing in the world to
clean: man, provided the witnesses can stand a rigid cross-
exnmination; but if the evidence-is no first-class it’s a risky
thin to try." ‘ '

“‘ Iy witnesses can stand it,” Genr, said, confidently.

"“ Ah; in'that case it will do to two, 'it." Then the awyer
stroked his chin thoughtfully for a few minutes. “ The night
was dark,-I suppose l” '

(I Yes.”

“ N one of the police could smear to you P"

“ Not one _of_them.” ,

“‘ HbW‘a're you Off for money f“-

“ Fivegt'indred .to a thousand at command.” - '

“I  ' ‘we ‘can pull you through if we’re lucky,” the
sounse or announced, qniuigonfidently. " This witness for
the "overumeht' is ‘a pretty’ rd case,’ I suppose!” '

f“ icke Shea; ' u know him."

f‘And ckey as. gone back on a friend, eh? Well, I‘
wouldn’t have believed it," and the Three-Decker shook his
head, gravely. ' '

‘_‘ You know Mickey pretty well, don’t you—you know how
man ‘times he has escdped Sing Sing f” .

es, I think I am posted ” the counselor responded, with

a knowmg wink of his‘left eye.

“‘Don’t you think you can use Mickey up on s cross-exam-
ination f". '

“‘ I“ think I can,” watt"repiied, after due deliberation.
“ After I Iget through with m esteemed friend, Mr. Shea, I
think bot Judge and Jury'wil 'be of theo inion that,tohang
styalleedog’ on his' testimony would'o' ly be the grossest
murder.” ' ‘ v ' -

l “The policeman ,is prett badly hurt, but they say he is
mind danger. 'I got a ball in the shoulder myself, it the
r." '. r .

“The deuce you did i" exclaimed the lawyer; " that will be
an ugy point to n at over.” '

“ (it; at all, I ave‘thought of a way.” .
"Georgie, you ought to go into the iegslaggifesston l" ex-
claimedt e ponderous man of the courts, in iration; “ YO“
bro-hhl'oglie dod 'fl’“  ’ “1 fl

“ an on; a a bi enou h to 000W.” 09 “OD‘
bird're tied: longing. " g g g“

The awyer smiled goal-naturally.

a “ .Alnd now to return to our matters; our defense is a 8939"]
enia .”

“AEXactly; and" delay our .11 you can. Mickey my be
reached." There was a menace in the speech.

" All right,” and the caunselor rose ss he spoke: “ be 03’9-
fnl, and don’t do any thing riish' ;' cover up our track! Wen.
Ill be in tomorrow, and we’ll discuss the su ject more hilly."

And then‘the  departed.

 

CHATTER X'xut.
A wnrn's nevomort.

Hutu badlth'egonderous form of the lawyer disappeared
before the prison-o , cer stuck his head in at the cell door, and
announced that another lady wished to see Gentleman George.

George anticipated who his visitor was.

,.“Bho.w her up, please," he said; and then, as the official
withdrew, he mattered: ,‘,‘ fihe came within an ace of surpris-

ing the other one here; th u there would have been a pretty ket-A

tle of fish; but a miss is as good as a mile.”

George cast himself carelessly upon the bed, and waited for
the lad to make her appearance; that it was his wife he had
no don t. - ~

His guess was correct; it was Hero whom the omcer con-
ducted in}: (tihe celll. d 1

She 100 e 88 P3 e . 9!" , usu and waite unti
the otlicer departed b‘elzilre Jag: d,

“ Are you well, George?" she mked, her tone cold and calm,

,bttt that-swash. look in her .eyeswhich fully betrayed how
deep‘was‘the intereiilt she feltin d ‘ Th
,ff, 'es: “give as can expected,” he replie . ‘ e
woti'gdl" m'yjshoulder still troubles me a little. By the by,
Ilero, do, ytzu think you could find that doctor for mo—the one

who Yex‘tr gift} the ball I mean I” .
’0‘ es,

now,’ she said; “he is down-stairs now.”

“ Indeed l" and Gentlemen George looked astonished at this

intelligence.

“.35 ‘ ; ld ’ ' '  the saw thesccount of our arrest in,
d$JZIdelzigqfiofingtsnd guessed instantly ulna it was the

 

Gentleman George. _ 19

 

 

same man whom he had tended, so he thought he would Come
and see how you were. I met him on the steps outsttle and
he recognized me at once. I told him that I would tell you
he was here.” ' _

“ I am glad he’s come; I have been wishing for his skillful
hand ever since I’ve been shut up in this cursed hole.” '

“I think he will do you good,” the wife said, “although
there is a mystery about him that I do not understand. lit.-
is a gentleman, I can tell that easily enough, and what llizl
reason was for loitering about the low dens of Water and
Cherry streets I can not guess.” _

“ Oh, he may have got into some little trouble and found it
convenient to keep shady for a while.”

“ I’ve sold the diamonds, George,” the woman stated,
abruptly.

“ You have?” George looked surprised at this intelligence.

“Yes; I thought that you would need money, so I took the
{Jewels out of the settings and disposed of them. I got eight

undred dollars for them.”

“ That’s a prethy ood price,” Gear 8 exclaimed. “The set
cost two thousan , Ibelieve, but I di not think that it would
bring more than a quarter of that sum. These thieves of re-
ceivers never give more than a quarter of what any thing is
worth.”

“ I went to old Moses and he would only give three hun-
dred ; I thought I could get more and so came away. Com-
ing down Broadway I met Lewis Allen, the man that you
used to be so intimate with. He stopped me and inquired
about you, and I told him that you were in trouble. He said
he had made a big stake and was going to Europe to enjoy
himself for a short time; that he was Sorry you were in diffi-
culties, and asked if I wanted anymoney to see you through;
said he was flush, and that he would willingly lend you five
hundred or so. Then a bright idea came to me. I told him
that I had diamonds worth from a thousand to fifteen hundned
dollars, and that I would ladly sell them to him for eight
hundred dollars, and that i? he didn’t want them himself he
could easily dispose of them without risk over the water.
He instantly said that was a bargain, gave me the money, and
took the jewels.”

“ Hero, you’re a trump 1” George exclaimed, enthusiastically;
“come here and give me a kiss, old gir ."

The woman knelt b the side of the narrow bed and pressed
her soft arm around entleman George. Her eyes were filled
with tears—tears of happiness—as she felt the pressure of his
lips upon her own.

She loved him with a devotion such as is rare in this life,
and he, cold, callous heart, traded on that love, and cared only
for the benefits it brought.

“Give me a hundred dollars, pet,” he said, “and be sure
and keep the rest safe. Come and see me every morning. I
shall have to try the plan that you devised to get out of this
scrape. My law or was here a few minutes ago and he
seemed to think it would work.” ~

“ I am sure it will.”_Hero replied, in her quiet way ; “ they
can not shake father’s evidence, and he will testify good and
strong for ou. Now, I must go; good-by. I’ll send the doc-
tor tup." he gave him the hundred dollars and rose to de-
par ,

Again George kissed the pale lips, and then Hero left the
cell. A few minutes after the prison officer conducted Neil
Jemmison into the stone cage.

“ How are you, doctor?" exclaimed George, offering his
hand as the door closed behind the official. “ They’ve got me
in limbo, on see.” .

“Yes, read an account of your arrest in the paper, and

uessed my patient had fallen into the meshes of the law,” the
doctor answered. “ And how is the wound l"

“ You had better examine it, doctor.”

George sat upon the edge of the bed, took off his vest and
slipped the shirt down.

ith a careful, skillful hand the visitor removed the bandr

age and examined the iu'ury. .

“ The jaunt here hasn t helped it any, but it is all right. I
brought a fresh supply of salve and bandages with me.’

And then the doctor produced the articles from his coat
pocket and proceeded to prepare them.

“ I’m very much obliged to you, doctor,” George said, grate-
fully; “ few men would take such trouble for a stranger. ’

“ Ah, but you don’t seem like a siren or to me,” Jemmisou
rejoined, thoughtfully. “ I don’t exact y understand it, but
you seem like one that I have known, years ago.”

“ Years ago!” exclaimed George, in amazement. “ Wh ,
doctor, I should not take you to be many years older than I
am, and I am hardly more than a boy."

“ And I am almost old enough to be your father," Jemmi-
son said, with a laugh, applying the fresh bandage to the
wounded shoulder as he spoke.

“ Indeed I How old are you, doctor 1'”

“ Forty."

“ And I am twenty-two.”

“ You see I was right in regard to our ages.”

Then Jemmisou adjusted the shirt over the band

“ And you think that you have met me before ?”

“ Yes; but when I say that, it hardly seems possible that I
have really met you, but some one whom you resemble greatly
—-your father, perhaps.”

Gentleman George laughed.

“ My father and I were about as much alike as daylight.

and darknesa George Douunickseniorflhe worthy lock-
smith of Fortieth street. was short and stout. his hair dark

 

i
i
r
l
l
l
l
l
l
I
l
l
l
l

20 Gentleman George.

 

r_

and straight, his eyes black; not a bit of resemblance between
us in any thing, looks or disposition.”

“ That is strange; perhaps you have an elder brother whom
I have met 1’”

“ No; I am an only child. I probably take m blue eyes
and light hair from my mother. She died when I was Only
a chil , and I don't remember much about her except that
she was light in complexion.”

“A It is very strange that your lace, voice, manner, all seem
so familiar to me when, from what you have just told me, i'
is plainly impossible that I have ever met any of your km-
dred,” the doctor admitted.

“ It is rather queer. My father was an Englishman, with-
out a srngle relative in this country} indeed, I am not sure
that he had any in England either. I am inclined to think
that he hadn’t a relative in the world; at least, I never heard
him speak of any.”

“_I suppose that it is one of those chance resemblances
which we meet with sometimes,” Jemmison suggested, rising
to depart.

“ is it asking too much to say come again, doctor?”

“ Oh, no; I’ll drop in to-morrow. I shall not give you up
now until the wound is entirely healed.”

“ Il you would only allow me to pay you, doctor, for the
servrce that you have rendered—"

“Oh, no i” exclaimed Jemmison. “I am out of practice
now—only an accident made me take charge of you; ood-
day." Then the olive-faced man retired, creatly puzzl

 

C HAPTER XXIV.
A ramsronns'rrox.

In Thirty-sixth street, near Fifth avenue, stood a twenty-
foot front brown stone house; one of the kind that a graphic
real-estate man would designate as “cosy” if the property
was put into his hands, either to sell or rent.

And cosy indeed was the little brown-stone house, still
more cosy inside than outwardly.

The door late bore the name of Neil Jemmison.

And here t was that the “ Doctor” had his home. Much
the deniZens of the East-side dens would have marveled could
they have seen the abode of the man whom they had looks
ed upon as being one of themselves, an outcast who had
dared the power of the written law and feared its strong right
arm.

The house was richly furnished from top to bottom. Two
servants, an aged Englishman and his wife, took charge of the
domicile.

“ The master "—as old Mr. Burton and his fat and buxom
wife termed Neil Jemmison—was away from home a great
deal. His coming and going were alike erratic. No warning
of the one, no preparation for the other.

The “ master’s ” favorite resort when home was the library,
which was the front room over the parlor on the second floor.
The back room was his bed-chamber.

The library was sumptuously titted up, and the cases which
adorned the walls contained an excellent selection of books.
One particular case was filled with medical works, proving
that, although Jemmison did not pursue his profession, he
still had not lost his interest in the study of his early days;
and if the medical Works were not proof enou h of that, the
elegantly mounted human skeleton which etc on a pedestal
between two of the book-cases perhaps would have convinced
a doubter.

On the center-table the current magazines were carelessly
strewn; the medical ones including the leading English and
Continental publications.

Every morning at eight o’clock precisely Mr. Burton served
the breakfast, then touched the cord which rung the bell in
the master's chamber.

And if Mr. Jemmison did not make his appearance in the
dining-room within fliteen minutes, Mr. Burton understood
that he was not at home, and he would then summon his
wife and they would sit down to enjoy the repeat.

The same mode of proceeding was gone through with at
dinner and supper.

Five ears had the aged couple resided with Mr. Jemmi-
son, an , naturally, by this time they had become pretty well
accustomed to his ways.

Great was the astonishment of the worthy couple when
Mr. Jemmison descended to breakfast one mornin , after hav-
ing been absent for four or five days, accompanie by a wild-
lookin youn woman, or girl rather, who rejoiced in a great
profus on of ery red hair. ‘

The old gentleman, who always attended to the table,
was so amazed that he azed at the girl with open mouth,
much to that young la y’s anger, and only the presence
of her benefactor prevented her giving the wonder-struck
gr. Burton “a piece of her mind," to use the common expres-

on.

The rage in which the girl was clothed did not tend to de-
crease the astonishment ot the worthy steward.

The master had seated the child at the table as politely as
though she had been a princess and the heir to a throne.
Then had told Burton to place the breakfast upon the table
and further informed him, after that was done, that he use
00!» WI“.

Burton understood at once that his services were dispensed

 

with at the breakfast table in order that the new-comer might
be more at her ease.

After placing the various dishes 11 on the table he withdrew
to acquaint his wife with the won erful circumstance. And
much the worthy coup.e wondered at the strange addition to
the Jemmison household

Five years had the two resided with Mr. Jemmison, and in

\all that time they had never heard the master mention aught
concerning any relatives, and long ago they had come to the
deliberate conclusion that he had neither kith nor kin in the
world. Sure, therefore, were both husband and wile that the
red-headed girl in the ra ged clothes was no relative of Mr.
Neil Jemmison, and in us course of time they came to
.he opinion that the bright-eyed, defiant-looking child was
some waif whom the master had found in his mysterious ram-
bles.

The worthy couple's amazement was still further increased
when, alter breakfast was over, Mr. Jemmison summoned
Burton to his library and informed him that, in the future,
the young lady—Miss Mary, as he termed her—would make
one of the family, and that he wished Mrs. Burton to send
out instantly and procure suitable clothing for her, and, if all
necessary articles could not be procured ready-made, to em-
ploy a seamstress and have the girl’s wardrobe made up.
And he also desired Mr. Burton to procure a young girl to act
in the capacit of lady’s maid to “ Miss Mary.”

The stewar proceeded to execute the orders at once.

The clothes were procured, boots, hats and all the little
etc., which go to make up a young lady’s outfit at the present

da .

The lad ’s maid was also secured—s trim little Irish girl,
Bridget Hyeal by name. . _,

The ragge girl had been wonderfuil 1m roved in looks,
long before the lad ’s maid arrived. he inky hair, fiery
red in hue, had first en carefull washed and then as care-
fully oiled and arranged by Mrs. urton’s skillful fingers, and
the result was that the fiery hue was subdued and changed
into a sort of golden tint.

Attired in a neat house-dress of calico—the master had
given strict orders that Miss Mary’s wardrobe should be en-
tirely plain and that no “finery’ should be purchased—the
dress reaching to her ankles, the girl looked more like what
she really was, more of a woman than a child.

Mrs. Burton was quite delighted when she had finished her
task and surveyed the result.

Molly Bawn, neatly dressed, with her gloss br ht hair,
and her wondrous complexion, so clear re an w te, pecu-
liar to the blonde daughters of Erin's green isle, looked really

rett . . .
p Aan so Mrs. Burton told her husband, when she joined
him in the regions below, and added that it was her belief
that the master had wonderful taste to discover the girl’s
beant beneath its uncouth covering.

An Molly Bawn, child of the streets and heiress of the
gutters, accepted all the attentions offered to her with a face
as grave and a manner as self-possessed as if aluxurious bath,
e skillful hair-dresser, and linen fit for a princess, were to her
but as common things. ‘

Gravely and quiet y she submitted to be washed and dress-
ed, to have the comb force its way through the tangled curls,
and never even made a remark in regard to the novel opera.
tions.

Mrs. Burton wondered at first, for the good old lady was
inclined to be talkative; and though she had been warned
not to question her charge, yet she could not help trying to
enter into conversation with her.

But the l merely answered “ Yes, ma’am,” and “ No,
ma’am; ’ an as conversation was tedious when confined al-
most entirel to one person, Mrs. Burton at last gave up the
attempt; an when she went down-stairs, conveyed to her
husband her belief that the new young lady was really the
strangest girl she had ever seen, and she did not wonder that,
being an oddity himself, Mr. Jemmison had, taken s liking to
her.

By the time the lady’s maid arrived, Molly had fully mas-
tered the situation, and apparent! felt as much at home in
her new clothes as though she ha been used to nest and be-
coming apparel since the day she had come into the world.

In truth, Molly was old be and her years The life of the
streets sharpens the wits, an if it does not kill the sub ect,
“ forces” it onward as the hot-house does a feral n p t.
Molly, a child of sixteen, knew as much as nine-ten of the
young ladies of twentyotwo.

 

CHAPTER XXV.
nour’s urnn.

Joe-r four days had Molly Bswn enjoyed the hospitalities
of the Jemmison mansion.

The master had met her at the table each day, but had not
seen her else, as after the men. was finished,he always re-
tired to the sanctity of his library, and the rl went to her
own chamber. The front bedroom on the th floor had been
sssi ned to her.

A ter breakfast on the morning of the fifth day Jemmison
had asked the girl if she would like to look at his library, and

she, eagerly catching at the opportunity to cage, the society

‘

 

 

 

\

Gentleman George. 

 

—

 

of her benefactor, had quickly replied that she would like to
see the library.

So Jemmison conducted Molly into the “sanctum” that
was sacred to him alone, for rarely did any other foot than his
tread upon the green carpet of the library floor.

The girl looked around her in wonder, stared at the skele-
ton, but did not manifest the slightest sign of fear.

“ You are not afraid, Molly i” he asked.

“Not a mite! I’ve seen too much wickedness alive to be
afear’d of dead bones. Mebbe I‘ might be skeer’d if I came
in here in the night, and didn’t know that it was here.”

Jemmison laughed. He sat down in his accustomed seat,
a he re arm-chair, and pushed another one toward the girl. .

“git down, Molly," he said, “and-tell me how you like
your new home.”

The girl obe ed, but a peculiar look passed over her face
as she pondere over the question.

Jemmison guessed pretty accurately what thoughts were in
her mind, an smiled as he noticed her hesitation.

‘ “‘Don’t be afraid, Molly ; speak out,” he said, reassur-
ng y.

“ And you won’t be angry or nothing if I say what I think f”
Molly inquired, anxiously.

“No, of course not,” he replied. “ Tell me exactly how
you like living here with me.”

“ Well, it’s awful slow,” she said, hesitatingly, and with a
look of apprehension upon her face, lestb er plain speak-
ing she should offend the entleman who ad so kindly res-
cued her from the misery o the street.

“The wild life that you formerl led is more agreeableto
you then, than dwellln here in qu et with me f”

“ o, it ain’t that,” fully answered, quietly; “ but I’m
lonesome here; I ain’t got anybody to talk to."

“ Why, there is the young girl that waits on on,” he urged.

“ She’s nice enou it, I s’pose,” Molly expfiiined; “ but I
can't talk to her. 8 e thinks that I’m a regular lady, calls
me Miss Mary, and is awful anxious to Wait on me; and if I
was to try and talk to her, she’d find out quick enough that
I’m only a make-believe lady, and not the genuine article,
and no mistake."

“ So, to keep up your character, you are obliged to hold
your tongue f” Jemmison asked, laughing.

“ You bet!” replied Molly, quite emphatically.

“ Well, is there any thing you can suggest in order that I
may remed the difilculty, and make your stay here more
agreeable?‘ he inquired.

“ I guess there is,” was the hesitating response.

“ Let us hear your ideas on the subject.”

“ Send Bridget away; I don’t want her, and let me wait on
myself. I allers want to call her Biddy, too. I don’t like
her. '008 She’s a paddy-whack, and the Mulcarthys, who used
to beat me, were paddy-whacks too, and I jest hate ’em-
that’s what I do."

Molly’s flashing eyes and earnest face fully revealed how
earnest she was.

“ You want Bridget to go away, then f”

“Yes; and I want on to give me something to do. I
don’t care what it is. t me sweep down the stairs, or any
thing like that; I i do it just as nice as anybody: 01'1er
fine make the beds an take care of the rooms. I can do it, I

now."
_ “ You would rather work than play lady, ch 2” and a pecu-
liar smile was upon Neil’s dark face.

“ Yes,.a heap sight!” returned the girl, promptly.

“ All right; you shall have vour wish. Now we will ar-

’ range the programme. Breakfast at eight; at nine an hour

to make your room tidy, and to clean up this room. At ten,
school.”

“ School 1" Molly’s face grew blank.

“ Yes; does not that idea please you?”

“I can read and almost write, the street child said; “I
can write a little. I learned with a piece of charcoal on a
cellar-door, and on the coal-box, at the corner.”

“ Do you know where Paris is Y”

“lIt’s way ofi somewhere; ’tain'there,” was Molly’s dubious
rep y.

“ You must go to school,to learn where Paris is. This shall
be your school-room and I will be our teacher."

Molly's face brightened it won ertully.

“ That Will be hunkey i’ she exclaimed, delighted at the
idea. “ I’ll learn quick; see if I don’t."

Jemmison smiled at the girl's enthusiasm.

‘ 'zlw’g won’t send Bridget away; we can find enough for her
0 (l.

“ She’s good enough, I s'pose," Mollv confessed “ but I ain’t
used to he waited on; and she’s so slow, too. Why, it don’t
take me five minutes to get my clothes on. I as , Mr. Jem-
mison, on are taking a heap o trouble with me, the girl ex~
clainiet very abruptly. “ Are you my father l"

“ Why, what put that idea in your head f” he demanded, in
surprise.

“ Well, I don’t know,” Molly replied, thoughtfully. " I.
thought that, mebbe, you were my father, that night when you
offered to take me home with you. I heard on inquiring
about a woman and achild from one of the roun ers, down on
Cherry street, and I thought that p’haps, I was the child.
And ’1 kinder cottoned to you as if you were my father, any-
way. ’

It made Neil Jemmison young again to listen to the earnest
words of the girl; the story of the slums sounded so strange,
coming from the fresh young lips of the child.

 

“ And you have got the idea into your head that I am your
father 1?” .

“ Yes: ’cos if you wasn’t, you wouldn’t take me to thh
grand house and hire servants to Wait on me, jest as if I was
a queen, or something of that sort," Molly replied earnestly
and she fixed her bright eyes inquirineg on the grave face 0
the master as she spo e.

“ Do you not remember anything of your parents 1”

She shook her head.

” Did not the folks with whom you lived ever speak of your
parents 1’"

“ No; only they used to call me a begger‘s brat when they
got mad at me.”

“ You are sure that they were not our parents f”

“ Oh, yes," replied the girl,quic{ly. “ I heard Mrs. Mul-
carthy say a dozen times that I was no chick of their breed,
and that they on] kept me out of charity. EVer since I was
big enough to un erstand anything about it, I’ve been on the
look-out for m father or mother to come and take me away.
And the ver rst time I saw you talking to one of the rounders
outside of atsey Doolin's place, I heard you say something
’bout a woman and a child, and I jest made up my mind that
I was the chick that you was after."

Jemmison silently rose from his chair, took the girl by the
shoulders, and led ner u to the large glass which occupied
the wall between the two gout windows.

“ Look 1” he commanded, directing Molly‘s attention to the
two faces mirrored in the glass.

“ Yes, I see.”

“ Is there any resemblance between m oval, olive face,
dark eyes, dark air, and your red-gold loc , blue eyes, slen-
der face, and clear red and white complexion?”

“ Not much.”

“ Would you take that girl to be the daughter of this man I"
he demanded.

“ Girls don’t always look like their fathers,” Molly averred,
stoutly. It was apparent that the girl did not relish giving up
the father theory.

Jemmison laughed, as he said:

“ Yuou are determined that I shall be your father in spite of
myse .’

“'I don’t believe that I can get any better father, and I
guess I’ll, hold on to on,” Molly declared, in a tone that Jem-
mison understood. he girl was firm in her belief.

 

CHAPTER XXVI.
muses on an sonar.

Barman! evening at half-just seven; the crowd best 3
the box-office at N iblo’s Gar en plainly indicated that ere
would be an excellent audience present that night to receive
the charming Miss Ellen Desmond.

The manager as usual was hove ' about the entrance, and
the indefatigable Mr. Medham, poste by the ticket-taker, was
mentally calculating how much money there would be in the
“house ’ that night.

By one of those lucky chances which sometimes occur in
this life, Neil Jemmison, passing into the theater, came face
to face with the manager, and the thought occurred that from
that jovial personage he might learn somethin respectin the
woman whose face had roduced such an e set upon in.
Possibly if Jemmison ha not been brought face to face with
the manager, he would never have thought of cross-examining
him.

“ How do you do i’” said Jemmison, halting, and extending
his hand.

“ Glad to see youi” exclaimed the manager, almost at the
same time, and then he shook J emmison’s hand cordially.

“How is business with you i"

“ Oh, excellent; look at them coming in i”

“ Miss Desmond is attractive then f”

“ Oh, yes; she has been doing splendidly.”

“ So I judged ; I have attended three or four times myself.”

“ Yes; I saw you the other it ht.”

“ By the we. , where does ° Desmond come from f”
Jemmison aske , carelessly. “ Is she an English actress?”

“ Oh, no, American; she has been playing in the West for
some time—three or four years, I believe.”

“ I do not remember ever hearing of her before,” Jemmison
remarked.

“ She made no reputation to speak of; this en ment is
really the beginning of her career. But, how 0 you like
her i ’

“ Very well, indeed.”

“ She is very pretty.”

3¥“°i'“i‘""l°°‘ail‘tl'°" a... a. m...

er cm s en respon e . ~

“ Very lOI’I’g,pI00, and so vary black.”

“ Black I” cried the Worthy manager, in astonishment.

“ch; black of course."

“ But her hair isn’t black 1"

“ No i” J emmison assumed to be surprised; “ why. it looks
black from the front of the house. It’s a dark brown then, I
presume.”

“ N either black nor brown; it’s a most beautiful gold-color
~a lawn yellow.”

Now emmisou Was really surprised.

  Wvam-'~s~  a...

 

 

l.

 
 

22 Gentleman George.

 

“ She has light hair?"

“Yes, she wears a wi in this piece.”

Jemmison had llOllCt‘t the yellow hair when the actress had
pasSed him in front of the Maison Dome, but at once had come
to the conclusion that it was not her own.

“ I did not think of that," Jemmison confessed.

“ Most beautiful golden hair i” the manager repeated.

.During this conversation the two had withdrawn to one
side so as to get out of the way of the human life-current that
was streaming into the theater.

“ In fact," continued the manager, “ she is about as pretty
a woman as I have seen in a long while. That’s one reason
why she draws, you know; there’s nothing like beauty and
talent combined. It was just an accident that I happened to
get her here. I was going to do a new show-piece and found
out that I couldn’t get it ready in time. I had about two
weeks open, and nothing that was sure to draw to put in. I
had considerable correspondence with this lady’s business
manager, a Mr. Medham—deuced smart fellow, by the way;
knows what the people want—and had made up my mind to
give the lady a trial on the first favorable opportunity, so I
engaged her for the two weeks, but I think that she is safe to
pla six or eight.”

hen the manager spoke of the actress‘ business agent the
idea flashed at once into Jemmison’s head that possibly from
her own business manager he could procure the information
he wished.

“ Medham,” Jemmison said, refiectively ; “ that name
sounds familiar to me. Is he one of our New York men ?"

“ No, I think not; he’s been around New York a great deal
though. He’s a theatrical speculator.” '

“ Probably I know him; the name is very familiar.”

“ There he is now.” .

The manager pointed out Medham, who, standing by the
door-tender, caressing his fat chin, seemed the very picture of
happiness. The steady inflow of paying patrons delighted the
soul of the lady’s business-manager.

h Jammison took a good look at Mr. Medham, then shook his
ea .

“ No, I was wrong; I don’t know him,” he had to confess.

“ Shall I Call him over and introduce you ?" the manager
asked. “ if you feel at all curious about Miss Desmond he
can tell you all about her. He discovered her somewhere out
West playing in some little traveling company, I believe In
fact he has made her what she is. Her talent wouldn’t
amount to much without his advertising skill to make it
known. He’s smart as a steel-trap-a regular Massachusetts
Yankee.” ‘ _

“ Yes; I really think I should like to know him," Jemmi-
son replied.

Just at that moment the manager happened to catch Med-
ham’s eye and beckoned for him. ,

When Medham approached, the manager introduced him to
Jemmison, and then, begging to be excused, withdraw to his
private office.

“ Likely to be a large audience in attendance this evening,”
Neil remarked.

Rubbing his hands together briskly, Medham replied, with
an air of intense satisfaction, that the audience promised to be
the largest of the week. '

Then Jemmison came at once to the subject which formed
the attraction of the audience, the young and pretty actress.

Medham was in no-way‘averse to conversing about her,
but his conversation Only tended to her talents as an actress——
the great success she was meeting with, and how worthy she
was of such triumphs.

Jemmison, keen and subtle student of human nature, per-
ceived, after about five minutes’ conversation, that the business
manager was no fool, and that he was not to be put through
the rocess of “pumping” with impunity.

0 Miss Ellen Desmond the actress he spoke freely and
frankly, but of Miss Desmond off the stage and in private life
he was strangely reserved. _

Jemmison quickly comprehended that to gain the informa-
tion he wanted, he must pursue some other plan than to at-
tempt to extract it from the shrewd business-manager by any
series of deftly-put questions. So, deciding upon a plan of
operations, he procaeded to carry it out.

When the curtain rose, Jemmison and Medham in company
repaired to the auditorium. The eyes of the business-man-
ager sparkled with delight as he gazed upon the well-filled
house.

Together the two watched the progress of the pin ;
together, between the acts, they sought the saloon of the h e-
tropolitan Hotel, where Jemmison ordered a bottle of chain-
pague, much to Medham’s astonishment, who at once set his
new-made acquaintance down as being a “ full-blooded white
m n.”

. emmison insisted upon paying for every thing, and at the
end of the fourth act it was with regret that Medham felt
obliged to excuse himself to Jemmison and'explain that he
had to visit the box office to “ count up the house ” and there-
by ascertain how much money was due to Miss Desmond as
her share of the proceeds of the night.

Jemmison simply asked how soon he would be at liberty,
and, on Medham replying that ' it would only take thirty
minutes or so, said that he would wait for him, and suggested
that as they had Commenced they might as well make a night
of it, to which the business-manager gravely assented.

It wasnot often that'Mr. Almer'M'eilham ran across an ac-
quaintance who insisted upon standing champagne of the best
brands at every “ round.” - I - v

 

‘—v

Medham generally rode home with the actress, but he knew
how be con d arrange that matter.

Jemmison smiled griml to himself as he reflected that soon
the secret would be revea ed to him.

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
“me wonxs wonnaas."

Jus'r a minute or two before the curtain descended, thereby
indicating that the play had ended, Medham came forth from
the box-office and rejoined Jemmison.

“ It will be over in a minute or so,” the business-manager
said, referring to the play. “ Just wait for me in the saloon.
Ishall have to explain to Miss Desmond that I have an en-
gagement. I usually escort her home. It won’t detain me
over ten minutes.”

“ Don’t hurry yourself on my account,” Jemmison re-
marked; “ I’ll wait.”

Then Medham proceeded at once to the stage-door, leaving
J emmison to witness the closin scene of the p ay.

Finally the curtain descende , and Medham, encountering
the tired actress at the “wing,” escorted her to her dressing-
room.

“A splendid house," she said, as she sunk down, exhausted,
in a chair, while the burly ntygress proceeded to remove the
raven-hued wig.

“Yes, a little over fifteen hundred dollars l" Medham ex-
claimed, jubilantly.

“ And how much for the week ?"

“ Forty-five hundred and sixty-three dollars."

“ And we share after three thousand.”

“ Yes, our share is fifteen hundred and thirty-one dollars
and fifty cents.”

“ That is something like a share l" Miss Desmond exclaimed,
exultingly.

“ I bet ye l” the business-manager replied, tersely; “ a lit-
tle difiereut from the one-horse towns that we used to figure
in, where we were lucky if we got enough to pay our board
and printing bill and fare to the next town.”

“ What is our expense for the week i?"

“Only about three hundred dollars; it only cost about two-
tifty to advertise, and I think I did the thing up brown, too.”
With great satisfaction Mr. Medham indulged in this observa-
tion.

“ We have made six hundred apiece, then, by the week,”

the actress said, thoughtfully.
“ guite correct!” Medham replied. “A very tidy little sum;
and immerman—he’s the treasurer, you know—told me when
we settled up to-night that he felt confident we would do fully
as well, if not better, next week." .

“ Why, it this business continues we shall make a small for-
tune out of this engagement l” the actress exclaimed, and there
was a strange sparkle and gleam in her eyes as she spoke.

“ Oh, yes; but, my dear, am sorry to say that there is only
one New York in this Country; still, after this triumph we
shall be able to demand better terms from the Western man-
agers, and perhaps pick u a few ducats out there in the fall.
If we can get Chicago, incinnati, St. Louis, New Orleans,
Baltimore and Pittsburg, we are pretty safe for about. three

thousand dollars; the rest of the towns don't amount to much ,

for us.”

“ Oh, yes, if our business only holds here. Boston and
Philadelphia, too, will be good for us if we can get time at
the right theaters. A New York success sweeps the country."
The business-manager felt extremely jubilant. Never before
in his career had he carried off fifteen hundred dollars from
the box-office on a Saturday night.

“ Here's the six hundred for you, Nelly,” he continued,
drawing a huge roll of bills from his pocket and placing it on
the dressing-place before the woman. “ I want you to excuse
me from seeing you home to-night. I want to go off and cele-
brute after the week’s brilliant success."

“ Very well; just as you please," Miss Desmond said, care-
lessly. “ Did you notice that Mr. Bruyn was in the box again
to-night?”

, “ Yes; I saw the Judge when he came in. By the way, he
asked me to inform on that he should be pleased to call upon
you if it was agrees is."

The eyes of the actress snapped, and the little white teeth
c~une together for a moment with a savage clink as the points
met. The look upon the face of the woman was a strange
combination of rage and triumph blended. It was a minute
or so before she s oke.

“ Well," she said, at length, “ I suppose that there is no
harm in my receivin the gentleman.”

9‘ Not the slightest ” Medham exclaimed, abruptl . “ I tell

'you what it is, Nell, you‘ve got the Judge foul. I you have

mind to play for it, you can win a position that will make
in” of old Bruyu’s female friends turn pale with envy. The
Judge is in dead earnest. He‘s no light-headed fool like these
young dandies who sit in the front seats and try to attract
{flour attention by flinging bouquets at you. I tell you what,

ell, to marry the Judge would be the biggest kind of a star
engagement.’

“ And do you really think that he Would marry me i" the
actress demanded seriously.

“ Why not? Iie’s evidently ‘ struck ’ by you, to use tho
common term."

 

 

H)

Gentlemen George. 83

 

 

 

" gut he is very rich, the say.”

“ hat of that?” excla m ' Medham, conwmptuousli;
“ he’ll not be the first man to charm a retty woman bl t e
ofler of a golden ca e. ‘ Go for him,’ ellyl From w at I
have seen of the J u go, and from the way he speaks of you,
I’ll bet ten to one that you catch him!"

“ Well, I’ll see,” she said, with evident thou htfulness.

“ By, by; I’m 03‘. If I happen to meet the udge, I’ll bring
him up, tomorrow afternoon.’ And then Medham withdrew
and hastened to the saloon, where he had promised to meet
Jemmison. '

The business-manager had discovered that gentleman smok-
ing at the door on Broadway. 

After Medham had apologized to Jemmison for keeping him
waitin so long, and J emmison had begged him not to mention
it. Me ham suggested some champagne to commence on, to
which J emmison had replied that he had already ordered sup-
per in the adjoining restaurant, and that the champagne was
in the ice.

At this announcement, Medham came at one to the con-
clusion that the dark-eyed stranger was a prince in dis uise,
and then he suddenly remembered what the manager ha told
him about Jemmison being the heir to a gold~mine, and ceased
to wonder at his liberality.

To the restaurant the two adjourned, and soon the supper
was placed upon the table.

A thorough judge of the good things of this world Jemmi-
son had taxed to their utmost the resources of the establish.
ment. And Medham, who, during his checkered career had
trodden every round of'the ladder of fortune from the foot to
the top, had fully learned to appreciate the delicacies of the
table, devoured the viands with great gusto. The wine, too
was excellent, and by the time supper Was eaten, the two had
got to the second bottle, and Med felt supremely content.
ed with himself and all the world.

Jemmison while playing the part of a courteous host still
kept a wary exp upon his guest, and at length cautiously
broached the su ject.

“ I have been very much pleased with Miss Desmond,” he
said. carelessly, after he had listened to Medham’s praise of
the lady’s talent; “ and her face seems so familiar to me that
I feel sure I have met her before." ‘

“ Seen her act somewhere, perhaps ” suggested Medham.

“No; I have never s'een her act; am sure of that; butI
think I. used to know her before she went on the stage, say
some sixteen or eighteen years ago,” Jemmison said.

“ She’s onl eighteen now, you know,” Medham observed
with a sly Wink, filling up his lass as he spoke.

“ To the public; yes, 1 un erstand all about that. But
if my icllgads correct, she is about thirty-six or thirty-eight
years 0 .’

“ I don’t reall think she is as old as that, althoughl she’s
no chicken,” M ham remarked; ” of course I shoul ’t say
this to every one.”

“ But is her name Desmond f”

“ Yest I think it is," Medham responded; “ at least I never
knew her by any other name, and if it isn’t her right name
she knows enough to keep that shady. I can tell you all I
know of her, in about a minute. I was out West as agent
for a dramatic company playing in the small Ohio towns, and
that Miss Desmond came from Cincinnati to join us sent by
a dramatic agent there. I saw that the girl had stuff in her,
thoughshe only came to play small rts. So I proposed to her
to go starring with me. I had a sta e of about a thousand dol-
lars that I was willing to risk. She jumped at the offer and
so we started. As to her past life, what she had been before
she went on the sta , 1 know no more than the man in the
moon. And, now think of it, it is rather strange consider-
ing how intimate we have been, that I have never heard her
mention a single word of her past life.”

The trail had ended—no thoroughfare beyond!

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
run some shoes-animus.

Ar ten o’clock on Sunday morning, Mr. Medham opened
his eyes and suddenly became conscious that he had a terrible
head-ache.

“'Coniound that champagne!” he muttered, as he got u
and pr00eeded to bathe his head. “I ought to have stuc
to whisky, my native beverage, and let the sparkling fluid
alone.”

Then Medham dressed himself and proceeded down-stairs
for breakfast. After the meal was dispatched, he went to
the reading-room which looked out upon Broadway, and
seating himself in an easy-chair, proceeded to look over the
newspapers.

An hour or so Medham glanced over the various ournal's;
then Judge Bruyn entered the room, and interrupt his soli-
tary meditations. As the Judge advanced at once to Med-
ham, he naturally guessed that the Judge had been seeking
him. .

“ Good-morning,” the Judge said, seating himeelf by Med-
ham‘s side; “ how do you find yourself this mornin ?’

Medham replied that he Was in tolerable healt , and ex-
pressed the ho that the Judge was the same, to which of
course the Ju gs made suitable answer.

 

Then Bruyn picked up one of the papers that Medham had

carelessly dropped and glanced at a head-line.

“ Gentleman Geor e,’ he said, reppatin the substance of
the boldly displayed fiine of type; ‘ an o d name for a ras-
cal, isn’t itl’” And as the Judge spoke, he watched the face
of the business-manager narrowly, but Mr. Medham wore his
usual placid smile in blissful unconsciousness of the Judge’s
search for information.

“ Oh, they give those fellows all sorts of fanc names,”_'
Medham said. “,,I remember one fellow in California—a
sportin gent who ‘ gambled on the green ’—-who was usually
called ‘ he Panther,’ yet he seemed to be just as nice and
well-mannered a gentleman as one would wish to see. Who
is this Gentleman George 1’” _

“ One of those clever rascals for whom the law is always
reaching, but whom, somehow, it never manages to touch.

.~ He's. in the Tombs now, on a charge of assault with intent to

kill.”

“ Oh, yes,” Medham exclaimed, abruptly, “ I believe that
I'did read something about him in one of the newspapers last
week. Shot a man on the river, didn’t he i”

“ Yes; I think that is the offense he is charged with.”

“ I suppose he’ll get off if he has plenty of money; from
the way things have been going lately, it as struck me that
a man with plenty of money can do almost anything in New
York and not be troubled much for it either.”

“ It does look like it sometimes,” Bruyn said. He was
fully satisfied now that Mr. Almer Medham knew nothing of
Gentleman George, but the fact of the actress visitin the
prisoner in his cell was still an unsolved mystery to in.
When he reflected upon the circumstance he saw how pro-
bableit was that Miss Desmond might be acquainted with
Gentleman George and Medham still be ignorant of the fact.

“ How is Miss Desmond, to-day f” the Judge asked, after
a little pause. '

“I really don’t know; I have not seen her this morning.
Naturally, though, I sup 086 she must feel a little tired after
her week's work. I sha 1 call upon her, about three this af-
ternoon. If you have no engagement, Judge, I should like to
have you call upon Miss Desmond. I know that she will be
delighted to see you,” Medham added, in his careless, good-
natured way. ‘

“ I am at liberty this afternoon, as it happens,” Bruyn said;
" and if you have nothing better to do between now and three,
take adrive with me through the Park.” . ‘

Medham accepted the invitation at once. Bruyn’s team
was outside, and the two getting in, drove out toHigh Bridge;
there they alighted, had a lunch, and then returned to the

city.
And alter they had got fairly started on the trip, Bruyn, by

a series of skillfully-put questions, endeavored to draw from v

his com anion all that he knew in re rd to Miss Desmond.

But edham, careless and oil-ban d as he appeared to be,
was not the man to be “ pumped,” even by so able a lawyer
as the Judge. Besides, he reasoned in his own mind that
there was a wide difference between Judge Bruyn and Neil
Jemmison—and he might also have added with truth, be-
tween Almer Medham at midnight with two bottles of cham-
pa us under his jacket, and the same gentleman at noon with
a sight head-ache and perfectly innocent of sense-bewilder-
ing drink. To J emmison he had frankly revealed all he
knew concerning the actress, even his own opinion regarding
her age, but to the Judge he was as dumb as an oyster.

And innocent and artless Mr. Medham never betrayed by a
word or look that he was perfectly conscious he was under-
going the legal operation known as a cross—examination.

The Judge, able and skillful as he certainly was, had his
labor for his pains, and therefore alighted at the door of Miss
Desmond’s house no wiser in re ant to her than when, three
hours before, he had driven with edham up Broadway.

Miss Desmond, dressed as usual very plainly, but in such
becoming arments that they seemed to enhance her beaut ,
received t e Judge with a blush and a smile. Graceful}
and charmingly she begged his pardon for receivrng him in
house attire, but added in her innocent, child-like way that
she had no visitors except Mr. Medham, and he was used to
her aim is dress.

The ud 6, old, cautious man of the world as he was, well
versed in al the tricks of humanity, was caught by the. frank
simplicity of the actress. She possessed far more natural
abilities in the acting line than he gave her credit for, and
she did not always need the stage of the theater to display
them.

Bruyn never thought of the trite adage that a woman is
never so dangerous as when she seems to be most helpless.

After a few minutes’ conversation upon the common sub-
jects of the weather, Miss Desmond’s success, and the pros-
pects for the future, Mr. Medham begged to be excused for
twent or thirty minutes, as he had some business letters to
write I) reference to Miss Desmond’s future engagements, and
asked the lady’s permission to use her pen and mk and turn
the dining~room into an office.

Miss Desmond smilineg ave the desired permission, and
called to the negress to t fir. Medham what he wanted.

After Medham with rew, promising as he did sothat he
would not be long, the Judge noticed a Sunday newspaper
lyin upon the table, and as he gazed at it, again the bold
hea -line, “ Gentleman George i” caught his eye.

Carelesst he picked the paper up and read the name aloud,
and as he did so, closely watched the face of the actress.
Not a muscle moved. The face calm and white, might have

"‘:..%t‘

x v ‘3‘.<..

g

 

24 Gentlemen George.

 

been carved out of marble for all the emotion that it betrayed
when the feion’s name was pronounced.

“ A strange name, Miss Desmond," the Judge remarked.

“Yes, very strange,” she retui'sed, and as she s oke she
darted a quick glance at the Judge from her long ark eye-
lashes—so quick that even the sharp eyes of Bruyn did not
detect it.

“ Have you read the particulars of the case i" he asked;
and, despite his efi'ort to appear careless and unconcerned, the
legal sharpness of the lawyer was plain] ' apparent.

Again came the short, quick glance rom under the long,
dark lashes. The man skilled in the law was no match for
the sharp-eyed woman of the world. His face betrayed the
secret that hers preserved. _

” Yes, I am quite interested in his case—to use your legal
term," she replied. Her face as calm and her voice as firm
as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be
interested in the career of a society brigand.

The Judge’s face fully revealed the astonishment that he
felt at this candid confession. ‘

“I really cannot understand why you should take an in-
;ercstién the life or death of any such fellow as this Dominick,"

e sa .

“ Why, I know him," she answered, innocently.

“ You do i”

“ Yes, 1 became acquainted with him about a ear ago.
He stopped at the same hotel that I did. It was n a little
town out west. He seemed to be very much of a entleman
and helped me a great deal ; I was just strtiggling a ong then.
He said that he was connected with the New York press and
promised to aid me to at an engagement here. Then he
went away suddenly anng never saw or heard of him again
until i received a letter, telling me that he Was in the Tombs
and asking me to visit him." ’

“ And id on go?” The Judge put the question admir-
ably, conside at; that he knew that she had gone.

“Yes; he wished me to assist him if I could do so, and
said that his arrest was all a scheme of some personal enemies,
to ruin him."

“ Don’t you believe it, Miss Desmond i" exclaimed the
Jgdge, decidedly. “ He is a thorough sconndrel, I know it as
a act. ’

“In that'case, then, I will not take any more notice of
him ” the actress said, (guite promptly.
e” Judge smiled; e imagined that he had“made his
game.

CHAPTER XXIX.
mm“.

In just two weeks from the da of Gentleman Geor e’s ar-
rest his trial came. His lawyer,t e ponderous Three- ecker,
had vainly tried to stave of! the trial, but the officers of the law,
urged on by a healthy public sentiment manifested by the
newspaper clamor for justice, pressed the case to an early
hearing, and so Gentleman Geor , was produced in open court
to answer to the law that he ha outraged.

The doctor who attended to the wounded policeman, struck
down by the ball of the river plunderers, testified as to the na-
ture of the hurt that the omcer had received, and stated, too,
that even now the recovery of the man was a matter of doubt;
that the chances for life were fully even with the chances for
death. Then the licemen who were with the wounded man
in the boat were p aced upon the stand, one by one, and testi-
fied as to the manner in which the wounded man had received
his hurt. So far this was the usual course and routine of
the legal machinery, and iln plicated no one as being the author
of the out e. Then Mickey Shea took the stand and told a
plain, strai ttorward story as to the work of the hi ht when
the rats of the river had relieved the British captain of' the
Golden Dragon of his diamond charge. 30 told how he had
been enticed into joining the river thieves by the prisoner at
the bar, Gentleman George, as he was nicknamed, or Geor e
Dominick, as he should be called; how in a moment of weal:-
ness, he had yielded to the temptation and had joined Domi-
nick and his companions in their raid upon the Liverpool
liner. He then described embarking in a boat at the foot of
Market street with the masked men—bow they had given him
a mask, and he had placed it over his face in obedience to
their instructions. Then they had pulled out into the stream
and headed straight for the vessel swinging at its anchors oil
the Battery. Plain] and tersely Mickey related how they had
ascended the side 0 the ship, and, descending into the cabin,
had robbed the Briton of the tliamond jewelry intrusted to his
care. After that, descending to their boat again, Mickey and
his wuipanions had pulled off quite leisurely, until the police-
bar e had won chase; then he described how Dominick, the
lea er of tie party, finding that the police-boat was gaining
upon them, had deliberately leveled his revolver at the officers,
and fired; and further testified that he had heard a roan
come from the police-bout and had seen one of the o cers
drop his our and fall, evidently wounded by the pistol-shot of
Dominick.

Mickey’s evidence was direct and delivered without hesita-
tion. It would have been much more likely to carry conviction
if he had been a better loriking man, but the contrast between
the witness in the box swearing a man’s life away, and the

 

I

 

purisoner at the bar, with the prospect of ten or twenty years
the State Prison before him, was eat indeed.

Micke Shea, a red-faced, bullet- eaded fellow, with evil
eyes, an the im ress of the rough and shoulder-hitter stamped
indelibly upon h m, was net the opposite of George Dominick
—-Gentleman George—With his pale, delicate face and gentle-
manly bearing; the contrast rendered still more marked by
the unusual pallor of George’s face, caused 'by the suffering
and loss of blood entailed by his wound.

And near the prisoner, too, sat his wife, pale and evidently.
deeply agitated. This was a device of the astute Three-Decker,
who ully understood what efi'ect the pale and anxious face of
a retty woman would have upon the tender susceptibilities
0 an average juryman. ' ‘

Mickey’s evidence closed the first da ’s‘ proceedings.

Vainly COunselor Watt had pleade 'that the case mi ht be
But off until Captain Drummond, the commander 'of the lden

ragon, could be summond from Europe to give his evidence
in the case, but the Judge, rightly understanding it was for
the purpose of aining time a one that the motion had been
made, quietly enied it, and decided that the trial must go on.

Just a single glance the Three-Decker cast around the court,
but in the lance be fully expressed the opinion that there Was
no justice or his client in that court; then he sat down and
gathered up his papers, apparently in deep despair. This was
all done for effect, of course.

Among the spectators in the court-room was Nicholas Bruyn.
It was not often that the ex-judge troubled himself to attend
a criminal trial unless he was personally concerned in it, but
he felt a strange curiosity to see the desperado who had been
honored with the friendship of' the pretty Miss Desmond.

Bruyn was considerably astonished at the appearance of the
prisoner, and what still more astonished him, as he got a good
look at the pale and handsome face of Gentleman George, was
the impression which took possession of him, that at some
previous time he had seen a face which resembled the face of
the man in the prisoner's dock with an almost life-long ini-
prisonment staring him in the face. V

The more Nicholas Bruyn looked at the prisoner the more
gefbecame convinced that somewhere he had seen the face

e ore.

And then the ex-Judge went back over his past life and
tried to remember when and where he had met Gentleman
Geor . But the effort was a failure, and Bruyn possessed a
won erful memory, too—a fact that many a criminal had
cause to remember when Nicholas Bruyn had sat in judg-
ment.

“lam sure that I have met this fellow somewhere,” the
Judge muttered, imgatiently, amazed that he could not
“ place ” the face. “ ut wheret—that is the rub. I wonder
if he has ever been through my hands? It is not often that
a face escapes me, and I am sure I have seen this one before;
the eyes and hair, the peculiar shape of the face; oh, not there
is no mistake. I have met this gentleman, but hang me ifI
can remember the circumstances. '

Then the Judge suddenly remembered that during his po-
litical career he had been obliged for a brief period to associ-
ate with some very peculiar people, for politics, like misery,
makes strange bed-fellows, and the thought occurred that,
possibly at some caucus or primary election of the unterrified,
he had encountered Gentleman George. '

With this solution the Judge was fain to be satisfied. He
remained throughout the trial, for he had taken quite an inter-
est in the proceedings, and when he thought of Ellen Des-
mond, the actress, in connection with the man on trial for a
deadly assault, he came quickly to the conclusion that it was
as well that the handsome face and form of Gentleman
george should adorn the corridors and workshops of Sing Sing

mean.

The Judge fully underede the interest that a face like
George DominiCk s would naturali excite in a susceptible fe~
male heart, and really was af'rai that the society brigand
would prove a dangerous rival should he choose to enter the
lists and contest for the love of the pretty actress!

“ The fellow is just what I was twenty-five or thirty years
ago," the Judge thought, as he left the court-room, "and a
woman is sometimes fool enough to prefer'an adroit sconndrel
with a handsome face and plausible tongue to a man a little
advanced in years, even if he has money at his back.”

Bruyn went straight down to his office in Wall street. He
was prett deeply engaged in some large real-estate specula-
tions, an still retained his office although he had almost given
up legal practice.

Receiving his morning mail from the clerk, he passed into
the inner office, his sanctum, and began to peruse his letters.
He was interru ted, after ten or fifteen minutes, by the clerk,
who informed im that a deputation of gentlemen wished to
see him in the outer room.

Proceeding thither, Bruyn saw at a glance that his visitors
were nearly all officers of the metropolitan police—that is, all
that he knew of the party were. They were in plain clothes
now and evident? off duty.

“Good-day, J u ge," said one of the gentlemen, who stood
in advance of the rest, and had apparently been deputed to
act as spokesman for the rest.

” Good-day, gentlemen,” the Judge replied, with an inquir-
ing glance as though with an intent to ask the reason of their
visit.

“ J udgc, you must excuse our calling upon you about a little
legal business, but we thought that possibly we might get you
to undertake our case, although we understood that on do
not practice much at present. But. Judge, we’re a of us

.Gentleman George. 25

 

 

from your district, and have backed you up good and strong
when things were mighty close on election-day," said the
spokesman of the party.
, “ I know that, gentlemen," the Judge replied. “ I don’t for-
get fill friends; what do you want?” - .1
“ ort Burke is dead—killed by Gcor e Dominick, and we
want you to go in and help the District Attorney toewhg
this Gentlemen George.”

 

CHAPTER XXX.
ourer on sor om'rr.

. Tun announcement of the death of the wounded policemen
naturally created quite a deal of talk among those who had
taken an interest in the trial of Gentleman George, and the
interest created was not at all alla ed when it was publicly
reported that the eminent lawyer, Judge Bruyn, would give
his services to the prosecution. . Of course people naturally
undersde that the Judge had been retained by,the friends of
the murdered man, eager for justice upon the sla er.

Counselor Watt, the Three-Decker, seated in his office,
within the shadows of the gloomy pile, known as the Tombs,
gave a start of astonishment when he read the intelligence in
a morning newspaper, that Nicholas Bruyn would assist the
District Attorney in the trial of George Dominick. -

The counselor was annoyed anddisgusted. .

“The case is bad enough as it is without having to fight
halfa dozon lawyers, " he muttered, discontentedly.

The Three-Decker had met Judge Bruyn before, and feared
his power over a jury. As well as any other living man who
followed the law for a trade did the astute counselor know the
weight of a plausible appeal to the twelve men, “ geod and
true "—whom the newspapers generall playfully designate
as :28 twelve idiots—within whose ban a the fate of a prisoner
res ..

J ludge an‘sgreat power as a lawyer lay in his specious
ora ory. , A

The death of the wounded man who had been stricken down
in the discharge of his duty by the bullet of the river-thief,
naturally made quite a di in the manner of conducting
the trial. The coroner’s jury had first to return their verdict.
The proceedings were hurried through with railroad-like rap-
idity, (lespite thedflbrts of Counselor Watt. to retard the pro-
gress, and within a week George Dominick stood duly accused
before the bar of justice with the'murder of Mortimer Burke.

: Then came the ii ht over the selection of a jury to try the
case. in which the bras-Decker maufuliy contested the put-
ting of any man on the jury who had ever read any newspaper
account 0 the case, or who looked as if he pomesscd sense
enough to keep himself out of the insane asylum. But all
mortal things must have an end, and the jury was at last im-
psnneled. ‘

The counselor was not at all satisfied when the jury i003
their seats on the opening day of the trial, and he got a good
look at them. it was a pretty fair-looking ijlury, as Juries go,
and the ThreeDeclier saw to his dismay t at three or four
men in the box really looked as if they possessed air-average
amount of common sense. and to the mind of the notorious
crirmnallawyer, common sense was a most dangerous thing
to be possessed by a juryman.

The. jury in their seats, then came the tiresome details of
the trial, tiresome to all, except the badgered witnesses, the
cunning lawyers and the pale-face man whosat in the pris-
oncr’s box, on trial for his life. . . *

Upon the prisoner’s side the first witness produced washle
wife, who testified that, on the night of the murder, her hus-
band had accompanied 'her to her father's house, and had re-
mained there until after twelve o’clock, and clearly stated that
it was'flw minutes'past twelve before they had left the house

‘ to go home to their own dwelling. Dominick’s wife’s father,

Christopher Walebone fully corroborated this statement, as
also did his daughter, i’eneiope. 5
‘_Now as Mickey Siren had positively sworn that he and th
risoner at the bar, George Dominick, had embarked from the
001 of Market street, between eleven and half-pest eleven,
and had emphatrcellydeclared, in answer to a question from
Counselor Watt, that he was positive that it was before half-
past eleven that the Riva-Rats had started on their expedition,
this rather weakened Shen’s evidence. The ob act that the
Three-Decker hadtin holding the witness soclose y to the time
that the embarkation had taken place, was not apparent until
the'rehntting testimony was introduced; then it was perfectly
Elton that the object was to throw doubts upon the truth of

r. Shea‘s statements; As to the wound in the shoulder, Mrs.
Dominick testified that, on the mornin after the night on
which the policeman had been wounded, in carelessly hand-
ling her husband’s revolver, it had exploded in her hand, and
the ball had taken an erratic course across the room, chipped
the t of the bed, and then .had entered her husband’s
sliou der, he at the time being extended upon the bed.

Then the counselor brought up four doctors who had exam-
ined both the bedopost and the wound in Dominick's shoulder,
and they fully testified that it was tlw-ir belief that the wound
could have been indicted in such a manner.

This strong testimony rather shook the evidence that had
been given by two doctors, witnesses for the government. who
tied afililfiified thei wound in tit: prisoner’s shoulder, and ex-
presse i on opin on that it h been indicted e s t
as described by Michael Shea. Esq. r by P0: M

 

And then the counselor paid his respects to the principal
witness on the side of the prosecution. In a delicate way he
drew out from him the damaging admission that he had been
“ u to the Island " three or four times; had also paid a visit
to ding-Sing, and even now was under heavy bonds to answer
in an assau t and battery case. Of course during the exam.
ination of Mr. Shea, there was an almost constant wrangle be
tween the lawyers. One objected, and the other insisted, and
a half-a-dozcn times the Judge was obliged to interfere in or-
der to restrain the ponderous counselor, and keep him within
the bounds prescribed both by law and courtesy.

And the result was that the spectators witnessed one of
those disgraceful scenes so common-unhappily-in our courts
of justice, and if one of the spectators could have closed his
eyes, with no great stretch of the imagination, he might easily
have thought that he was listening to some bar-room brawl
common to election time.

Then Judge Bruyn, calm, able and smiling, reviewed the
case. He clearly showed how easil an alibi could 'be proven
even in the most desperate cases. e did not attempt to at.
tack the credibility of the witnesses for the prisoner, but
simply related the history of an English case when a prisoner

"had established an alibi by witnesses who swore as to his beigg

in a certain place at a certain time, and how the prisoner h
cunningiy tampered with the clocks before the commission of
the deed that he was accused of on purpose to prove an alibi,
and so, on the evidence of innocent but deceived witnesses, be
nearly escgfed the punishment due to his outrage of the laws;
and us to ickey Shea, he simply described the men who had
felt the power of the law, and, terrified b the weight of its
iron hand, had tremblingly come forwar to do one act of
justice ; and had surrendered himself, bound hand and foot as it
were, to answer for his misdeeds, and Judge Bru n took it
upon himself to declare that the Government h made no
agreement with the witness whereby, in consequence of his
evidence, he was to be shielded from punishment. ' _

And then the Judge briefly reviewed the career of the pris-
Oner at the bar as far as it was known to the police. A bank-
robber and confidence-man, el ways “ wanted ” and never cap-
tured; a man as able and skillful as he was wicked; a v B -
and of Society who preyed upon his fellow-men as ru less y
as the footpad who beat his victim to the ground with a
bludgeon or choked him, garots fashion, while a companio
went through his pockets. '

When Judge Bruyn finished his speech and sat down, a lit-
tle murmur of admiration went through the court. Short, and
apparently without eflort as the speech was, it covered the

round thorcughiy; each point was a fact planted in the dull
grains of the wearied jury; no glitterin generalities to dazzle
and befog, but stubborn statements di cult to evade and im-
possible to answer.

Then the Judge delivered his charge to the jury; not a
.engthy one but quite to the point, and it bore hard on the
prisoner. ‘

The Three-Decker moved uneasily in his seat while he list-
ened to it.

The Judge carefull drew attention to the witnesses who
swore to the alibi, an then to the principal witness for the
Government who swore so positively to the presence of the
prisoner in the boat, and to his firing the shot which gave the
policeman his deathowound.

Although the Judge did not as so, in plain words, yet be
inferred that the balance of proo was against the prisoner.

And the Judge, too, spoke of the Brigand of Society as bsin
the most dangerous of his class, dangerous because be h
brains as well as hands. Ugly words these for Gentleman

rge.
The jury retired to deliberate upon their verdict. . ‘
George set his teeth tirml together; the warm rays of the
afternoon sun that stole in t rough the curtained window, and
played at hide and seek upon the uncerpeted floor, seemed to
mock him with their bright, gledsome, beams. They revealed
to his mind the contrast between a life of freedom and the
‘prhcn-cell, or worse still, the dark embraces of a felon’s grave.

 

CHAPTER XX II.
as newsman vrsrme.

Miss Duran, idly reclining in e rocking-chair in ha'little
lor; was perusing the afternoon paper. She had just tin-
bed the account 0 the trial of Gentlemen George.

“I wonder what the verdict will be i" she murmured, and
as she spoke, her sniooth, white brow was furrowed over by
the lines of thought. “ Will the hang him?” A half-hidden
shudder came over theslcnder arm at the thought. “That
would be‘ dreadful, and yet he deserves it How strange that
he and Judge Bru should come incontactl What an excel-
lent s eech the ad e mad too. He knows that I called
upon orge in the ombs. am sure of it, or else he would
not have questioned me regarding him.”

Then for uite a lon time the woman was silent, deep in

thought. 1‘ er meditat one were not altogether pleasant; Juds-

ing by the expression upon her face.

“ it fairly made my blood run cold the other day when the
Jud. questioned me about George. I think I succeeded-in
hedging him though, how and skillfulesheh.’ shesnsleimed.

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26 Gentleman George.

 

 

fl.“ -

abruptly. “ Suppose by any chance that this haughty million-
aire should diswvcr my secret? Ahl good-by then to my
scheme.” And with the thought the actress sprung to her
feet and paced up and down the room, her lips pressed firmly
together and her little white hands clenched.

‘I don't want them to hang George, badly as he deceived
me, but I do wish that they would send him somewhere so
that he will not trouble me.’

Miss Desmond paused by the window and gazed out upon
crowded Broadway.

“Gentleman George in the State Prison and [the wife of
Nicholas Bruyn,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Oh! what
a glorious vengeance that would be! What arecompense
for the wron s of the past and the many pangs of pain that I
have suffer in these long and weary years! And to have
this man of ice—this cold-hearted, treacherous Bruyn at my
feet; to see him kneel in humble adoration, when, if he only
knew who and what I am, he would spurn me from him wit
contempt and loathing. How many in this life could play as
bold apart as I do now?” .

Scornfully and with arrogance in voice and face the actress
put the question.

The abrupt entrance of the negress, Juno, interrupted Miss
Desmond’s meditation.

“ What is it, Juno 1'” the actress demanded, understanding
at once from the manner of the negress that she bore a mes.
as e.

g‘ Dar’s a gemmen down-stairs dat wants to see you, Missy.”

“Turn him away at once i" Miss Desmond exclaimed, re-
suming her seat in the rockingjchair as she spoke,and picking
up the newspaper which she had dro ped. ..

“ Yes, Missy, I know what you ers tole me fur to do,
but dis yere gemtnen ain‘t like the rest of ’em,” the negress
said, slowly. .

“Oh they are all alike!” the actress exclaimed, impatient-
ly. “ am not at home to any one. You must remember
and not allow any person to persuade you w the contrary.”

“ But dis yere gemmen ain’t none of or common trash,”
the negro woman protested; “he’s a rea gemmen for sure,
an’ says dat he wants fur to see on on ’ticu ar business.”

“That is what they all say,” iss Desmond replied, uite
enraged that any stranger should be able to oduce suc an
impression upon her vigilant janitor. “ W rat is that you
have there?” she continued, noticin somethin white in the
hand of the negress; “ is it the gent eman’s car f”

“ Yes, Missy. "

The actress took the card from the extended hand. A sin-
gle line of print onl on the smdoth white surface.

The name, Neil emmison.

Just a moment Miss Desmond looked at the card, and then
with an expression of rage upon her face, she crumpled it up
fiercely in her hand and threw it away.

“ Tell him' that I am not at home to any one!" she ex-
claimed, quickly and imperiously, “and if he will not take
no for an answer, show him the door and at him out by
main force, if he refuses to go. I supposet at you are big
snou h to dothati’”

“ dunno, Missy,” the negress said, shaking her head in a
dubious manner. “Dis ere gemmen ain’t one of dat kind
(let you kin sling t’r’ugh 0 door. He ain’t one of ’em starch-
ed young fellas wid poseys in dere button-hole. I‘ll tell him
dat you ain’t home; dat’s de wa I’ll fix it."

Juno then withdrew, leaving Desmond in a very pecu-
liar state of mind.

The no ress descended at once to the front door where she
had left t e gentleman who desired to see Miss Desmond on
psigtgcular business, and whose card bore the name of Neil Jem-
m n.

The negro woman had left the gentleman standing outside
the door, but on her return, she found that he had taken ad-
vantage of her absence to come inside and had also closed the
door after him. I

It was the “ doctor" in person who waited for audience
with the charmin youn actress. ,

As the negress escen ed the stairs and discovered that the

ntleman was in the hall and had closed the door behind

in, she shook her head gravely. She began to have an idea
that she had a troublesome task in hand.

i‘él’se done gone and seen, sar, an’ she ain’t home," Juno
sa .
“ Ah, did you give her at card and tell her that I wished

to see her on very particular usiness l” Jemmison asked, en-
tirely ignoring what the negress had said.

Juno stared in surprise.

“ ’Deed, ear, I done tole you dat she ain’tat home for sure,”

she said, earnestly

“Oh, yes,I understand all about that," Jemmison replied,

in the most careless manner Boa-ibis; “ you are to tell me
that she is not at home. T e lady thought that was the
leasiest and best way to at rid of me.

“’Deed, sar, it’s the ressed truftl” declared the neg-rose,

stringy.
“ on are quite a valuable Janitor, you lie with a coolness
that is perfectly refreshing."

“ ‘Illo, sarf l :in't deg: hole liie l” eaglaimed Juno, indig-
aan y. ‘ toeyou t e sntat ome.”

“And when will she be at ome f” demanded Jemmison,
abruptly.

Juno hesitated; she had not been instructed by her mis-
trms upon this point. , . - V ,

“ I don’tkncw', sar.” , , ,

“ She will come hams sometime. I suppose f'

 

" Yas, sar—I s'poae so,” lino replied, very slowly.

“ Well, 1 will wait until she does come home,” and Jammi-
son smiled, serene] , in the face of the woman.

“ No, sir l” crie the negress, enraged, “ you can't wait
hyer, white man. You jes’ go out of_dat door haw."

“ And if I don’t accept your polite invitation and go out 7"
Jemmison asked, smiling in a manner that both enraged and
awed the woman.

“’Fore de Lord, I’ll put you out for sure i” Juno cried, ad
vancing in menace.

“ Do you know what I’ll do if you try that sort of proceed-
ing upon me i” Jemmison asked his face as smiling as ever,
but a dangerous light shinin in his dark eyes.

“ You’s gwine out, dat’s a l,” retorted Juno, irresolutely.

“ I shall forget the respect due to our sex, take on by the
nap of the neck and flinogedyou out ate the street,’ and as he
spoke, Jemmison advan a step toward the negress.

Juno retreated in alarm. The cool, determined manner of
the man frightened her; besides, she felt pretty well con-
vinced from his looks that he was able to accomplish the
feat of ejecting her from her own threshold. As she had
informed her mistress, it was no dandy young man this
time.

“Look out, white man! don’t you dar’ to put your han’
on me 1” Juno cried, threateningly, retreating to the first stair
as she spoke.

“ I know your mistress is at home, for I saw her at the
window from the other side of the street, not ten minutes
ago,” Jemmison said; “and I’ll swear that she has not,left
the house since then. Now go np-stairs, tell your mistress
that the gentleman will not 0 away; that he wishes to see
her on particular business, an that he will not leave the
house until he does see her.”

“ She won’t see you, anyhow,” Juno muttered.

"Just on tell her what I say i” Jemmison said, steraly,
“ and if ere is any more talk of putting me out by force
am just tell her that the probable result of such a course will

that we will all fetch up in the station-house, and I don't
think that will annoy me as much as it will her.”

Juno departed to bear the message.

 

01$;me xxxu.
‘1' MIT.

Tn actress was lazily reclining in the easy-chair, her eyes
closed as if she were sleeping, when the negress re—entered the
room.

Nor did she change her position at the entrance of the per-
plexed Juno. At the first glance the woman imagined that

er mistress was unconscious of her ap roach, but asecond
look detected just a little trembling mot on of the lips which
plainly showed that Miss Desmond was wide awake.

The negress, coarse and brutal by nature and not given to
closely analyzin the motives of others, did not stop to ask
herself why M as Desmond should pretend an indifference
which clearly she did not feel, or why the visit of the serene
but determined stran er should so annoy her.

“ Missy, it ain’t no ind of use, he won’t go; he's jes' gwine
to see you or bu’st thin for sure i” Juno b urted out.

Miss Desmond open her eyes languidly.

“ He will not go!”

‘0 n)  fl

“ Why don’t you put him out then, as you did the others '

who would not besstisfied with no for an answer?” the actress
asked, cold , and as she spoke there was a strange expres-
sion upon er pale face; anger and fear were wondroust
blended there.

“ I can’t do it, Missy!” re lied J unc, bluntl . “I jes’ tole
him dst efhe wouldn t go 'd tote him into e street an' be
les’sqnar‘ himself and sad dat he'd put me dere ef Ididn’t

ush my mouf."

“ And were you afraid that he would do sof” Miss Des-
mond asked, endeavoring to conceal her agitation and to as-
sume a centemptuous air.

“ Yes, I is, sure as you’re born i" Juno exclaimed, d y.
“I’s isn't gwine to fool ’round dat air white man; hes ugly,
he is! ’Fore de Lord, he sed dat ef I tried fur to put him out
dat he’d sling me into de street, an’ den dat he’d have de hull
lot on us fetched up afore de police, an’ dat dat would trouble
you a heap sight more dan it would him.”

Miss Desmond listened attentively to the words of the
negress, and at the mention of the police she clenched her
teeth to ether tightly and for a moment or so the breath came
fast an hard.

“The police," the actress said, slowly, and after quitea
long ypause.

“ es, ms’am dat’s what he sed; I wish I may die dis
Dressed min'te of I didn’t hear him say it with my own two
ears."

“ And what have the police to do with either you or me—or
with this stranger for that matter?” Miss Desmond remarked,
very slowly. One gifted with the art of reading the thoughts
in the face would easily have detected that there was a terri-
ble stru gle going on in the mind of the actress, and yet long

ears 0 constant dissimulation had so molded the mobile

eatures of the woman that it was but seldom that her face
.hetra her thoughts.
“‘ I dunno, Missy -.". replied Juno, shaklu her head

VI

Gentleman George. , 2:2

 

sagely, as much as to indicate that the question was a conun-
drum and that she gave it up.

Miss Desmond came to an abrupt decision.

“Since this person is so determined in his purpose to see
me, you may show him up, June.”

The voice of the actress betrayed no sign of emotion; her
face was calm, a trifle pale perhaps, but that was all.

“ Yes, ma’am ; ’deed I’s glad (lat you is gwine for to see dis
yere gemman I” Juno ejaculated. “Dis yere nigger do'sn’t
want for to have an thing fur to do wid de rlice. ’

“ Show him up; do not think that it wilYetake me 1013 to
get rid of him,” the actress said.

Was the boast to strengthen a fluttering heart, or was it the
true index ofpower?

“Yes, ma’am," and then J uno de arted, but, as she left the
room, she muttered lowly to hersel , and, the burden of her
discourse Was that she in person didn’t care to “interview ”
the self-possessed stran er again.

“ If you please to we. k dis yere way, ear,” the negress said,
speaking from the top of the stairs.

Neil Jemmison did not wait for a second invitation, but
immediately ascended the stairs.

“ Dat door, sar !" the negress exclaimed when J emmison came
up to her, pointing to the door at the further and of the entry,
which led to the little parlor of the actress.

“ Thank you," Jemmison said, politely, seeing by the
woman and advancing at once to the door ind cated.

Jemmison's steps were direct, his action resolute, yet his
face was pale and his heart was beating high with excitement.
Another moment and he would be face to face with the
woman for whom he had sought so long, and who had, until
now. so completely evaded his search.

The “Doctor” tapped at the door, the low sweet voice of
Miss Desmond said “ Come,” and the next moment Neil Jem-
mison and the actress were face to face.

Miss Desmond had risen trom her chair and was leaning
carelessl upon the back of it, her face turned from the win-
dow to t e door, and upon it was a frelful, impatient look, as
though she resented the intrusion.

Within the room, two steps from the door, J emmison halted.
A rigid, searching look he bent upon the features of the young
and pretty woman before him. If he had any doubts as to the
correctness of his guess that the actress was indeed the woman
whom he sough t, the glance Would have dispelled it.

“ Well, sir, am waiting to know the reason of this intru-
sion!” Miss Desmond exclaimed, impatiently. “ My servant
informed me that you insisted upon seeing me, althou h I sent
word that l was not at home to any one. I did not or a mo-
ment imagine that any gentleman would insist u on intrud-
gig upon a lady when informed that she declin to receive

1m.”

“ You are disposed to treat me as a stranger, than t” was
Jemmison’s calm reply.

“In what other light should I look upon you, air?” the
actress demanded, quickly and sharply, an expression of as
tonlshment u on her face as she put the question.

“And yet am not a stranger to you. ’ Junmison's voice
was firm and low—more of sorrowful reproach than of menace
in his tone.

“I really beg your pardon, air, but I am positive that I never
had the pleasure of your acquaintance l” the actress replied,
colle and (listautly.

“ ad I am sure that you have,” Jemmison retortcd.

“ Sir, you are an utter stranger to me!" Miss Desmond ex-
claimed, angrily. “If I had ever had the pleasure of our
acquaintance it is not likely that I should forget the fact. ’

“ You do not forget it,’ Jemmison replied, sternly; “nor
can you juggle me with any of your stage tricks. I have not
forgotten you, although it is years since we have met, and you
have managed to change your appearance wonderfully, but I
rec0gnized. you the moment I saw you. I met you on the
Bowery some time ago, dressed very 1Jilainly, and tracked you
to the neighborhood of Water and arket streets, and there
you managed to elude me. I thought that you had descended
the low sub-strata of mire, which is the natural and to the
career of all such women as you are—the end which years
ago I prophesied would be yours. I expected to find you in
some low den, poor and degraded; judge then of my surprise
when, happening to stroll into Niblo’s Garden, I found you
strangely transformed into one of the ma nets of the stage.
I recognized you, though, on the instant. or a certain reason
which i will soon explain,I wished to see ou, and so I sought
this interview, and you can be satisfied that I will not leave,
this room until I learn what I wish to know.”

Miss Desmond listened to the words of Jemmison with an
eXpresswn of utter amazement written upon her face, and then,
when he had finished, she looked around in apparent alarm
as it' seeking assistance. ’

“ 0h, heaven I the man is mad!” she‘murmured half aloud.
' The quick ears of Jemmison caught the meaning of the

muttered words.

“ Baht” he cried in utter contempt, “ what is the use of
will"! 00" “"89 “F3 “P011 me? I am not a child nor an

diet. on can not trick me out of my belief; I am Quite sure
that on u re the woman I take you to be.”

“ on are mad, air, to persist in this folly 1" Miss Desmond
exclaimed, indignantly. “ For whom do you take me i”

“ Eighteen or twenty years 0, you were called Lina Aton.
and worked in a fancy store in ivision street, near the Bow-
ery,” Jemmison replied.

jl’T'VAfilh -n.

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.
AT BAY.

Fox a minute or two there was a dead silence.

The actress stared at her visitor in profound amazement
not a muscle in her face betrayed any other sentiment, and
Jemmison, even despite his  belief, was almost inclined to
think that he had been decal ed by one of those strange re-
semblances, which, though not common, are not impossible;
but as he, wavering in his mind, gazed upon the woman upon
whose privacy he had intruded so rudely, he nouced that the
small white hand, which rested upon the top of the rocklu -
chair, clenched it with so firm :(grip that the little pink n
were almost driven into the wo .

J emmison, quick of eye and astute of judgment, from
this little circumstance perceived at once» the artifice of this
woman.

“ I really don’t know what to say toyou, sir,” she said, her
face betraying both amazement and perplexity. “ You do not
seem to believe me when I assure you that you have made a mis-
take, and that I do not know you, and I presume that on
will beequally incredulous when I say that I was never ca led
Lina Aton, that I never worked in a funcywtore in Division
street—or in any other street, either in this city or elsewhere,
and that eighteen or twenty years ago I was a very small girl
indeed, attending school at Cincinnati, Ohio. am on
twenty-five now, so, if you are not entirely insane upon th
subject, you must clearly perceive that I can not be the per
son that you assume to think I am."

“ You are laying a desperate game, Lina, but it will not
lucceed, bol ly as you play,” Jemmison replied. “ You know
me of old; you should remember that I have an icon will, and
that I seldom forget either my friends or my foes. In this
world, so far, I have always succeeded in paying my debts
with one exception: I owe you something."

Gold and aim as was the tone of the man, it struck a chill
to the heart of the woman. With an involuntary motion she
retreated behind the rocking-chair, and for a moment looked
as though she intended to cry for assistance.

A contemptuous smile came over Jemmison's features, as he
divined the half-formed purpose of the woman, so apparent
in her face.

“ You guess very readily for an entire stranger what that
something is,” Jemmison continued. ‘

“ I ess that you menace me,” the actress retorted, quickly;
“ and freely confem that I believe you to be crazy, and it
little wonder that I am alarmed.”

“ You are resolved then to deny your identity f” Jemmiscn
continued.

“ No, not my identity, but that I am the woman whom you
once knew, and whom you call Lina Aton,” Miss Desmond
answered.

“It is useless to deny the truth; you are Lilo Aton, the
shopgirl of Division street, who, some ei teen years ago,
married a oung medical student named No l Jemmison.”

“ I should imagine that you are going to relate a romance,
to 31.0ng from the beginning,” the actress said, contemptu-
ou v.

“ Few romances equal the stern realities of actual use,"
Jemmiscn replied, “ but perhaps it will be plainer to you if I
adopt the plan of the eastern storyteller, and under garbof
fiction tell you truth.”

“ Will you leave me and go away?” Miss Desmond ex-
ciaimed, petulantly. “ Again and again I deny that I am the
person you know. My name is Ellen Desmond; two months
ago 1 cause to New York for the first time and I have never
even heard of a woman called Lina Aton.’

“You may deceive the world but you cannot deceive me,”
Jemmison relplied, firmly. “ ow listen to the story of your
life, and dec are it false if you can. Twenty ears ago you
were a shop girl in Division street ; you form a chance ac-

uaintance with a young medical student then boarding in

t Broadway near Market street, and‘ after a courtship of
two years you married him. Three years of wedded life fol-
lowed; a child was born during those three years, and in that
time‘thc husband learned to hate the woman whom he had
sworn at the altar to love and protect. He found that-the
little brown-haired angel-J

" Brown hair!" cried the actress, suddenly, interrupting
Jemmison‘s romance.

“ Yes, brown hair.”

“ And mine is olden i" she cried, in a tone of triumph.

“ My story wil account for that,” he replied, calmly.

Just a single flash of fire came from the eyes of the actreu;
it was in her heart tokill the man who confronted herso
coldly, and who wore to her the face of a judge and the heart
of an executioner.

The glance did not escape the keen eyes of Jemmison; it
was to im as it the mask that covered the face before him
had-been cast aside fer a second and then suddenly re seed.

“ To resume my ' romance ;’ the un , tender, an loving
husband discovered a “short time a ter h s mar , that: his
wife had far more of the demon than of the angel n her com-
position. He was a man of the world; poor, he had felt the
teeth of adversity; careless, reckless, he had braved hard for
tune, and wrested content even from privation,snd “eh I
man was not to be made a fool of, even b thewonsan that he
loved. When he discovered that the girl w on he thought para,
innm-ent and guileless was but a den te adventuress; that,
instead of his being the first love 0 her youngk heart, as- she
had so often protested between her estate isses, he was
the second or the tenth, maybe—loi- e had discovered post.

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28 I Gentleman George.

 

 

tive proof that she had at least one husband if not more, and
that that husband was still living—that she had willfully and
deliberately lied to him, his love changed to indifference; but
she was his wife, and be determined that, whatever her career
had been in the past, she should lead a life without reproach
in the future. And then came a child, strangely unlike either
the mother or father, with blue eyes and light hair. All the
love Neil Jemmison had felt for the woman, who proved so
unworthy, he ave to the child. When the infant was some
two months oi , the father became convinced that the.mother
designed to fly from her home and take the child With her.
He openly accused the woman, and swore a bitter oath that if
she did steal his child he would hunt her down and kill her
with his own hand, even if she fled to the very ends of the
earth. She, biding her time, fled at last, and robbed the
.tather of his child, and what was worse, she contrived to
bafle all pursuit.”

“ Your romance, then, as far as the woman is concerned,
ends here," Miss Desmond said, not a tracs of agitation visible
upon her marble-like face.

“ No; I use the privilege of the stor '-teiler, and can easily
relate her career,” Jemmtson answere , calmly. “ When she
fled from her husband she went west, and sought concealment
in some small city. A skillful seamstress, she easily supported
herself. Some four years ago, chance led her to adopt the
stage as a profession. She called herself Ellen Desmond, had
her hair bleached from brown to old, and with caustic com-
pounds burned away the small mo e on the left cheek, and the
two moles on the right arm, the marks which might serve to
identify her if any one who knew her in the past should hep-
pen to see her in her new vocation. That chance came to
pass.- On the stage, the scene of her triumphs, turnin with
a smile upon her face, from acknowledgin a tribute 0 flow-
ers, she caught sight of the man in the au ience whose pres-
ence there boded dau er to her. And then, three hours later,
descending from the sison Doreeto her carriage, she came
face to face with him, so near that she could almost feel his
breath upon her cheek. Again she trembled for now she un-
derstood that she was recognized. Like Macbeth, she was
tied and could not fly, and so, desperate, she resolved to brave
the danger. At last the threatened blow came. At first she
denied herself to him; refused to see him, but finding that he
would not go away, she, at last forced to the wall, determined
to take refuge in her old resourcs, a maze of lies. She per-
mitted Neil Jemmison to see her; denied her identity; pointed
for roof to her golden hair, and her young-looking face, for-

ett ng that, despite the effect of the alteration of her locks,
rom brown to fold,her face for twenty cars has hardly
‘1hanged a parttc e, and is the strongest evi ence of her iden-
utv.’
. I'i‘he actress ha listened attentively to the words of her via
itor; and during is recital the expression upon her face had
never changed.

A lion-heart the woman here within her breast, if, indeed,
as Neil Jemmison asserted, she was Lina Aton.

“ And I suppose that it only remains for you to kill me ac-
cording to your oath, and-so end the romance in the approved
manner,” s e said; “ but I warn you, air, that there are half-
a-dozen persons in the house within reach of my voice - and
if you attempt to molest me, I shall call for assistance. I will
not submit to be murdered by a madman.”

Jemmison shook his head.

“ Ei hteen years have made me wiser than I was," he spoke
quite elrberately, no trace of passion in his Voice or manner.
“I am content now to leave on to Heaven's justice. I have
sought you for one object on y; I desire to learn what has be-
come 0 my child f”

 

CHAPTER XXXIVe'I-
m roar.

Tn twelve men who composed the ury flied slowly into
the) -room; the foreman locked the oor behind him, and
the del beration as to the innocence or guilt of Gentleman
George commenced.

The jury-room, with its one long table and its twelve chairs,
and the hot beams of the sun streaming in through the win-
dow-blinds, was not a remarkably inviting place- and each
one of the twelve men who formed the jur mentally wished,
as he looked around him, that the stay beh nd the locked door
would not be a very lengthy one.

Twelve men, good and true, and a fellow being's fate in
their hands.

And who were the twelve men whose verdict would either
give Gentleman, Gearge to the world again or else coat? 3 him

‘ toe convict‘s cell, or maybe give his neck to the hasgmsn’s

f
Andrew Hamersley, dry goods clerk, foreman of the jury,
s lively go-shead business-man of thirt -tlve; Isaac Jones,
coachomaker, a steady middle-aged Engl hman; James Eg-
carman, a stoli -l00king man of forty ; Benjamin Haight,
r, a little, dried-up man of thirty-flue, or thereabouts,
withasoher, honest face; Samuel Dela , painter, an intelli-
gentrlooking youn fellow; Michael Fal um, salesman—hard-
ware, a young Irisiman, twenty-eight or so- William Kemble,
watchmsker, a high-beardai gentleman. of forty-four; John
Ramsay, banker’s clerk, a dashy voung man of twenty-three;
Pumas Spence. liquor- st slow corner stoma. “ ur-

 

town,”) a bull-headed, iron-jawed man; Daniel Nitchie, junk
dealer, a fat-faced, common-looking foreigner, forty-seven, or
tbereabouts; Peter Murray, broker, bald-headed, oil and
middle-aged; Mai-inus Blake, grocery clerk, a dull-iacc Ger-
man of twenty-one.

It was a pretty fair jur , as juries go, although the counsel
for the government ha objected to both Patrick Spence
(liquors) and Daniel Nitchie (junk dealer); and the counsel
for the prisoner—the Three—Dccker—had objected, vehemently
to all of the jury except to the two men mentioned above.

The District Attorney had objected to the two men really
because he had an idea that the keeper of a low liquor saloon
patronized by thieves and roughs, and a dealer in junk, always
open to the suspicion of trading with the Rats of the River in
stolen property, would not be apt to convict a criminal, no
matter how plain his guilt might appear.

And the Three-Decker had obiected to each of the ten men,
against whose honesty or respectability no word could be said,
because he felt assured that his client would not receive “ jus-
tice ” at their hands, as they would be apt to find him guilty
if the evidence went that way, no matter how artfully
he might interpose the cobwebs of legal lore to blind their vis
ion.

But the twelve men were duly qualified, and now in solemn
conclave they deliberated upon their verdict.

The foreman of the jury, busy, straightforward Mr. Harn-
ersley, proceeded at once to the business in hand.

“ Now, mntlemen,” he said, puliin one of the twelve chairs
to the head of the table, and sitting own, “let us get to work
right away. Isuppose that you all agree with me that the
quicker we settle this matter, and are set free to attend to our
own affairs, the better.”

Each one of the jury at once signified that they were in per.
fect accord with this sentiment.

“ And as the shortest way is generally the best, let us ascer-
tain how we stand upon the question before us," the foreman
continued. “ If you will have the goodness to draw your
chairs up to the table, gentlemen, I will poll you as to your
opinions ”

The eleven men took their chairs, and seated themselves
at the table in_obedience to Mr. Hamersley’s suggestion.

“ For my own part I have fully made up my mind," Ham-
ersley said, after the rest were seated. “I believe that this
man is guilty of the killing of the policeman; and I think that
our verdict ought to be mttrder in the first degree. All who
agree with me will please hold up their hands.”

Up went seven hands in the air. Jones, Egbert, Haight,
Delap, Fallum, Kemble and Ramsay agreed with the foreman;
Spence, Nitchie, Murray and Blake dissented.

“ Now we know how we stand; eight to four," Hamersley
continued ; “ and we must settle this matter by argument.
We eight should be pleased to learn what the ideas of you four
are on this subject. I presume that is the easiest way to settle
the thing, isn't it, gentlemen ?" The foreman appealed to the
seven whose hands had gone up in the air.

As one man the seven nodded assent.

“I will commence in re ular order, and take the entleman
nearest to me, and so on,” amersley announced. “ ow, sir,"
addressing Spence, “ what verdict are you willing to give it"

“ I don‘t know, sur, exactly,” replied Spence. “ I don‘t think
that the murder was deliberate, d' ye mind? It was a foight;
the perlice were a-flrin’ at him, an’ sure, it was only human
nature for him to hit back.”

“ You think that it should be murder in the second degree P"
the foreman asked.

“ I’m doubtful in my mind," Spence replied; " but I’m
ag’in’ hanging the man. Maybe I d be willing to bring it in
manslaughter. ’

“ And how do you feel in regard to it i" asked Hamersley,
turning to Nitchie.

“Ia res mlt dis shendlemans,” replied Nitchie, with his
strong oreignhccent.

The junk-dealer was not really a receiver of stolen goods—
that is, he would not buy them knowing them to be the pro-
ducts of a robbery, out he never asked anquuestions, and it
went against his conscience to convict a “ at" for shooting
one of that class of men who had so often interfered with his
business b reason of fri htening away his customers.

flamers ey understoo at once that this settled the matter
as far as Nitchie‘s reason was concerned.

“ And your sentiments on this subject?" addressing Murray,
who sat next to Hamersley on the left of the table.

“ I not really in doubt as to some points in the evidence
against this man,” said Murray, whose mind, used tolegsl
subtleties, and quick to admire the genius which turns wrong
into right, and makes black quite li htcolored, if not entirely
white, had iven due weight to t e ingenious argument of
Counselor att. .

“ What pointsf" demanded Hamersley, with businesslike
directness. ' I

Now, although the plausible words of the t legal lumtn»
sry who conducted the defense, had due e ('01 on Murray‘s
mind, at, when he came to think them ever, as a preliminary
to exp aining his reason for objecting to the verdict of murder
in the first degree, he suddenl discovered that he had taken
upon himself an extremely di culttask, and, although to his
own mind, the reasons seemed strong enough, yet when he no.
dt‘l'IOOk to frame them into words, he. saw how weak they would
. ) 831'.

1&0 like many an abler man, he took refuge in glittering gen-
eralities. .

“ Well.1 am no lawyer.” Murray said, with an air of great

 

..‘ mu».~wm ......— WWW...“ ...

 

 

 

 

 

Gentleman. George. 99

di nity, " nor gifted with the eloquence necessary for a man
who uses in public to explain in terse and forcible lan liege
the sentiments which—which, I may say, gentlemen, feel
within my bosom—J and then the broker paused in confusion,
and commenced to mop his bald head, vigorously, with his
red silk handkerchief.

“ But, what verdict would you be willing to agree to 1” per-
sisted the foreman, impatiently. Hamersley was a plain man
of business, and didn t believe in using ten words where five
would do.

“ Well—I—am really unableto say,” the broker said. “I
should prefer to hear 3e opinions of all the other gentlemen
egplrlesgedg" and then urray smiled benignantly at the rest
0 t e ury.

“Eight of us have ex ressed our 0 inion pretty plainlyg”
the foreman reminded h m. “ We th that the prisoner
is guilty of deliberate murder, and that he ought to be hung.
Two men are in favor of a lighter punishment. There is only
one more gentleman to hear from. What is your opinion,
sir i” Hamersley addressed Blake (grocery clerk), who sat at
the foot. of the table facing the foreman.

“ I think that he is innocent and ought to be let go."

There was a general start of amazement at this anst.

 

CHAPTER XXXV.-
rmnmeavmio'r.

Ion a minute at least eleven jurymen sat and stared at the
twelfth, amazement written on each face. .

And as for the man who had created such a ripple of as-
tonishment, so to speak, he sat with stolid face, as if uncon-
scious of the effect that his words had produced.

Blake was hardly more than an overgrown boy, and from
his face it was plainly evident that he was not gifted with any
extra amount of brains.

But, from his dull, stolid face, one would have been apt to
regard him more as a fool than a rogue.

‘Really, I confess I am not sure that I understand your
remark, air.” the foreman of the jury said. “ Did you say
yoptthdogght the prisoner was innocent and ought to be ac-

u t s
q “ That’s what I said," Blake replied, placidly.

“ Well, sir, I am at a loss to guess by what process of rea-
sonin you can arrive at any such conclusion l” Hamersley
excla med, in amazement.

Blake did not re ly. .

“ Perhaps our f nd at the lower end of the table believes,
from the evidence of the old man and the wife of the pri-
soner, that he was not present when the officer was shot?"
suggested the broker, in his smooth, oily way.

ake made no answer to this implied explanation or ex-
cuse for his opinion. He was leaning on his elbow on the
table, resting the side of his head on his hand and staring va-
cantly up at the ceiling.

After waiting a little while, and finding that Blake did
at intend to say any thing, the foreman spoke up, with de-

ion: ‘

“ Well, gentlemen, for my part I don’t believe a word of
their testimonyl Nor do i think that it is at all worth of
belief. I’m a New York boy, born and bred here, an , to
my certain knowledge, when any of these rascals get into
trouble the rest of the gang will swear to any thing to get him
out. They will stick to one another.”

“ So do the perlicemen,” said Spence, (liquors), gruflly;
“ the half of them are as bad as the thieves. it’s in the same
boat the are.”

“ Dat b so,” affirmed Nitchie, (junk-dealer.)

“ Well, that is not my experience, gentlemen," observed an-
other of the jur men, Jones, (coach-maker,) who had all the
English respect or the men in authority.

‘ I don't see that this question has any thing to do with
the case in hand at all i” the foreman remarked, impatiently.
“The strong evidence against the prisoner is the testimony
a: Sh’ea, who was with him in the boat and saw him fire the

ot.’

“ Shure he’s a cowardly informer i" exclaimed Spence, bit-

terly.

“ What has that got to do with it i” demanded Hamersley,
in astonishment.

“ An informer’s worse than a thief I”
u A 03min instance was stillh fresild in thed mind of the
_quor ea ero ow apartyw o b a l inst him
nad once procured “drinks” of him ongrSuEdaagrlnd then
had gone straight to the police-station and “in ormed " on

im.

“ Dat ish true," the junkman amented, gravely. He like-
wise had once got into trouble by reason of an informer.

“ But the man was under oath,” Egbert (carman) said, in
a stubborn sort of way, as if that fact was enough tocarry
conviction to an one.

“ Shure I won dn't belave an informer if he swore on a stack
of Bibles!” cried Spence, indi nantly.

“ Gentlemen, we are wander ng from the subject!" Harrier.
sley declared. “ Gentlemen, I move that the gentleman at
the foot of the table give us his reason for assuming that the
prisoner is innocent.”

“ Yes, yes," muttered three or four of the majority.

“ Now, sir, if you will have the kindness to satisfy our curi-
osity upon this point, we'll be obliged to you, and perhaps,

 

L

 

 

too, we shall be able to convince you that the stand you have
taken is untenable." -

“ Give us your r'ason, man, anyway i" exclaimed Spence,
who felt curious upon the point. '

The juror, thus directly addressed, suffered hl eyes to come
down from the ceiling a moment and rest upon the faces now
turned toward him in curious expectation.

“ I sha’n’t tell,” said Blake, laconically.

The eleven jurym'en certainly were astonished.

“ Gentlemen i" exclaimed the foreman, in despair, “it is no
use wasting time after such an .answer as that. I move that
we report to the court that we can not agree.”

“ There’s no lie in that l” Spence observed.

“ But, see ih'ere, gentlemen i” cried Jones, (coachmaker),
rising in his earnestness, “ the Judge will never allow us to
be dismissed until we do come to some sort of a verdict, or
take a proper time to discuss the matter. Why, we have not
been out over half an hour. I confess the case seems to me
to be a very clear one, and that there is no doubt of the
prisoner's guilt, although some of the jury may difi‘er with
me in regard to the extent of the punishment.’ Mr. Jana
bowed to Spence, Ritchie and Murray. “If the youn man
at the end of the table has any doubts upon the l mat-
ters, let him tell the foreman, and he can apply to the Judge
and get the desired information: I’ve seen that done in cases
“where. ,1 have been on the jury before and they did not quit.

Jones then sat down, and again ever! eye was fixed upon
the stubborn juror, but he showed no indication of asking for
information. '

“ Well, any thing that you want me to ask the Judge f" the
(“Emu slim}; hi head b did t peak. I ;

lake s 00 s , ut no a ‘

“ 0h, let’s8 go in thedctiurt again; what's the use of foolin’
like this f" ea or e , m tient y. ,

“ The manpzlilight give biliaressons,” Height (saddles?) mill.
coaxingly. . 1

“ Yis, Wan of us might change his mind if he had  r’s»
son for it to the fore,” Spence o  ‘ ' '1

But Blake never chan d his sition, nor allowed his eyes
to wander from the ceiling. ords were evidently wasted
up0n him. - .

“ Gentlemen i" said the foreman, rising, “ is it agreed, then,
that we go back to the court-room and inform the Judge that
we can not agree and ask to be discharged 1"

The urymen, with the exception of Blake, all looked at
each other for a moment, and then, one afler the other, nod-
ded their heads to flames-sley. Blake nevur stirred.

The foreman gave the obstinate juror one last chance.

“ Is that your wish, too, sir f" I

Thus directly addressed, Blake nodded. .‘

Then the jury tiled back into the court.

A hum o conversation passed around the court-room as
the jury entered, but as they took their seats a dead silenct
succeeded.

The Judge laid down the legal papers, which he had be!!!
perusing, and took a look at the jury. ‘

A single glance at the troubled countenance of the foreman
of the twelve men, “ and true," and the Judge imtantly

uessed that the jury ad not been able to agree. An

ient frown came over his face, as in his mind there was no
doubt of the prisoner’s guilt. »

Briefly the foreman stated that the jury had not been able
to agree.

The Judge was not particularly given to speech-making,
but on this occasion be rather “ et himself out,” and gave
the jury such a reper as a jury rarely gets; and at its close
he told the jury to retire and not to come back until they did
agree, adding, significantly, that before morning they would
probably manage to find a verdict, but not to hurry themselvu
on his account, as he was used to waiting.

Back again to their dingy apartment the twelve men went,
and again resumed their seats.

Most of the jury felt that the Jud 's reproof was de-
served, but Spence was as angry as a d turbed hornet.

“ He manes to lock us u until we do agree i” ho-ex-
claimed in exasperation. “ d ’oas to himl Ichangc ll
vote th s minite! I say the man is» not guilty now, and I’
stick to it, if I stay here till I roti"

 

CHAPTER XXXVI.
surnames JURY.

Nessa! all of the jurymen were struck aghast at the abrupt
declaration of the Irishman. '

“I repeat it i” Spence cried, glaring around him as if with
intent to pick a quarrel with some one; “the man is not
guilt , and that blaggard of a Judge can’t make me go back
of t at if I stay here till I‘m carried out feet furst, d’ye
mind f”

“ But surely you wouldn’t alter your opinion simp'la be
cause you think that the Judge is disposed to be a it e so
vere it" the foreman asked, in astonishment.

“ May the divil fly away wid me if I bring him in guilty,
now!” cried Spence, doggedly. “ Is it for the likes of a man
like the Judge for to sit on the bench an' as good as say that
we’re no better than a pack of fools, bsksss we can’t agree?

«a.-. ._ .m,

.. ..._..... a-

39 Gentleman George.

 

 

 

'“ l'thlak that you are putting it too strongly, sir." Jones
said, mildly. “I am sure I do not consider that the Judgn
used any reprehensible language. He simply said that it was
our duty to find a verdict, and that the case to him
tube perfectly plain and clear. And, for my part, I fully
agree with the Judge there. I do not understand how any
one could listen to the evidence and not be perfectly satisfied
that this man Dominick not only killed the oflcer, but in-
tended to do so; or, at least, to put the afiair in its wildest
forum—intended to disable him.”

“ You helave that dirty informer!" cried Spence, shaking
his fist wildly in excitement.

“ Most decidedly I do.” _

“ Well, I: don't l” exclaimed Spence; “sn’ I'm not gomg
go hang anymsnon the word of such a rapparee as this

hes. '

“ Ah, but my dear sir, you are not obliged to hang him,
you know,” Hurray, the oily, bald-headed broker, interposed.
“I myself have grave doubts, but I. should be willing to bring
in a verdict that would send this man up to the State prison
fora term of years. It is clearly our dot to protect society
item the assaults of these radians ” an then Mr. Murray
rubbed his sand-moan», softly, and smiled beamingly upon
his fellow‘yurytnen. .

“Oh, yes!” retorted S enceuscornfully; “ll'fifi rufi‘lan he
isMhass he‘s poor. ~va ' war. a rich chap, living in was of
the brown-stone fronts ufion Fifth avenue, maybe you would-
nit‘he as airy about it. ’s twint' years he’ll get now if we
as 'ina verdict ag'in’ him." .

“.§ents, to speak classically, there’s a good deal of chin
mus b iatth crowd, butit takes money to buy whiskyg” said
Delap (painter), one of the jury who had not pronoust
s ken.
pg‘hls' peculiar remark caused the rest of the jurymea to

n their eyes, with the exception of the German, Blake,
had qui‘etty seated himself in the corner, and seemed to
be elf-asleep. .
up had’agood‘ deal of what is usually called  “ Bowery-
Boy ", style about him in person; be was athiek'set, mas-
.euihryouag fsliow with an honest, intelligent-looking face.

" A's l-‘have said, gents, there‘s bin at good deal, of talk,” he
continued, in the easy and measured way so common to the
bum slid bred New Yorker. “Now- for my part, I'll allow
fist I’m kinder sick of , sn’ 1 move that we settle this
business right up. As as I kin see in election, there’s

of us solid or murder in the first do res, and bar that

‘t that way, so I jest think that we ei ton ht knock
under to the other four so that we can do a ver ct.”

“ What!" cried Kamusley. in astonishment.

“ No, no, no i" exclaimed the old coach-maker, rising in
excitement.

“ I’ll be hanged if I do i" said the carmsn, bluntly.

" 0b, ah't that all 0. K. i” asked the painter, pretending
*to be verymsfi admishsd. “ Kadn’t eight out to knuckle
to four? No i—well, p’raps it ought to be the other way; the
fear ought to, yield to the eight.”

A murmur of assent went up from the 6:52;“ this, but the
tour mentioned did not seem to relish the i

“The four are not solid,” Height, the saddler. said. " These
are two for acquittal and two for conviction."

“ Bat ish. not so," the junk-man said. “I agrees nit mine
friend here,” and Nitchie bowed to Spencer. “ I change
also votes”

“ ha!" cried S nee, exultingly; “ there's another man
that isn't going to walked over by this sent of a Jud ."

“Thine fies-acquittal, eight- for murder. in the first agree,
and one for manslaughter,” Hamsrslsy said. “ That is cor-
"manly ’3” "a: h it oh edl 1 “Ibel

,’ array, e to er, ssrv s ow y, love
that I mastehssge at rate."

“ Oho l” exclaimed pence, “ it's four to eight we are! 0h,

1 all come to the four after a while i"

“No, sir i" exclaimed Murray, drawing himself up, and
looking” . “ I do not change in that way, sir. From
what - udge said I perceive clearly that I was wrong in
Unhln that a verdict of manslan ter could be found sword-

totge evidence in tlrls case. he deed was not committed
as host {meditatiom and there was no sudden excitement.
No sir, am for a verdict of murder in the first degree.”

Then Murray, who had risen at the first of his speech, sat
down perfectly satisfied; at last he had created a sensation.

“ Nine to three, then," Hamersley remarked.

“Gentlemen, I think that you ought to come round to our
views upon this sub ect," Kerqble said, mildly. He was the
watchmaker and he not spoken before.

“ Suppose we compromise upon a verdict of murder in the
second degree," Ramsay (clerk) suggested. “ He probably
would be sentenced to imprisonment for life; and really,
although the an deserves it, I think that I should pater not to
bang h m.”

“ And your opinion, sir i” Ramsay addressed the junk-

nan.

" Dis shentlemsns speaks for me," replied Nitchie.

“ As there doesn't seem to be any pros ct of our agreeing
upon a verdict,l suppose that we will ave to remain here
uhntiil the J udge'l patience is worn out," Hamersley exclaimed

5t.

“ e're booked for the night, thenl” Egbert (carman) ex-
Obilted. “i hope that you re satisfied—yum fellow in the
corner there This is all your doin . You ought to be locked
up for a week, and fed on bread an water.”

"Oh. don‘t say any thing about eating ll’ Delap. thepainter.

' c

 

cried. “ The Judge is riled, and if we don’t fetch in a verdict
we’ll get no square meal until we‘re discharged to-morrow,
and its all your fault, young fellerl”

Blake never heeded their angry words or looks, but gazed
at them stolidly. '
J “ I hope you‘ll be half-starved before morning i” growled

ones.
Then a dim sort of smile crept slowly overthe face of the

“ I’ll not go hungry,” he said, and then deliberately drew a

obstinate juror. i

huge Bologna sausage from his pocket. and held it up to the
view of the rest.

“ Oh i” yelled the astonished, jurymen in a sort of chorus.

Blake replaced the sausage in his pocket, and surveyed his
fallow-aurora placidly.

"Gents!" cried Delap (the painter}, springing excitedly to
his feet, “if we‘re locked up here untl morning all on account
of this dab-sided aloot, and he attempts to chessI that com-
pound of boiled or while I have to go hungry, I‘ll t
mount onto my hind e and comb his wool for him if t by
send me up to the Isle fur a month fur it i"

A dim look of alarm came over Blake’s dull features at the
angry words of the ‘ewcsted Bowery Boy, and secretly hsbqan
to web he had kept the sausage in his pocket.

Time wore on; the as was lighted, yet the jury were no
nearer an agreement t an before. Arguments were wasted
upon the three obst'nate jurors, who stood out so sturdily for
the prisoner’s inno cues of the charge brought against him.

At last Hamersley, perceiving that there was no possible
péospect of the jury agreeing, sent word to the Judge to that
a cot.

His Honor was savage; he had missed an mgnlar dinner
hour, and for no pu . ’"

 

CHAPTER XXXVII.
snake’s season.

“Titan sud worn out the jsrymen looked as they filed into
e ox.

The court-room was lit up, and all the spectators stared
anxiously upon thetwelve men who held me fate of Gentle-
man Geor e in their hands. ‘

The J go alone knew how unsatisfaem a» result of the
iurg’s deliberation had been.

nd then, when the foreman. Hamersley, rose in answer
to the question, and announced that the ju had been unable
to agree, a little murmur of astonishment f lowed.

Sternly the Judge ran his eyes over the faces of the urymen
as he put the question to the foreman: did he think t at they
could agree upon a verdict if they Were allowed more time to
deliberate upon the matter? Hamersley instantly replied that
in his judgment there was no pomible chance of their agree.
mg. upon a verdict, and the faces of the rest of the jurymen
plainly indicated that they agreed fully with the opinion of
their spokesman.

Then, with a few biting, sarcastic words, the Judge dis-
missed the jury, and the trial of Gentlemen George was ended.

Great was the disgust of the District Attorney—a feeling
that was shared by Judge Bruyn, who had really done nearly
all of the hard work of the trial, and who confidently expected
that the prisoner would be convicted of murder in the first
degree. 0f the prisoner's guilt he had no doubt. In some
mysterious we , not warranted b the evidence, he found that

his judgment ad been influence against the society brigand. r

As a general thing be regarded a law trial as a game of chess
wherein he might exhibit his skill, and when the contest was
over he cared nothin as to the fate of the chessmai. But, in
this afi‘sir, almost are he was aware of it, he found himself
regrding the prisoner in the light of a personal enemy—one
w m he had sworn to hunt down into his grave.

_ And when after the trial was ended, the Judas sat in his
library atmidnight—he had escorted Miss Uesmonu home
that evening in company with Medhsmwsrnd thought over the
events of the trial and the respite of the prisoner, he caught
himself muttering that it was not for long, and that sooner or
later he would have Gentleman George by the hip, and either
cast him into the shaky gripe of the hangman's hempen "man,
01’ into the Stilt/P prison for life.

And then the question came up in the J udgs’s mind why he
wished evil to Gentleman George.

The wily, subtle lawyer and all pery politician juggled with
himself; accustomed to hoodwi the world, he tried t0gde-
ceive even himself.

“ He's a rascal, and deserves to be hun i" he exclaimed
aloud, and then to the mind of Bruyn came thought of the

strange resemblance that the prisons lasso to some one tha.’

he had once known.

“ I must have been very farsihar with the person, whoever
it is, or else the resemblance would not strike me so strongly.
Twenty times to-day at least have i ht myself looking at
that man and wonderin who on earth t was that he looked
like. It is very strange deed. I’ll have to hang him though
for all that.”

And with this reflection the Judge went to bed.

Naturally the morninwflers of_the day after the trial oi
Gentleman George had e , contained a full account of the
mugs, and not. only that. but the industrious reporters

ssecesdsdin “ interviewing" most of the jury, and so a

—~——.

 

.' : _: ...... 1:;;;_,.:;~rv_

Gentleman George. 81

 

m:

ibll report of nearly all that had taken place in the jury-room
was given freely to the public. And the journals, too, had
commented in very plain terms upon the course pursued by the
three obstinate jurymen.

Spence was in a fever of passion about the terms applied to
himself and the other two who had stood out for the prisoner’s
innocence, and openly proclaimed that if he could only kill a
newspaper-man he ghould die happy.

The comments 0 the outspoken journals did not trouble
Blake or Nltchie much, for they never took the trouble to
read the newspapers at all

And the prying re orters, too, had found hard nuts to crack
when they attempts to extract information from either of the
two foreigners.

Nitchie was polite but reserved; Blake was dull and said
nothi at all.

Gent man George was sent back to his cell, and he slept
better that night than he had done since he had entered the
gloomy ports s of the Tombs.

The next morning the eminent Three-Decker called upon
him. He found George perusing the morning papers.

The lawyer was in excellent 8 irits.

itgeadi'ng an account of the tr sl, eh i" the counselor said.

es’

3 gust, fellow Blake stood out like a Trojan, didn’t he 2"

“ y the way, George, between you and me and the bed-
t,’ said the lawyer, sinking his voice confidentially, “how
mW‘“ did it cost on to fix him?’

" Nothing at a i” exclaimed Gem-go in astonishment; “why,
did Wu think that I had tampered with him f”

“ ell,Ihad an idea that we ,"rsplied the lawyer, who
was considerabl mystified. “ e refused to reason upon the
subject at all. he Sun comes right out and declares the jury
were tampered with, of course not iving names, and the
limos hints pretty strongly that it thingks so too. "

“Yes, I have read the article in the Times; but now, how
are we!"

" Well George, the prospects are that we can push . 09:
case ofi‘ for a year or so, and rhaps get you released on has].
Have to wait, you know, unifiewe interest in the melt dies
out and the newspapers get howling after some one else. Ahl
George in the good old time we had a rin through the noses
of near y all these newspaper fellows, an we used to make
'em sing a different tune. Keep your s irits up, tho it; the
old Jud e won’t have you in his clutc next time, hope,
and we’ 1 get a fairer s ow for our money. By-by," and the
ponderous counselor withdrew.

Hardl had he gone when Hero, George‘s wife, came in.

Hero ad changed a great deal; she had grown thinner and
solar, and it was plain to be seen that the trial of Gentleman

eorge was killing the gentle, loving woman, the partner of
his sorrows.

“ Good-mornin , my dear!" exclaimed George, rising and
kissing her. “ on an that I am not done for at, no journey
up the river or chance to dance upon nothing or a good six
months yet, and the counselor thinks that in time, he ma be
able to get me out on bail. Have you read an account of w
the urygtood i”

“The obstinacy of that dull-looking fellow saved me; the
chances are that the other two would have agreed upon mur.
der in the first degree if they had had the whole ten solid
against them.”

“ It was cheap at fifty dollars, wasn’t it i" Hero asked.

“ What was cheap?” George exclaimed, in astonishment.

“ Why, that man s obstinatiy."

“ ghatl hashfift doling-s to 00% with iti’”

“ mpy t at e un erst that i the u disa eed if
Eon were acquitted, it would be fifty dollar: 1? his grwkeil”

“(brewed i d d iri r aged

“ ho!” eorge or e ,a m ;“ man to reach
the {yellow then and ‘ square’ billing?x W

H as."

“ How did you do it? He seemed a stupid sort of donkey
to get at."

' Through his sweetheart. As soon as he saves it money
enough to o n a grocery store he is to be married. fdiscov-
ered the gir , a shrewd grasping German. Bheiumped at the
odor at once; fifty dollars was a large sum. What did either
she or her lover care about justice as ion as the were not
troubled? I gave the girl twenty-five do are, an agreed to
give her the 0 her twenty.five at the end of the trial, if you
were not found guilty.”

“ y Jove! you are a jewel of awomanl" cried George, put~
ting h s arms around her exultin ly.

‘ And yet, you have ceased to love me,” she said, reproach-
fully, but submitting to his caress. “ You love this actress
Miss Desmond; I know all about it now; and you have a rival
too—Judge Bruyn, the man who did his best to have you
hun bwanse he wants this golden-haired doll for himself.
ago ovne came near destroying you, while mine was your sal-

. n.

 

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
'rrnuarrswan.

Till actress, leaning on the back of the chair, unconsciously
assuming an attitude that was grace itself, looked with a
frowning face upon the determined man. She did not answer

 

 

4W..—

the question that he had put, thou h; but Wrasse fruit-
less as her earnest protest that s was notthe woman that
Neil J emmison sought.

“ Come, madam, answer m question,” Jemmison said,
aternly. “ What has become 0 my child 2” _ v . .

The eyes of the actress flashed fire, and With an imperious
bearing, she drew her little form up to its full htght.

“ It is useless, I perceive, to attempt to reason with a mad-

 

.man 1” she exclaimed, angrily. “ For the last time I tell you!

that I am not the person whom you seek. My name is not

and never was Lina Aton. I never saw on before in all m

life, and I sinCerely trust, now that I ave seen you, I sha 1

never be obliged to suffer the pain of a second intervrew with
on."

y Jemmisoa, paying no heed to the angry and scornful words

of the woman, advanced toward her.

“ My child 1” he cried, sternly, and with an an ry menace
visible in both his voics and manner, “ tell me w ere she is,
if she is living; or, if dead, where her bones rest. Tell me, or
it may be the worse for you. You are a bold, heartless wom-
an. and now that you are upon the top round of the ladder of
fame, that the cup of triumph is at your lips, it would be e
righteous act for any hand to dash the cupnfrom the lips and
to shake the ladder until you fall again to the mire from
whence you came."

“Lama my room, it insolent .rufilani" exclaimed the
actress, shuttin her lttle white teeth closely together, and
pointing defian y toward the door. “ I will no longer submit
to your impertinence. If you do not instantly depart I will
send for the police; possibly a few hours' detention in a use
tion-house wil bring on to your uses.

“ That is an exce ent idea," emmison said, draly, and
with the words, he helped himself to a chair and sat own.

Miss Desmond surve ed him in an r and amazement
blended. The conducto the man puul her.

“ Proceed, madam,” he continued; “ send for the police,
or, if you desire it, I myself will give the order to your ser-
vant."

Just- a single gleam of fire came from as es of the woman -
itwaa is her heart to kill the man who herso calmly and
so stubbornly.

“ Sir, will u be satisfied with my denial and leave my
Whitest? do not. desire to be obliged to pressa chArge
against (you before a police magistrate l”

“ An I, for my part am quite willin that the omcers of
justice should come,” Jemmison repli . “ And as to an-
swering any char e made by you, I fancy that it will trouble
you a great dea more to answer to the accusation that I
shall bring against you when once we are before the bar of jus-
tice." .

Just a light shade of anxiety passed rapidly across the
charming face of the actress, but then in a moment it was suc-
ceeded by a grimaoe of contempt. . a '

“ I expose you will repeat the absurd statement on have
just m to me," she said, oontemptnously; “ you w ldeclare
that I am your runaway wife; that twenty or forty years ago
-—one is as likely as the other—I absconded from you and took

our child with me. And even supposin it is all true—that

am the woman you sa I am, I think I ow enough of the
law to be assured that cannot be troubled for any acts like
those I have just spoken of.”

“ Now I am quite sure that you are Lina Aton l” Jemmiaon
exclaimed. “A woman who had never run away from her
husband would not be so fully informed in regard to the law
bearing upon her offense."

Miss Desmond’s lip curled, but she did not speak.

“ You think that legally I cannot trouble you i”

“ I have nothin to do with on at all in any way, air," the
actress replied dis sinfully; “ ut to answer the question you
have just put, I do not think it requires a great deal of legal
knowledge to guess that no woman can betroubled much for
leaving her husband whom she dislikes.” . .

“ Quite aptly put," J ernmison said, reflectrvel ; “ it ss rather
odd, when you come to consider it, that s wi e can leave the
man who supports her, and who, to a certain extent,  re-
sponsible for or debts, and who cannot dispose of a srngle
bit of property without her signature, although she may never
have contributed to earning said. property, and that the lass-
band is perfectly helpless to restrain his wife or to compel her
to return to him." _ ' U

The actress listened impatiently to this refiectron u n the
laws of “ Our Country,” and apparently did not fee at all
interested in the subject.

“ Now, air, will Jyou go away, and not subject are to any
more annoyance f” she exclaimed, fretfully. .

“ I haven’t got through with the legal question yet,” he re-
plied, placidly.

Miss Desmond gave just a little start of surprise, and again
her face grew dark with rage. Her unwelcome visitor was
not disposed of yet. '

“ Your legal knowledge is so very extensive upon this sub-
ject of husband versus wife, that really I hesitate to inform
you there is a \way in which a husband may detain an ab—
sconding wife, and, for a time, at least, put her in a very un-
pleasant position,”.Jemmison said, coldly, but- with a latent
touch of sarcasm in his voice.

The actress cast a searchin glance upon her unwelcome
visitor. It Was evident that s e was puzzled. _

“ The law is a ver curious aflair,” Jsmmrson continued,
in his cold unimpassi le way. “ I once heard a very able
le nl gentleman say that he defied human brains to frame
aglaw he eonldnotfindaway toevads. Toiflnstrate,l

 

 

88 Gentleman George.

 

w :

will take Our own case. 1, before a magistrate, accuse you.
First, on are my wife who fled from me years ago, bearin
my child with on; that amounts to nothing in the eyes 0
the law; secon , I accuse you of larceny, stealing valuable
articles not only belonging to me, but to others, and on that
charge I can he d you.’

Just for a moment the little white teeth of the actress
clenched tightly together. She felt that she Was no match
fer the man who sat before her. Wildly and desperately she
sou rht for some way to break the net which Jemmison’s
skil ful hand had cast around her, but wit and artifice alike
failed her.

“ Well, what is it to be?" Jemmison asked, after alon
silence; “will you call the police or answer the questiOn
asked f” ' '

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir," Miss Desmond ex-
claimed, angrily; “ you fully understand how such a charge
as ‘you won d ring a ainst me would hurt my professional
reputation. Again an again I deny that I am the woman
you seek." ‘

“ Let that point go; answer me as to the child.”

“I can only answer that I have no child living; will that
content on? ’ the actress asked, desperately.

Jemm son rose from his seat and advancing to the actress
looked her full in the eye.

“ You swear that you speak the truth i” the “ Doctor " de-
manded, impressively.

"As I hope for mercy hereafter!” Miss Desmond replied,
earnestly. ‘

Jemmison’s lip curled as he turned away. A woman- who
had not hesitated to commit the worst of crimes in this life
was not likely to be troubled much about the life to come.

Jemmison‘s hand was on the door when the actress spoke.

“ Am I to understand that on are satisfied, and that I will
not be troubled by you again ’ she asked.

“ That d' nds,” repliedJemMson, evasively.

“ n w at?”

“ “anther you have spoken the truth or not.”

“ I have, so help me Heaven. Ellen Desmond—or Lina
Aton, 'if you will—has no child living on earth that bears a
single drop of 'your blood in its veins 1 she exclaimed.

“ I hepe so. I

And with the simple sentence, Jemmison quitted the room.

 

CHAPTER xxxrx.
Harman’s mroauarrox.

Juer six months from the day that the jury came into their
box and their foreman announced that the could not agree
upon a verdict iuzthe case of the People as. eorge Dominick,
that now noted individual was released on bail.

Quite astrong pressure had been exerted in certain quar-
ters in behalf 0 Gentleman George, ‘or, as a sensation morn-
in daily termed him, the “ New ork Modoc.” The health
of the prisoner, too, had been seriously affected by his pro-
tracted stay in the grim edifice built over the " filled-in ”
Collect Pond, commonly st led the Tombs, and a half-score
of doctors had duly visit' and examined the “ said George
Dominick,” and certified that, in their opinion, the life of the
prisoner would be serious] endangered by a long stay in his
prison-cell; then they 'poc eted their liberal fee and retired,
fully satisfied that they had done their duty to society by aid-
ing to set free a red-handed murderer.

A wonderful metal is gold, or the bank-note its representa-
tive, for it bu 8 both brains and honesty.

A large an powerful body of men backed the cause of the
criminal.

The dangerous classes—not unaptly termed the Modocs of
New York-—uided Gentleman George. From the genteel
bank-robber down to the veriest bur lar who “ realized ” his
" stake ” from the drunken wanderer y aid of the slung-shot
or bludgcon, all understood that to hang a man for killing a
gliceman in the exercise of his duty would be setting a most

ngerous precedent.

80 money was freely used, and, what was still more power-
ful—to the shame of New York justice must it be said—po-
litical influence was brought to bear, and all to set Gentleman
George free.

Six months’ work and the end was attained; a bail-bond of
five thousand dollars was given and George Dominick walk-
ed forth a free man. True, the consequences resulting from
his due rate act still hungover him, but in this case 'twas
no sing e strand of hair that restrained the nvengiug fall of
the sword of justice; on the contrary, the steel blade of the
blind goddess was tied up by legal quibbies, fine as silk in
texture, yet strong as chains of steel—cobwebs to the eye, but
as malleable iron in strength.

No fiction this plain detail of how a criminal may escape
from the clutches of our New York law if he has wealth and
political influence to aid him and there is a shadow of doubt
as to his guilt.

The records of New York tell how policeman Anderson
was foull y murdered, a few years a o, and the Italian assassin
escaped all punishment except a engthened detention dur-
ing his trial. Interest in the case died away, and possibly
not one in a hundred who noted the crime and the attempt
to convict the criminal, know at this day how the affair ter-

 

minated. Comment is useless, except perhaps to chronicle the
report that the assassin is now said to be holding a high rank
in the army of Italy. ~

George, free, returned at once to his old haunt in Market
street, and there he began to look around him with intent
:0 discover some easy way to help himself to somebody else’s
un s.

Dominick, thou h thin and pale from his prison life,’was
worth a dozen dead men yet~ - V. '

It was the wife of the criminal, not the criminal himself
who was near to the rave.

Patient, suffering ero had not many months of life left.
She loved her husband, cold, heartless villain thou h be Was,
and the discover she had made that the actress, lien 
mond, was her rival, was a death-stroke to her.’

Night and day she brooded over the wrong, and thou h slie
did not give vent to her feelings in‘words, yet keen-sighted
George quickly discovered her trouble and was not leng'in

easing the cause of it. It troubled him but little, though;

is creed was Self, and as long as he was not attacked, he was
content. ' ' "

During the six months Miss Desmond had finished her len-
gagement in New‘York, and departed to win fresh laurels in
other cities. , . .

Neil Jemmison had calmly pursued the even tenor oflhis
way. He was fully satisfied that the actress had spoken the
truth'lin regard to the'denth of his child, and he troubled him-
self no more in regard to her. It would have taken a keen
and careful observer to have detected in the self-possessed
ward of wealthy Neil Jemmison, the cor waif who had been
turned into the street by the wretche denizens of, the Water

’strcet slums. And the “ Doctor,” in attending to Molly’s edu-

cation, and watching the almost daily advancement that she
made, found enough to do to prevent the time from hanging
heavy on his hands.

About a week after the day upon which the cold gray walls
of the Tombs had given Gentleman George back again to the
world, Jemmison, passing down Broadway, encountered
Medham, Miss Desmond’s business manager, standing in front
of the Grand Central Hotel.’ ‘ '  .‘

Medham reeognizsd Jemmison at once. His countenance
brightened up, for the sagacious theatrical speculator was very
much in the dumps as Jemmison came along. '

" How d’-y’-do?” Medham said, extending his hand.

“ Quite well, I thank you; how are you?’

"Oh, only middling, ’ Medham replied, with quite a son
rowfhl air. - - ' ‘
“ What’s the matter?" ' ' ‘

And as Jemmison put the question he had a presentiment
that he was to hear something in re ard to the woman who
had been so intimately connected win his early life, and, in
truth, he had halted to speak to the jelly business-manager
for the purpose of learning how the actress got along. ""

“ The best 1speculation that I ever got into it has bu’sted all
to thunder," edham said, in a tone that betrayed deep and
settled melancholy.

“ Ah, Miss Desmond I suppose. "

“ You bet l” replied Medham, tersely.

“ What is the trouble it" ' '

“Just like all females 1” exclaimed the business-manager.
" Just as soon as you get ’em started right and commence to
make money, then they get upvand dust. ’ ‘

Jemmison understood what Medham meant, although tho
sense of the language might be considered a little obscure. .

“ Got another manager I suppose ?" J emmison suggested

“ Yes, he knocked me iigher than a kite on terms.’

“ Couldn’t you afford to make a more liberal offer?”

“ Oh, she doesn’t act any more now.”

“Indeedl"'Jemmison was rather astonished at this intelli
nce. ‘ '

“ No; she’s oing to be married.’

“ Married! s it ossible?” V ,

Medham, oecupie by his own thoughts, did not notice J em;
mison’s amazement.

“ Yes, ot a regular star engagement, too; it’s a ten-strike,
I tell yer " Medham exclaimed, emphatically. “I saw how
the cat wasjumping when she was playing here in New York,
I knew it was no use to interfere. You can’t hold a profes-
sional to an engagement, if they choose to break it, if you
have forty contracts. The old man acted fair, too—gave ing
athousand dollars to release her. That's all clean cash, of
course, but I stood to make five times that amount between
now and next season with her." ,

“ Who is she goin to marry ?" J emmison felt quite curious.

“ Judge Bruyn. ou probably know him; he’s an old
New-Yorker.” '

“Yes, I know him,” Jemmison observed; his mind was in
a maze. He knew the Judge very well by report and sight,
although not personally acquainted with him.

“ He got after her when she was playing here at Niblo’s.
It's a big thin for her, for they say he‘s worth a million. 'I
egged it on al I could myself, for I didn’t want to stand
her way; and besides, I saw that I wouldn’t be able to hol
her much longer. I was the ladder that had boosted her up,
and, now that she had got a fair hold, I knew the odds were
ten to one she’d shake me.” .

“ When does the marriage take place l"

“ Some time this week, I believe. I haven’t seen her for
about ten da s, when I gave her up her contract.” . , »

“I am qu te astonished,” and with the remark Jemmison
walked on, strangely undecided in his mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

C H A P '1‘ E R X L .
AN UNLOCKED-FOB VISITOR. ‘

WALKING slowly along, J emmison debated as to what course
of action he should pursue in regard to the woman who called
herself Ellen Desmond, but whom twenty years before he had
wedded under the name of Lina Alon.

Should he let her go on and consummate the marria e with
Judge Bruyn, or should he visit that gentleman an make
known to him the true history of the dashing and handsome
actress?

It was repugnant to Jemmison’s better nature that his run-
awa wife should flaunt it thus boldly before the world.

“ he is utterly reckless and unprincipled,” he muttered,
communing with himself as he paced along down crowded
Broadway, for the time totally unconscious of the people who
elbowed him. “ She cares nothing for the past; she will wed
this man with a lie on her lips, perhaps ruin all his life, and
from what I have heard of the Judge he is a pretty good sort
of a man. It I thought she would lead a better life in the
future than she has in the past, I would not open my lips to
stay her triumph; but if, as I fear, the wealth that she will
receive will only seem to her as the natural reward of her
schemes and reckless disregard of goodness and honesty, then
justicc demands that I should speak—that I should tear away
the garb of lies she wears and expose her to the man she is
about to deceive in all her native deformity. What shall I
do 7”

And then, as if his words had power like the magic spells
of the wizards in the fables of old, to conjure forms from the
misty deep, tip Broadway, sitting by Judge Bruyn in an ele-
gant carriage came the woman whose fate Jemmison thought

e held in his hands.

Jemmison stopped ahruptl .

The actress, robed in si ks and laces, and bearing the
Wealth of a kingdom, almost, in the jewels that adorned her
person, caught sight of the dark, stern face of the man stand-

ng motionless as a statue upon the pavement.

f Ellen Desmond—or Lina Aton, whichever was her true
name—had known that the bolt of death would have followed
the action a moment after, she could not have resisted the
desire to smile, mockingly, in the face of the man—the only
being in all the wide world who had ever caused a thrill of
fear to shake her heart

And Slnlle she did in triumph and mockery. It was asa de-
fiance to Neil Jemmison to do his worst.

Jemmison, knowing the nature of the woman so well, un-
derstood the meaniii r of the scornful glance.

The carriage rolle on, but J emuiison remained motionless,
following the vehicle with his eyes.

Before it had gone a dozen yards up Broadway, his mind
was fully made up as to the course that he should take.

“ I’ll see Bruyn to-night and reveal to him a little of the past
life of this smiling fiend l” J emmison ejaculded, with a deter-
mined air.

And, acting at once upon the impulse, he retraced his way
up the street, and enterin the first drug—store that he came
to, procured a directory in order to learn the residence of
Nicholas Bruyn, lawyer.

The information was soon obtained, and at eight o’clock
that evening, Neil Jemmison, ascendin the steps of the ex-
Judge’s mansion, sent in his card, coup ed with a request that
an interview be granted him.

The card was delivered to the Judge in the presence of the
actress.

Bruyn was seated in an easy-chair in his library, glancing
ovor the evening paper, while the actress, dresed in a most
exquisite wrapper, which became her wondrously, was seated
on an ottoman by his side, an illustrated book open upon her
lap, but she was paying far more attention to the Judge’s face
than to the Volume upon her knees.

It was a very pretty picture indeed, the solid, middle-aged,
schemingaman of the world and the delicate, childlike woman;
another den as it were, waiting but for the ap arance of the
Father of Evil to breed discord and dismay, an for the nonce
it was probable that the dark-faced, resolute doctor would
assume the rob of the Evil One.

“ Ah, Won’t know him,” the Judge murmured, as he looked
at the name inscribed upon the little square of pasteboard the
servant had'hauded him. “ Did he mention anything regard-
ing his busmrsstf” The Judge had a suspicion that it was
some needy politician come to “ strike ” him for a loan.

“ No, sir; he only said that he wished to see you on very
particular personal business, and begged that you would be

ind enough to grant him a private interview." .

“ Not one of the usual rounders, I hope," the Judge laid.
suspiciously.

“Oh, no, sir; he's quite a gentleman.” The servant had
been a considerable length of time in the Judge’s service and
had become pretty well used to the irrepresaible “ bummers"
who haunt'the portals of prominent politicians.

“I suppose thatl will have to see him; show him into the
parlor, and, by the by,just keep your eyes upon him until I
come down; these gentlemen sometimes walk oil With the
portable articles handy."

“I don’t think that he’s that kind of a man, sir,” the ser-
gnt replied; “but I’ll look out for him." Then be With-

ew.

“You must excuse me for a few minutes, my dear,” the
Judge said, rising and tossing his newspaper and the card of
the visitor upon the table together.

- “And do you have to receive every unknown visitor who

 

Gentleman George. 33 .

 

chooses to call upon you f" the actress asked, in astonishment.

“ Well, yes," the Judge replied, slowly; “ a man in public
life is expected to reclaive his adherents—in fact, he must get
out of politics if he wishes to become a hermit or to deny hun-
self to all but intimate friends and business acquaintances. A
vote’s a vote whether cast by a gentleman in broadcloth or a
vagabond in rage; it won’t do to offend either. If a man
wants a favor that is either beyond my power toogrant or that
I am unwilling to bestow upon him I must get rid of the mat-
ter politely. After a man’s elected, though, he makes up for
the trouble that it costs him,” the Judge added, With a grim
sort of humor.

“ Will you be detained long?" . _ .

“I guess not, although I can’t possibly imagine what this
man wants; it may be a reporter, though, for some of the
newspapers come to ‘ interview ’ me in regard to my opinion
upon some public matter. I did not think of that before, that
is the probable explanation, but the card does not give the
name of any journal."

“ Get rid of him as soon as you can, I am so lonely .without

ou," the woman said, throwing a world of expression into
tli face and voice.

“Yes, my dear,” the Judge replied, and then he departed.
As he closed the door behind him, and descended the stairs,
there was a peculiar expression upon his face. The Judge
had seen a good deal of womankind in his career through life,
and it was just possible that the actress had. rather ovurdone
her part, in giving utterance to the aflectionate remark at

artiii . ‘ .
p Afteg' the Judge’s departure, the woman sunk down again
upon her low seat by the table.

“ Oh, how hard it is,” she murmured. “ I have played
many a part in my time, but none as difficult as this. A single
incautious word might betray me. If I can but carry it out
to the end—” and then she paused suddenly, a thought occur-
ring to her. “But, whatm‘ll be the end, and when Will it
come? Alil that is a very difficult question ; one that I can
not answer althou h I have asked it. Well, I am content to
go on as I am, an wait for time to reveal the future. For the
present I triumph, and that is quite enough for me”

And with the boastful vaunt upon her lips, her eyes, wander-
ing vacantly over the table, caught sight of the little square of
pasteboard that the servant had brought. . . .

Carelessly, without a motive, not even curiosny, she took it
up and glanced at the name imprinted upon the spotless sur-
face.

A single glance she gave at the name of Neil Jemmison, and
then for a moment the room swam round her; the ver life
blood in her veins seemed chilled, even as with the icy ngers
of grim death. .

‘ Neil Jemmison!” she cried, rising With an unsteady motion
to her feet; “and with the Judge here, beneath this roof.
Oh! I am stifling i” and with trembling steps she hastened to
the door, but halted there, her hand upon the knob.

 

CH APTER XLI.
Jaamson spun.

Tan Judge entered the parlor and cast an inquiring glance
at the gentleman who, at such an unusual hour, had requested
an interview.

The servant, obedient to orders, had left the parlor-door
open, and had remained in the entry, so that if the strau er be-
longed to the class of rogues denominated “ entry th eves,"
he would not be able to escape with any plunder.

The Judge, at the first glance, saw that the servant had

roved himself to be a man of discernment, and that the un-
lznown was indeed a gentleman.

Jemmison rose at the Judge’s entrance.

“Mr. Bruyn, I believe f”

“ Yes, sir,” the Judge replied.

“ Will you have the kindness to grant me a private inter-
view ?” Jemmison asked. ' ..

“ Business of importance f" the Judge said, in a tons of
question. .

“ Ve important, sir, and it intimately concerns you.”

The I.Zidge looked a little astonished, more at the manner
of the speaker though than at his words, but be instantly
closed the parlor-door, motioned Jemmison to a chair and
took one himself.

“ Now, sir, we are alone; if you will have the kindness to
proceed,” the Judge said.

Jemmison hesitated for a moment; it was a delicate and
awkward task that he had taken upon himself, and he knew
not exactly how to begin, but after a moment’s thought he
s oke:

p"Mr. Bruyn, although I have never had the leasure of
your acquaintance, still, as a prominent New orker, you
are no stranger to mgi I am dabout so mlake tidisclosurfbtt:
on that must inevita woun you eep , an r a
you will believe me, wyhen I say that the ’Words I cg?)er
to speak will robahly pain me almost as much as they Will
atiiiet you. t is not malice or revenge that prompts my
tongue; ll is but simple justice."

The Judge looked decidedly astonished at this strange ‘be-
ginning, but he contented himself by simply nodding as it to
encourage the other to continue in h speech.

34 Gentleman George.

 

“ At first I have no doubt that you will consider you are
listening to the words of either a rogue or a madman,” Jem-
mison said, “ but i am prepared to prove that every word I
speak is true; all I claim from you is a careful considera-
tion of what I am about to say. You are a lawyer and will
soon see the weak points in my sta'ement if there be any.
I am about to touch upon a very delicate matter, but it can-
not be avoided. Listen to, and consider my words, with pa
tience."

The Judge was silent for a few moments. First he looked
at the floor and caressed the ends of his long mustache; then
be fixed a penetrating look upon the face of his visitor, but
Jemmison never shrunk from the glance.

“ Go on, sir,” the Judge said, at last. “I will hear what
you have to say, and give it due consideration.” '

“ You are acquainted with a lady named Ellen Desmond,
an actress by profession ?"

The Judge started. This was a surprise indeed. He had
not thought of the actress while puzzling his brain to guess
the gurport of the disclosure that was to be made to him.

“ es, sir,” the Judge rejoined. “ Some few months since
I made the acquaintance of an actress named Ellen Des-
mood."

“Inwas informed to-day that you designed to marry this

“ Ah 1" The Judge prolonged the simple exclamation,
and regarded Jemmison with a very peculiar expression upon
nis face.

“ I suppose that report is true f"

“ Excuse my looking at this matter in a legal light," Bruyn
remarked, blandly; “ but that is what we lawyers call a
leading question. What is the object of the aforesaid ques.
t on? ‘

“I will explain," J emmison replied. “ If the report is not
true, and you do not intend to marry the woman, then I have
nothing more to say; but if I am correct in thinking that you
do intend to marry her, I can give you some information in
re rd to her.”

he Judge sat silent, his eyes bent on the floor, and he
ndered over Jemmison’s words for quite a little time.

e was evidently deeply perplexed, for his face wore an
earnest, anxious expression, and there was almost a sad look
upon it, something rare for stolid Nicholas Bruyn.

“ I suppose you require me to answer your question before
you can 0 on,’ Bruyn said, slowly.

“ No, do not require on to answer it,” Jemmison re-
plied, with emphasis. “ on have doubtless guessed my re-
port of this woman will not be to her advantage. I impart

‘what I know to you, because I do not think it right that she
should deceive you as to the past, but if you are not to enter
into an intimate relationship with her, you have no right to
hear and I no right to say aught against her.”

“ uite correctly put, sir," observed Bruyn, impressed by
both Jemmison's words and manner. “ I will be frank wit
you, sir. There is no person in the world who should know
more of Miss Ellen Desmond than myself. Need I say any
thin more to the point 1’"

“ o sir; and I will tell you all that I know of her. I will
only re ate facts, and leave you to draw your own inferences
from them.” Jemmison’s voice and face both fully revealed
how much in earnest he was.

“ I trust that what you have to say is of your own
knowledge,” Bruyn said, taking advantage of Jemmison’s
pause. ' I so pose you are ful y aware that there is al-
ways more or ess scandal about women who follow the stage
for a living; and sometimes, as I know by personal cogniz.
once, there is really no foundation of truth at the bottom of
the matter.”

“Besstisfied before I begin thatI speak entirely of my
own knowledge," Jemmison said, “ and that what I am about
to say no other person in the world, except the woman her-
self, could repeat.”

“ I am all attention, sir," the Judge remarked, leaning back
[abide easy-chair, and fixing his eyes full upon the face of his
v tor.

“ In the year eighteen hundred and fifty-three, Just twenty
years ago, in a milliner’s sh0p on Division street, in this city,
there worked a young irl of twenty-two or three, named Lina
Aton. She was sma l in stature, petite in feature, and ap-
peared more like a girl of fifteen or sixteen than one over
twenty. This irl, in the month of April, in the year thatl
have mentioned, married a young medical student named
Neil Jemmison.”

“Yourself, I presume,” interrupted the Judge, who rememo
bored the name that had been inscribed on the card.

“ Yes; a child was born to the young couple, and when
it was about six months old, the mother fled, bearing the child
with her.”

“ And the motive for the flight?" inquired the Judge, anxi-

ousl .

“’vl‘he husband discovered that the mere child, apparently,
whom he had married, was nothing more nor less than a des-
perate and daring adventurcss; that she was not sixteen,”
she had said, but twenty-two; that in every particular re-
garding herself, she had willfully and deliberately lied, and
that there was a very strong probability that she had had two
or three husbands before, and had not taken the trouble to
obtain a divorce from any of them.”

“ Ah!" The Judge began to have an idea now of what the
information was.

“ Naturally after this discovery the woman had but one re-
source, to fly from the man she had deceived. It had only

 

tallren, a very few months to cure the infatuation on both
Sit es. ’

“ I should have thought that on would have been glad to
get rid of her,” the Jud e remar ed, sageiy.

“ Yes, but she carrie the child with her, and for one rea-
son only—to revenge herself upon me, for the natural love of
the mother for its offspring she never felt.”

“ You pursued her i”

“ Yes, but fruitlessly. Nineteen years, nearly, passed
away before I again saw her, and then it was by accident;
and in the interval she had great] changed her ap earance.”

“ Has this story any connect on with Miss esmond P'
Bruyn asked, and as he put the question he fully understood
what the answer would be.

“ The actress Ellen Desmond is Lina Aton.”

 

CHAPTER XLII.
THE surname moor.

“ An, ohl" The Judge caressed his chin with his hand
thou httully for a few moments.

“ on make this statement boldly," Bruyn observed, after
quite a long pause.

“ When a man is prepared to back up his statement, how
else should he make it?"

“ Quite true—quite true," the Judge murmured, absently.

“I happened to stroll into the theater where she was play-
ing, some six months ago," Jemmison continued; “it was
when she was performing in New York here. Of course I
had as little idea of seeing my wife, that was—who had de-
serted me years before—as of seeing a tenant of the tomb rise
bodily from the grave. But the moment Miss Ellen Desmond
came on the stage, I recognized her, despite the disguise she
Wore. Then I took measures to have an interview with her."

“ And you succeeded i” the Judge inquired, his curiosity ex-
cited.

“ Yes, although I had to almost force my way into her
apartment, as she denied herself to me, and gave orders to her
servant not to admit me."

“Well, did she acknowledge that she was Lina Aton f“
The Jud e felt decidedly interested.

“No; did not care for that point; I sought her that 1
might learn the fate of my child.”

“ And she told you?”

" Yes; although of course denying that she was the woman
that I took her to be, or that she ha ever seen me before. She
found that I would not. go unless I was satisfied as to the fate
of the child; threats and entreaties alike were vain and so, at
last, she said that she had no child living who had my blood
in its veins."

“ She threatened you f" the Judge said, musingly.

to Yes."

“ In what way f—you must excuse my cross-examination;
but of course you fu ly understand how important it is that I
should know all that relates to this person," Bruyn said, in
explanation.

‘ uestion freely, sir,” J emmison replied. “ She threatened
to ca l the police, and have me arrested."
i“ A, natural proceeding if you were incorrect as to her iden-
t t .’
‘And I on my part defied her to call in the officers, as i,
too, could bring an accusation against her. She instantly re-
plied that if she was Lina Alon—or Jemmison, rather—that
the law was powerless to harm her for the offense of running
away from me.”

“ A logical conclusion, by Jove I" exclaimed Bruyn, his
brows contracting and his mouth tightening. “ It seems, then,
that Miss Desmond was posted as to the law‘s power over run-
awa wives?”

“ o I remarked; and then I explained to her that if I could
not hold her on that charge, I could for larceny, as in her high!
she had carried away all the portable property she could get
her hands 0n.”

“Quite a shrewd legal trick," Bruyn remarked, dryly.

“Then she ado ted a different tone, and gave me the infor
nation that l wis ed, protesting, though, to the last. that its
was not the person that I said she was.’

“ Did you see her after that interview T”

“No; I had learned all that I wished to know. That was
six or eight months ago. I cared nothing what became of the
woman; but by an accidentI learned to-day that you were
about to marry her—"

The Judge made a wry face and Jemmison stopped; be im-
agined that the Judge wished to say something.

“Go on, sir," Bruyn said, hastily.

“ I thought if the report were true, that it was my duty as a
man that you should know what the past life of this woman
has been. If she has acted fairly with you, you should already
have heard al. that I have just told from her own lips. Per-
ha s to her eyes her conduct may not appear quite so black
as have painted it. She may have gomi and sufiicient rea-
sons for all that she has done. ’

“ Yes, yes, probably," the Judge murmured.

“I haVe told you a i that I know, sir," Jemmison observed;
“ erhaps you would like proof as to certain points f”

The identity of your wile, Lina Alon, that was; that is the

.w.._..,_._.....  .,. .

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gentleman George. 35

 

most Important thing. How could you prove that, in a court
of justice?” Bruyn asked.

“ First by mv oath as to her identity, although she has
changed the color of her hair, and destroyed certain marks
upon her body which might have led to her identification.”

“ If all this you say be truth, this woman has not only play-
ed a bold but a skillful game i” the Judge exclaimed, in am-
azement.

“ Yes; and so skillfully has she covered up the traces, that
it would really be a very dimcult matter for me to prove in
open Court that she reall is the personI know her to be,”
Jemmison said, slowly. “ on are probably aware, Mr. Bruyn,
that there are marks on the human body, sometimes relied
upon in law-cases to establish a person’s identity that can
easil be removed by the chemist’s art?”

“ ndeed, I was really not aware of that," the Judge con-
fessed; “no such case has ever come under my observation.
To what marks do you refer ?"

“ Moles; of course you are aware that a mole is but an ex-
crescence, and does not penetrate into the flesh.”

“ Certainly—of course."ll

“By means of a thread and a caustic preparation, a mole
can be entirely removed, and without leaving any trace that
there has ever been any such mark upon the person.”

“That is quite reasonable," said the Judge, reflectively; and
then all of a sudden the thought flashed upon him that he had
relied upon finding a certain woman by means of moles curi-
ously placed upon her body, a description of which he had
furnished to a detective omcer; and mentally he asked himself
if one woman knew how to destroy such tell-tale marks, might
not another of the sisterhood avail herself of a like means?
“And this Miss Desmond does not have the moles upon her
person that the Lina Aton, the milliner’s girl, had 2” the Judge
questioned.

“ No; she has removed them."

“ At that one point she has beaten you then?”

“ Yes; she has also changed the color of her hair. Once it
was dark-brown, now she has bleached it to yellow."

“ You have attempted a diflicult task, I fear,” the Judge
remarked, shaking his head, gravely.

“ No; for I have one strong proof."

“ What is it i” all the lawyer instincts of the Judge had been
roused into action.

“ A picture of her taken just a month after we were mar-
ried,” J emrnison replied. “ It is one of the old-fashioned
daguerreotypes."

“That would be pretty strong proof if Miss Desmond looks
like the picture, and you could take your oath that it was
taken twenty years ago from your wife’s face,” the Judge said,

.weighing the point over deliberately as he spoke.

“ i‘hat I could do” Jemmison replied; “ and, as for the
likeness, you shall jn ge as to that."

And as he spoke he drew the picture from his pocket.

“ There is only one difference between Miss Desmond and
this picture of Lina Aton,” Jemmison observed, as he opened
the case; “ a mole on the left check is shown in the icture,
but Miss Desmond’s cheek does not bear any such mar .”

" A mole on the left cheek!" exclaimed Bruyn, with strange
abruptness, and sitting bolt upright in his chair as he spoke.
“ Has she moles anywhere else?

“ Miss Desmond, no; Lina Aton, two on the right wrist l”
Jemmison answered, wondering at his sudden excitement.

“ Great heavens!" cried Bruyn, nervously; “let me look at
the picture i” and, as he spoke, he almost snatched it from
J emmison's hands.

A single glance the Judge gave at the fair young face, and
then, With a gasp, sunk back in his chair.

Jemmison, alarmed, sprung to his assistance, but Bruyn
with a great effort rallied himself.

“ Don't be alarmed, sir i” he exclaimed. “ Oh i I have been
olind not to have seen it before i"

Jemmison wondered at the words.

“ I am much obliged to you, sir," Bruyn continued; “and
if you will leave your address I will communicate with you
at some future time.”

J ommison understood from this that the interview was over,
and penciling his address on a card, left the house.

 

CHAPTER XLIII.
naurx’s nncrsron.

THE Judge accompanied Jemmison to the door, bowed him
out. and then closed the massive barrier after him.

Bruyn’s usually florid face was deathly pale, and there was
a nervous, restless twitching of the lips altogether foreign to

the nature of the man.

From the front door Bruyn proceeded up-stairs to his bed-
clmmher, a front room on the same floor as the library.

So slowly did the J udge—a heavy, solid-built man—pro-
ceed up-stairs that his footsteps produced no sound.

In his room, the Judge went to a closet in one corner,
took down a bottle of brandy and fliled a tumbler brim-
ming full. A moment he held it u to the light and watched
the sparkle of the most potent pro not of the vine, and then,
with a heavy sigh, swallowed the liquor at a single draught.

Was the stern, iron-willed man seeking false courage, and
did he fear the interview which he had resolved to seek?

'l‘he brandy swallowed, the Judge straiwhtened himself up
and proceeded at once to the library. 0 found the lady

 

 

 

sitting in the same position that she had occupied when he
had left the room. . _

A quick, sharp glance the woman cast in his face, and
there she read that the blow had fallen ; but, with the resolu-
tion of despair, she concealed her anxiety and received him
with a smile. The Jud e’s face rew graver still as he noticed
the look, but his iron wi 1 never altered.

Bruyn seated himself in his easy-chair, and, as he did so,
his glance fell upon the card, lying upon the floor just where
it had fallen from the nerveless hand of the woman when she
had read Neil Jemmisoa’s ominous name.

' The Judge understood at once that she knew who had
called upon him. The little circumstance gave him the open-
ing he sought.

“ I see, madam, that you know who my visitor was, and
you can probably guess what his errand was to thishouse,
although he had little idea that at present you were an inmate
of it."

The woman had noticed the Judge’s glance at the tiny bit
of pasteboard, and understood how useless it was to attempt
to deny that she had read the name inscribed upon it; the
sin le term “ madam," too, told her that her chance was but
a ( esperate one, but it was a lion heart the woman here with-
.n her breast, and she still smiled sweetly, although the blood
was at fever heat within her veins.

“ Yes, I have seen the person once," she said, with just a
little curl of the lip, “and from the short conversation that I
had with him, I should judge that he had escaped from some
lunatic asylum.” .

“ Well, to me there appeared to be a great deal of method
in his madness!" the Judge exclaimed, bluntly.

Just for a moment the smiled faded from the face of the
woman and a lurid light shone in her eyes, but then she re-
membered how difllcuit a game she had to play, and how
desperate her chances were, and, with a powerful effort, she
curbed the rising anger that swelled within her heart.

“ Possibly his story may appear plausible to you," she said,
with great calmness; “ I suppose that be repeated to you the
same ridiculous story he told me when he forced himself into
my resence." V

“ presume so," the Jud e answered, coldly; “and in or-
der that the matter be in ly understood, I will repeat his
statement. In the first place, he states that when he first met
you, some twenty years ago, you were called Lina Aton; that
under that name he married you and—"

“It is needless to repeat his raviirs ” the woman exclaimed,
contemptuously, interrupting the udge.

“ It is necessary that a criminal shou d know the facts alleged
against her," said the Judge, sternly.

“ By heavens!" cried the actress, rising to her feet and cast-
ing a withering glance upon the stolid, stern-faced man, “is it
possible that I am looked upon in the li ht of a criminal, and
sole] upon the unsupported word of t is paltry fellow? if
you tad loved me with one little hundredth part of the pas-
sion which you pretended to feel for me, you would have
stricken this wretch to the floor the moment he dared to
asperse the character of the woman who has a right to your
protection.”

“ Sit down, madam, and let us have no more of your thea-
trical nonsense l" exclaimed the Judge, sternly. "You are
not now acting apart in a play." .

“ No, I am on trial—a criminal, I presume, from your
tone,” the actress replied, with biting sarcasm, sinking in the
nearest chair.

“ Not on trial, for you are already tried, judged and found
guilty," Bruyn said coldly and calmly.

The actress raised her eyebrows in pretended astonishment.

“ Oh, indeed, and in your court do you couvict uponilie
evidence of the complaining party? does the accused have no
chance to answer—no opportunity to prove her innocence
and show what a black-hearted liar the man is who seeks such
a cowardly revenge f”

The blood of the actress was up; it swelled in every'veln;
anger flashed from her eyes, and her little white hands
avers clenched until the pink nails cut into the wales-like

esh. -

“ Madam, it is useless to handy words," the Judge said,
impatiently. “ I am rfcctly satisfied that Mr. Jemmison
has spoken the truth. feel convinced that you are the Lina
Aton who married and deserted him, years ago; and, more-
over, I know that Lina Aton is not the cal name on have
been known by; and now, in conclusion, wil _you 0.1
b putting on your hat and cloak and qmttinficthis cuss.
Yvon:- trunks shall be sent to-morrow to any p e that you
ma designate." ,

'the actress indulged in a little scornful laugh, and regarded
the Judge with a look of defiance.

“ You forget yourself, Judge Bruyn," she said, in a tone of
contempt; “ you can not order me out of this house; I am
your legal wife, and whatever my past life may have been, at
present I hold only that position."

“My wife, eh i” the Judge said, a peculiar look upon his
stolid face. “ Mr. J emmison may have something to say about
that. Idoubt if you have ever taken the trouble to legally
end our contract with him.”

“ e will have to prove thatlam the woman hesays 1 am!"
she exclaimed, defiantly.

“ And you, madam, will have to prove that I was ever mar-
ried to you, and I fancy that that task will not be as easy as
you think,” the Jud e retorted.

The actress start . , and a feeling of horror crept over her.
Eagerly in her mind she thought over the details of her mar-
riage the day before but all seemed alas.

 
 

 

36 Gentleman George.

 

 

“I can do that!" she replied, triumphantly; “ we were
married by the Reverend Mr. Hattrick, pastor of the 10th Ger-
man Reformed Church; I saw it on the door-plate l"

“ Ah, indeed? Recall how the affair happened,” he said,
blandly. “ We were to he married in a week, but, driving
through a street, in the upper part of the city, i noticed the
name of the minister on the door and suggested that we
should go in and be married at once; you jumped at the idea
and married we were. Now, then, find me the minister who
married us, his wife and servant who witnessed the marriage,
or any such thing, either in New York or elsewhere, as a 10th
German Reformed Church."

The actress ground her teeth together and her breath came
thick and hard.

“ Oh, you are a fiend!” she cried.

“ Yes, to the harpies who try to make me their prey,” he
answered, sternly. “ I had a doubt of you, and so I arranged
the Reverend Mr. Hattrick for your especial benefit. If you
had proven to be a good and honest woman, my introducing
you to the world as my wife, would have been a legal mar-
riage according to the laws of the State; but now, you are
nothing to me. Leave the house at once, and it will be well
for you, if you are wise enough to accept your defeat without
a struggle.‘

The woman rose slowly to her feet.

“ I cannot curse you, for words and human wills seem

werless against you. You are not a man but a fiend. Twice

have failed, but the third time "—and she hesitated and
ground her teeth together.

“The third time i" cried Bruyn, risin to his feet, white
with passion ; “if you ever cross my pat I again, I’ll kill you
i! it cost me all I have in the world to et out of it.”

Ten minutes later, the actress, home ess, stood in the street.

 

CHAPTER XLIV.
A nasrnaa'rn semis.

Tm: night air was chill and it cut the woman to the bone
despite the warm wrappings that she wore.

Just alittle minute she stood and gazed at the house, the
door of which had closed behind her forever; then, with a
bitter, scornnt laugh she turned away and walked slowly
down the street.

“The time may come,” she muttered; “ patience, patience.”

As she approached the street light at the corner, she exam-
ined her watch. The hands wanted ten minutes to eleven.

She halted irresolutely, uncertain where to go, and while
deliberating upon the matter, a man roughly clad, with his
coat-collar draw: up and his bat drawn down, came up to her.

£31 thought that I could not be mistaken in that figure,” he
a O

The woman started; she recognised the voice in an instant;
it was Gentleman George.

“ Why, George, how strangely you are dressed,” she said.

“ Yes, I am on a little business trip to-night," he replied,
with alight cough.

“ A business trip 1’” she asked.”

“ Yes, but you mus'n’t ask questions. What are you doing
alone in the street at this late hour?”

For a moment the woman gazed intently in Dominick’s
face; a wild, visionar idea had flashed across her brain; an
idea that would give er, if realized, the vengeance that she
sought upon the man who had turned her so abruptly from
his ouse.

“ You are engaged in some unlawful set i" she asked.

“You mus’n’t question me,” he re eated. I

“ If you are in search of plunder, can tell where you can
make ten thousand dollars and without an risk," she said.

“ The dance you can i” George exclaime , in utter astonish-
ment.

“ Yes, and you can sue pay 03 a debt you owe."

“ Explain.’

" You are here for some object then?"

“ Yes, but only to obli e a couple of friends, I am to keep
watch outside a certain p ace to give warning if the police ap-

ear. '

“ Let that go and enter upon my plan l" she exclaimed,
eagerly. “ You remember the lawyer who assisted the District
Attor’ney at your trial, and who labored so hard to convict
youf' -

“ Yes, Judge Bruyn, curse him i" replied George- “ I swore
that when Igot out of that infernal prison den I would be
even with him."

“ And now I give you the chance,” she said. “ The J udge’s

‘house is in the middle of the block. In his safe, which is in
the library, he keeps ten thousand dollars worth of govern-
ment bonds.”

“ How do you know that he does 1" demanded George, sus-

_ pieiously.

“ Because I saw him cut 06 the coupons to-day.”

“ And what were you doing in his house!” George asked in
astonishment.

“ Yesterday I was married to Judge Bruyn.”

“ Eh f" George was bewildered.

“ Yes, and to-night he turned me from his door because a
man who hates me came and revealed some of my past life to
him “ the woman said, bitterly.

 

“ But, if you are his wife, why did you not. refuse to go i”

“ Because his wits are keener than mine, and he so arranged
it that I can not possibly prove the marriage. Now will you
accept" my offer; will you avenge both your wrongs and
mine ?

“ How avenge them it” asked George, and with a covert
glance at the woman’s face.

“ There is only one way; this man seeks your life; take-
his,” the actress hissed in George’s car.

A cloud came over the handsome face of the “ Modoc," and
he hesitated a moment before replying.

“ But there may be a difficulty about that."

“ None at. all,” she replied, fiercely. “ It will be either your
life or his, for he has sworn to hang you."

“ Why ‘3"

“ Because he hates you. In some way—how, I know not—
he discovered that you and I were intimate; that was the be
ginning of it, now his professional reputation is at stake.”

“But how can I get into the house?” The “Modoc ” was
yielding to the tempter.

“I have alatch-kcy which he gave me yesterday and which he
did not think to take from me. I know the interior of the
house. The Judge’s room is the front one on the second floor,
the library is right back of it. From the street we can See
when he turns down the light in his chamber, then we can en-
ter the house, secure the bonds, and after that, with a single
blow, satisfy our vengeance and remove from your path the
only man who has the power to work you harm. ’

“ I’ll do it i" exclaimed George with sudden resolution. “I
hate this man and I want the money.”

“ Here is the latch-key!” cried the woman, with feverish
haste, pressing it into his hand.

“ All right; I must see the friends I spoke of and tell them
that I can not assist them."

“ How long will that take f”

“ Only a half-hour; I’m to meet them at the corner beyond,
at half. past eleven.”

“ It must be near that now.”

“ Yes; as soon as I get through, I’ll come back and meet
you in front of the door.”

“ It is the one with the gas-ii ht in front.”

“ Yes, I’ll not be long." corge hastened along up the
street, leaving the woman a prey to the wildest emotions.
Revenge seemed almost within her grasp.

Slowly she crossed to the opposite side of the street so that
she could obtain a better view of the house. And as she stood
upon the corner she saw the light grow dim in the Judge‘s
bedroom—proof that he had retired to rest.

A fierce gasp ofjoy came from the lips of the woman.

“ Soon he will sleep, and from that sleep wake to meet ever-
lastin r fires!” she muttered.

An as the actress stood upon the corner, gloating over the
vengeance that seemed so near, a dark-robed woman came
with swift and noiseless steps from the darkness and touched
her on the shoulder.

The actress, absorbed in her gloomy then his, had not
noticed the approach of the secon person, unti she felt her
light touch upon her shoulder. _

Turning, she looked with astonishment into the pale lace
before her.

“ You do not know me i” the strange woman questioned,
her eyes blazing with almost supernatural light, and a hectic
flush burning in a little pink spot in each cheek.

“ N-o,” replied the actress, coldly, withdrawing a step from
the questioner, whom she imagined to be either under the in-
fluence of liquor, or else bereft of reason.

“ I know you, though, to m sorrow," the new-comer said,
mournfully. “ My name is em; I am the wife of George
Dominick, and you are the bold, bad woman who has taken
my husband from me.”

“ It is false 1" exclaimed the actress, scornfully. “ Were you
married to George Dominick three years ago i’

“ No,” replied Hero, wondering at the question.

“ Well, I was,” said the actress, defiantly ; “ and no sooner
were we fairly married than the officers burst into the room,
arrested and carried him off, and from that time until i came
to New York, about seven months ago, I neither saw nor
heai’d of him. Then by accident he happened to meet me,
and has used his knowledge of our empty marriage vows to
grittort money from me. I neither seek your husband nor want

in.

“ But you have made Judge Bruyn persecute him," said
Hero, who was astounded at what she had heard, “ and
Heaven help you, ruilty woman that you are, George Domin.
ick is the son of icholas Bruyn l"

d “ The son of Judge Bruyn t" exclaimed the actress, in won-
er.

“ Yes; George’s father told me the secret of his birth on his
death-bed. George was then away, and I kept the knowledge
from him; for I feared that he would despise me if he found
out that he was the son of a rich man. George's reputed
father, Dominick, was once a servant in the Bruyn family.
The mothi-r brought George and gave him to the care of the
man who had deserted her; and hit, cruel and heartless, per
mitted the child to he sent to the pOIiCt‘°SlMi0ny utterly den)"
ing that it was his. Dominick adoptod the child himself; the
mother’s name was Celine Seaion.”

“ Oh, Heaven l"

Like the death-wail of a lost soul, the despairing cry rung
out on the night air; then followed a 5”“! d gasp, and the
actress, clutching at her throat‘as though she were suffocating,
sunk writhing and convulsed to the pavement.

 

 

 

l
i
l
I
'.

 

 

 

 

Gentleman George.

37

 

E

 

Hero moved not a single step to assist her; motionless as a
statue she stood, and glared out of her unnaturally bright eyes
upon the form of the prostrate woman.

“ It is but justice that she should suffer 1” she exclaimed ; and
then she turned and walked rapidly away; but Hero little
guessed how terrible a wound she had given.

 

0 H A P T E R X L V.
TOO LATE.
Enconns lengthened into minutes, and they, too, flew rap-

idly by.

11 in a tangled mass lay the beautiful woman, the shapely
limbs twisted. and the bewitching face pressed to the Cold
stone pavement like a lowly earth-worm; no steps woke the
echoes of the night, ringing along the pavement. Slowly,
little by little, the senses of the woman returned. The dust
of the pavement was pressed upon her white lips, that so
often had given and received the pledge of love; the chill of
death was upon the heart of the beautiful creature, who had
beateneborn for an angel, but had fallen far from that high
es a .

Wildly she pressed her hand upon her forehead; the damps
of death already were there. She glared around, striving to
recall her scattered senses.

“ It can not be reallt ; it is a horrid dream 1” she murmured;
but then, all of a sud en, the truth flashed upon her brain:
“ No, no; it is truth l" she exclaimed; “ but it is not too late!
—I can stop the fearful tragedy l”

With trembling limbs she arose to her feet, and hastened at
once to Bruyn’s house. Not a light was visible there; all was
dark and silent as the tomb.

The actress looked up and down the street.

“ Surel it is time he was here," she murmured. “How
lon did lay in my faint, I wonder?"

A most mechanically she pulled out the little jeweled time-
pieCe and opened it. t lacked but a minute of twelve.

“Oh, merciful Heavenl if he should have come, and not
finding me here, have entered the house 1” she moaned in wild-
est agony. “ I can not bear the suspense longer. I’ll rouse the
house. Bruyn shall know all. Smiling, skillful fiend that he
is, perhaps this last terrible knowledge may touch even his
soul of ice!”

With reasrm tottering on its throne, the woman rushed
madly up the steps, and pulled the bell. The answering peal
run-g loud and shrill within the mansion.

A few seconds she waited, but heard no sign of life within.

Three desperate tugs she gave the bell, and at the last the
wire snap ed.

Three t mes the bell pealed within, and then the sharp crack
of s revolver-shot rung out clear on the still night air.

“ Oh, Heaven l” she cried, with a wild shriek of a rony, “ I

have awakened Bruyn, and he has discovered and s ot him,

or else George has killed his fatherl Oh, let me inl open the
door—oh, you dreadful wood—break and let me in! help——
murder l—help!” and with her tender, delicate hands she beat
the door and strove with her nails to tear away the wood.

The woman was crazed with anguish.

Suddenly the door opened; a servant, halfdressed, pale
and frighted, stood in the entranCe-way, the sleep still in his
e .
yTake woman bounded past him, and rushed up-stairs; fear
lent her wings.

The door of the library was open, and the gas turned up.

Across the table, welterin in his blood, lay Gentleman
Gauge—the bonds upon the cor where they had fallen from
his nerveless hand.

Judge Bruyn, in his bare feet, attired only in his pants-
loons and undershirt, stood just by the door. Amused by
the sound of the bell, he had discovered that his keys had

 

been taken from his pocket; suspectlno robbery, he had
seized his revolver and hastened to the ibrary. George at-
tempting to escape had been shot to death without an instant’s
warning.

The “ Modoc ” had waited at the appointed place and
finding that the woman did not come, he entered the house
without her.

With a cry of anguish, the actress rushed into the room
and threw herself upon the warm but lifeless body. '

“ He is dead, and you have killed him 1” she cried, wildly,
finding that the heart had ceased to beat. “ Nicholas Bruyn,
you have murdered your own son 1”

“ My son!” exclaimed the lawyer, doubtfully.

“ Yes, your child and mine. I am Celine Seaton, the we
man that you married years ago and then deserted for a
richer wife, because you knew that I could not prove our
marriage; the same trick you played upon me only yester-
day. This is the child that I sent as a present to your new
wife on your wedding-night, and whom your father consign-
ed to the care of the police. The servant, Dominick, brought
him up as his own. I sent him here to kill 3'0“ to-night, not
knowing the awful crime that I intende . I learned the
truth, and then heavsn, as a punishment for my sins, struck
me down in a faint, and allowed the dreadful work to go on.
Oh, heaven—oh, heaven 1”

Passionately the woman kissed the lips once so red and
now aling so rapidly.

“ e is mad!” Bruyn exclaimed, turning to the group of
horror-stricken servants, who, half-clad, had gathered timidly
together in the entry-way. Bruyn was pale as a ghost, and
his hand shivered like a leaf in the wind, and, as he turned,
by some chance the hammer of the revolver, which the J edge
had recocked, fell,and the ball, sped with a deadly aim, struck
the woman full in the breast.

Up went her arms with a wild scream, and then with a low
moan, she sunk down, supine upon the floor at the feet of the
dead man.

“Oh, what a terrible accident!" exclaimed the Judge, evi-
dently reatly shocked,for he trembled like a man in an ague-
flt. “ oor woman, she was evidently crazy.”

When the inquest was held, the servants, naturally, testified
as to the “ accident,” and their belief that the woman was in-
sane. No blame was attached to the Jud e.

80 carefully had Bruyn arranged his a airs that but a sin-
gle servant in the house had seen the actress received there,
and he was too well instructed to tell tales out of schOol.

Jemmison alone held the key which might/have solved
the mystery, and he did not care to have ought to do with the
affair. .

The woman who had cast a blight over his early life was,
dead, and now he was free to act his own pleasure. Molly
Bawn, the waif of the streets, who had looked upon him in
the light of a father, at last convinced that he did not bear
that relationship to her, was only too glad to love him as a
husband.

Hero did not long survive the tragic death of Gentleman
George, and soon she found the rest that death alone can give
to the broken-hearted.

Arty, her sister, in due time married the “ fish-man," Billy
West, much a ainst her father’s wishes, who would have pre-
ferred “ a har handed workin’-man "—like himself.

After the tragic death of the “ Modoc” by his hand, Judge
Bruyn never seemed like the same man. He mixed more in
politics than he had done for years, and also speculated
heavily in stocks. His former luck seemed to have deserted
him, for he was defeated in his political aspirations, and lost
heavily in the stock-market.

New York was astonished one morning by the news that
Judge Nicholas Bruyn had been found dead in his bed. An
over-dose of opium, the doctors said; suicide, his creditors
declared, when they came to wind up the J udge's aflairs and
found that his assets would not half pay his debts.

Perhaps, after all, Nicholas Bruyn’s career w. not s sue
cessful one.

TIM “D.

 

 

Beadle & Adams’ Standard Dime Publications.

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10. 8 read- _le Speaker 20. 891th er.
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Dialogues No. Eight. Dialogues N o. Twenty.
Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No. Twenty-one.
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Lives of Great Americans.

prose i to d th ti biogra

man 339.5333 :vhouhavzuaddnedolnster 
QUE by their lives and deeds. The series em-

Washington.

I.—-George
II.—John Paul Jones.

—Mad Anthonywme

.--lithan Alien.
V.—M.aauis do Lafay-
V'I.—Daniel Boone.

VII—David Crockett.
VIII. -—Israel Putnam.
II.—-Kit Carson.
x.—Tecurnseh.
XL—Abraham Lincoln.
XII—Pontiac.

%‘3”3.“€“°‘“°“ "' W "u"pu.."’°“°'b"
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DIME NOVELS.

Unapproachable in Price.
Be ve careful not to confound these books

other publishtelrs, sold at the same
9

Dime Novels called
ublic
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The only Dime Novels are those published by Bum:

um Armrs, whose copyright trade-mark and signet

the word “ Dime “ Novel is. Ask always for Burma’s
Dime Novels, and you will then get what you wish.

The followi comprises a complete list as far as
published. umbers omitted are out of print

2. The Privateer‘sCruise 298. The Tonkawa Spy.

8.  294. The Rival Rovers.

9. e Slave Sculptor. 298. The Hussar Ca tain.
.0. The Backwoods Bride 299. Mossfoot, the rave.
11. Prisoner LaVintresse 801 ustang Sam.

14. Emerald Necklace. we. Glass Eye.

16. Uncle Ezekiel. 810. F horn Phil.

17. M Wilde. 812. Dic Darlin .

22. The d of Esopus. 818. TheRedBro herhood
28. Winifred Winthrop. 814. Rival Lieutenants.
24. The Trail Hunters. 816. Hurricane Bill.

5. The Peon Prince. 817. Tilgrg. the Texan.
80. Put. Pomfret‘sWard. 822. O rizzliin

81. Double Hero. 828. The Das g Dro-
82. irons. W0

38. Maum Guinea. file. 824. -o‘-the-Wisp

84. Ruth e. 825. Dashing Dick

85. East and est. 826. Old Crossfire

86. The Riflernen of the 827. Ben Bramble.

Miami. 828. The Brigand Captain

88. The Wro Man. 829. Old Stra .

89. The Land m. 880. Gray Hair, he Chief.
40. Union‘s Da hterfllc 881. The Prairie Tiggrs.
42. The Kin 's n. 882. The Rival Hun re.
44. nes aikiand. 388. The Texan Scout.
46. rock of the Albion. 884. Zebra Zack.

47. Tim Bumble‘sCharge 685. The Masked Messen-
51. The Two Guards. ger.

58. Hates and Loves. 886. Morgom the Pirate.
54. e. 887. The Spin

56. o's Plot. 888. Table, he railer.
60. Jo Daviess‘ Client. 889. The Boy Chief.

61. La hing Eyes. 840. Tim, the Trailer.

62. The nknown. 841. Red Ax.

68. The Indian Princess. 842. Stella’the S y.

64. ersof Mohawk. 848. The hite venger.
65. The recker‘s Prise. 844. The Indian King.

68. The antine. 845. The Long Trail.

69. Black ollow. 846. Kirk the Guide.

70. The Indian eon. 347. The Phantom Trail.
72. The Moose unter. 848. The gilpache Guide.
78. The Silver Bugle. 849. The ad Miner.

77.  850. Keen Eye, the Ranger
84. e Seminole Chief. 851. Blue Belt. Guide.

85. The tives. 852. On the Trail.

87. On the . 858. The Specter S y.

88. Captain Mo y 854. Old Bald .

90. Cast Awa 855. Red Knife Chief.
98. The Cree e Sisters. 856. Sib Cone, Trapper.
96. Little Moccasin. 857. The Bear Hunter.
98. Ruth Harland. 858. Bashful 
101. Maid of Wyoming. 859. The White e .
102. Hearts Forever. 860. Cortina, Scourge.
104. Guilty or Not Guilty 861. The Squaw Spy.

106. Simrile Phil. 862. Scout of '76.

110. The idden Home 868. S nish Jack.

118. Rattle te. 864. asked Spy.

114. Ned S ar . 865. Kirke, Ren ado.
115. The Sons Liberty. 366. Dingle, the utlaw.
116. Port at Last. 867. The Green Ranger.
117. The Mohegan Maiden 868. Montbars, Scourge.
118. The Water Waif. M9. Metamora.

119. The Five Chem ons. 870. Thompath, Trailer.
121. Vailed Benefac 871. Foul-weather Jack.
128. The Missi Bride. 872. The Black Rider.
124. Sumter’s uts. 878. The Helpless Hand.
125. The Hunted Life. 874. The Lake

127. Bald Eagle. 875. Alone on the us.
in. The Gulch Miners. 876. Phantom Horseman.
129. Blackeyes. 877. Winona.

182. Old Honesty. 878. Silent Shot.Slag'er.
185. The Cherokee Chief 879. The Phantom hip.
189. The under Foes. 8S). The Red Rider.

142. The Sagamore of 881. TheG Hunters.

Saco. 882. The Mad r.

154. Rob Ruskin. 888. The SpecterS ipper.
159. Snowbird. 884. The Red Coggcte.

165. The Unseen Hand. 885. The Hunch k.
176. The Trader S y. 886. The Black Wizard.
M. The Buffalo [piper 887. The Mad Horseman.
215. The White Her t. 888. The Privateer‘s Bride
219. The Scioto Scouts. 88). The Jaguar Queen.
294. The Mohave Captive. 890. Shadow Jack.

2'. The Forest Princess. 891. Eagle Plume

22a The Mute Chief. 892. The Ocean w.
$2. The Prairie Queen. 898. Red Slayer.

284. The Forest Specter. 894. The Phantom Foo.
289. Old Zb. 8%. The Blue Anchor.
242. Graybeand. 896. Red-Skin'sPi e.
248. The Black Princess. 897. The adroon py.
244. Keetsea. 898. The lack Rover.
246. The White Apache. 899. Red- the
$0. The Border Renegade rora.
256. Antelo Abe. 400. The Two'l‘rails

$8. The to Brave. 401. The Ice Fiend

ass The Border Huntreu 402. The Red Prince.

2154. Mountain Kate. 408. The First Trail.

82. Ruby Roland. 404. Sheet-Anchor Tom.
$8. The Lone Chief. 405. Old Avoindupois.
S4. The Young S y. 406. White Gladiator.
u. The Balloon uts. 407. Sin Clipper.
as. Black John. 408. Red Dan.

 

 

4

 

4 .
. WhiteSe nt.
. The 1.0.5583

. The Fire-Eater.

. Blackhawk.

. The Lost Ship.
Black w

Arro.

ptain.
Th Twin Trailers.

. e
. Death's-head Ran-

er.
. Cgptain of Captains.
. Warrior Princes.

The Blue Band.
The new Chief.
Scou

 

. Ethan Allen‘s Rifles
. Little Thunderbolt.

. The
. Honest Hand,

. The Stone Chief.

. The Gold Demon. '

. Eutawan the Slay.
. Masked d
. The Conspirators.
. Swiftwin .
. Caribou

. The Privateer.

. The Black S .
442. The Doomedeunter.

Falcon Rover-4

urde.

p.

448. Barden, the Ranger

444.

448.
449.

The Gray Scalp.

. The Peddler Spy.
. The White Canoe.
. E h Peters.

6 Two Hunters.
The Traitor Sp .
Others in

THE ILLUMINATED DIME
POCKET NOVELS.

the best works out of the most popular

living writers in the field of American romance.
Each issue a comalete novel, with illuminated cover.

rivaling in effect c popular chrome.
1. Hawks e Harry. 78. The Skeleton Scout.
2. Dead S at. 74. Little Rifle.
4. Blue Dick. 75. The Wood Witch.
5. Nat Wolfe. 76. Old Ruif,theTra r.
6. The White Tracker. 77. The let Sho era
7. The Outiaw's Wife. 78. The Border Rifleman.
8' “1.3.7.1579” 33' 9.38877. 8. i
. o. . r e m -
10. The Island Pirate. nole.\
11. The Boy Ranger. 81. Death Dealer, the
12. BessktrléeTra per. Shawnee Scourge.
18. The nch py. 82. Kenton, the Wen
14 Long Shot. 88. The Specter orse-
15. Gunmaker of Border. man.
16. Red Hand. 84. The Three Trame
17. Ben the Tra r. 85. Kaleolah, the itch
18. Wild Raven, r. een. k _
19. The S ter Chi . &. The Hunter Hercules. v
20. The ar-Killer. 87. Phil Hunter, the Bq
21. Wild Nat. S or.
22. Indian Jo, the Guide. 88. The dian Scout.
28. Old Kent, the Ranger. 89. The Girl Ave .
24. The One-Eyed Trap- 90. TheRed Herm teas.
per. 91. Star~Face, the Slayer.
25. Godbold, the Spy. 92. The Antelope Boy.
3:-  we 8 $116 Immense
. e e. cm s e o
as. Inldfim Jim. 95. The Red Wizard.
29. The Scout. 96. The Rival Trappers.
80. Eagle Eye. 97. The new Spy.
81. The Mystic Canoe. 98. Duslq ick.
82. The Golden Harpoon. 99. Colonel Crockett.
88. e Scalp King. 100. Old Bear Paw.
84. Old Lute. 101. Redlaw.
85. Rainbolt, the Ranger. 102. Wild Rube.
86. The Boy Pioneer. 108. The Indian Hunters.
87. Carson, the Guide. 104. Scarred Eagle.
88. The Heart-Eater. 105. Nick Do ie.
89. Wetzel, the Scout. 106. The In n Spy.
40. The Huge Hunter. 10!. Job Dean.
41. Wild Nat, theTrapper 108. The Wood . .
42.  109. The Scalped unter.
48. e Wh te Outlaw. 110. Nick the Scout.
44. The Dog Traile . 111. The Texas Ti r.
45. The Elk Kingl 112. The Crossed ves.
46. Adrian, the lot. 118. Tiger Heart,Trackef
47. The Man-hunter. 114. The Masked Avenga
49. Moccasin Bill. 115. The Pearl Pirates
50. The Wolf Queen. 116. Black Panther.
51. Tom Hawk, the Trail- 117 Abdiel, the Avenger
er. 118 Cato theCroe .
5a The Mad Chief. 119 'leooHanded
58. The Black Wolf. 120. Mad Trail Hunter.
54. Arkansas Jack. 121. Black Nick.
55. Blackbeard. I22. Kit Bird.
56. The River Rifles. 128. The S ter Riders.
57. Hunter Ham. 124. Giant etc.
58. Cloudwood. 125. The Girl Ca tain.
59. The Texas Hawks. 1m. Yankee Ep .
60. Merciless Mat. 127. Silverspur.
61. Mad Anthony‘s Scouts 1%. Sgatter Dick.
62. The LuckiessTra per 129. T Child Spy.
68. The Florida Scou . 180. Mink Coat.
64 The Island Trapper. 181. Red Plume.
65. W0 011%.) 182. Clyde, the Trailer.
66. Rattlin ick 138. The Lost Cache.
67. Eye. 184. The Cannibal Chi: (.
68. Iron- and. 185. Karaibo.
69. The Yellow Hunter. 186. Scarlet Moccasin.
70. The Phantom Rider. 187. 1(1an
71. Delaware Torn. 188. The d of thr
72. Silver Rifle. Moun

 

 

SON G BOOKS.

Bnnu's Dnrs Sosa Boon Nos. 1 to I containing
the on) phogular collection oi copyrig songs to be
found n market.

 

HISCELLLNEOUS DIME BOOKS.
Jim Crow J ke Book.

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BEADLE’S HALF-DIME LIBRARY.

Ivory one or them “ Live ” Stories by " Live” Ant-ore. Inch} nulnbef
e Complete Novel, at the extraordinary price of. HALF-hm

1 Deadwood Dick, Tn: Pruner or m
Rom. By Edward L. Wheeler.

Yellowstone Jack: or, Tm: 'l‘nArm

or nu: Error-1mm (mom. By J. E. Bedger. Jr.

3 Kennel Kin 3 or, The RED RIGHT
HAND. By Bu alo Bill (Hon. Wm. 1". Cody).

The Wild-Horse Hunters. By Capt.
Heyne Reid end Capt. Frederick Whittaker.

5 Vagabond Joe; Tu: YOUNG Wunmn-
me le. By Oil Coomce.

6 Bill Biddon, Tram er:
rn Non-weer. By

The Plyin Ynnhee; or, T3: 0mm
OUTGAST. y 001. Prentiss Ingrshem.

8 Seth Jones: or, Tu ohm or m
From-run. By Edwsrd 8. Balls.

9 The Adventures of Baron Mun-
chancel.

N
10 use...“ 033mm: m

l 1 The Two Detectivee: or, Tn:
FormuoreBoerm. LW.Aiken.

l2 Gulliver‘e Tremolo. A Voyage to
Lilliput. ende Voyege to Brobdlngnng.

The Dumb . B 011 Coo
1-3 euthor of "713?sz Jog." etc. m“,

14 Aladdin; or, Tn: WONDERFUL

or. Lm I
word 8. milk.

1 The Sen-Cut: or Tm Wrrcn or
Dmnl. By Capt. index-lei: WMtteher.

16 Robineon Orneoe. His Life and
Surprising Adventures, (27 illustrations.)

1 7 Ralph Roy. The Boy Bucca-
neer. By Col. Prentiss Ingrehem.

l 8 Sindhnd the Sailor. His seven voy-
ages. From the Ambler: Nights.

19 were“... mar. 22:: PM

20 The Double Daggers; or, Dren-

woon chx‘s Demon. By E. LWheeler,

21 Frontier Angel. A Romance of
Kentucky Bengers‘ Life. By 111.8. Ellis.

26 The See Serpent: or Ta: BOY
Romeo: Cursor. By Col. 3m Lewis.

23llick o' the Ni ht: or, Tn: Bar
8" or ‘76. By T. . Herbeugh.

Diamond Dirk: or, TBI Mrs'rulr
or n: Yum-1mm. ByColJngrehem.

25 The Boy Ca. trim or, Tar leu’e
Devon“. Roger Sterbuck.

26 Cloven Hoof. the Demon. By
Edwsrd L. Wheeler.

27 Antelope Abe. the Boy Guide.
By Oll Ooome.s

28 Buifnlo Ben: or. DEADWOOD chx
nl Dleomu. By lowerdLWbeeler.

29 The Dumb Pa. e: on, an Doors
Deuces-n. By pt. 1". Whittaker.

R ring Rel h Rochwood. Tm:
30 agape mHogl. By Harry St. George.

3 1 Keel-~Knife. Tln: Puma: or m:
Pmuun. By 01! Ooornee.

0 5) Bob Woolf, the Border Ruffian:
ID a or. Tu: Gnu. Dun-Saar. l1. LWheeler.

i) W The Ocean Bloodhound: or Tn
I ’ -’ Rnnl’uurlcenr'rnl Cmnelns. S.W.

e on Sol: or NICK Wlmrruns’
F; - 020.39.... By Cdpt. i. r. a Adems.
e) *- Wild Ivan, Tm: BOY CLAUDE DUVAL;
u -) By Edward L. Wheeler.
7» In“, no Clown; or, THE Qurnn or
3 \’ m: ARENA. By Milk 8. Finn.

‘3 ‘l The Hidden Lodge: or, Tm; Ll'l'ru
' " ‘ finance or re: Aolnmtmou. Herbeugh.

3:; Ned Wylde. '1‘" BO! SCOUT. By
1‘91.qu

 

39 Deuth-Pece, the Detective. By
Edward L. Wheeler.

A f Y
40 Born..e.ne....;r°.z.°..- m

41 Les-o Jack, m Youm Hos-rue-
”. By 01] Goonles.

42 The Phantom Miner: or, Dru)-
woon chx'sBoxmn. ByMLWheeler.

43 Dick Dnrlin , the Pony Bxpreu
Rider. By pt. F. Whittaker.

Rat R be: Tm: Nlo -
44 humor! 
45 Old Avalanche, the Greet An-

nihilator. By EdwsrdLWheeler.

46 Glue Eye. the Greet Shot ofthe
West. By Cept. J. F. 0. Adams.

47 Nightingule lea : not“ 1;: Forum-

m By '1‘.
Block J th Roud- t.
48 By Joe. {gages-.315 A...
49 Omaha. 011: or, DIADWOOD D10! u
Dacia. By Edward L. Wheeler.

50 Burt Bunker. Tin Tum-n. A
Tale of the Northwest. By 0.1m

51 Btm‘i‘fimlz alum

52 The White Buhlo. A Tole of
Strsnge Adventure. Oherlesllesells.

53 Jim Bludeoe. Jr Tn: 30! anx;
or,'rmuon ro mlSu'l-u. E. LWheeler.

54 Red Basel. Tin Bor Tum; or,
uranme ByJ.l'.0.Ademe.

5 5 Deadly-Eye. Tn Umowr Scour;
By Buflslo Bill.

56 Nick Whiflee’ Pet, or In re:
Venn or Dun. Cept. J. tandem

57 Deedwood Dich'e Eefi‘les: or,
Tu PARDS or floor Bu. E. Wheeler.

Th B rd King-orth
58 F3: ¢By OOleroomes.’ '

59 Old Hickory, or, PANDY Enus’s
80m. By Barry St. George.
60 The White Indian- or T3: Scour

or m Yluowmxl. ’By3.F.C.Ads.mc.

61 Buchhoru Bill, or, Tm: Rn Rm
Tux. By Edwerd L. Wheeler.

6 The Shadow Shi , or, Tm: RIVAL
lemurs. ByOo Prentiss Ingrehum.

63 The Red Brotherhood. or, Tn
Tynan Amen”. By W. J. Hamilton.

D Jack. Tn: Ouruw or
64 3'13"“: Tug, By '1'. 0. Herbeugh.
6 Hurricane Bill. or, Musmm But

m m "YARD." By Joe. ll. Booger. Jr.
66 Single Band, or, A Lauren A Lin.
By W. J. Hamilton.

 Patent-Leather Joe: or, OLD Ru-
runuxl. m OIAIIII. By P. B.We.rne.

68 The Border Robin Hoodlor, Tn
Bum": Roy". By Bllihlo Bill.

69 Gold Rifle: or, TE] 80! Dmerxv:
or m Buss Rm. By I. LWheeler.

70 Old Zip’e Cabin: or, T3: Gann-

lrou n: m Woons. By J.l'.C. Adena.

71 Delaware Dick: Tn: YOUNG Ru-
oln Sn. By Oil Ooomes.

72 31nd Tom Weetern. '1‘!!! Tim
Mom. By W. J. Hamilton.

73 “sesame: on M- B!

He. k e , Years
74 meoumm

I7 5 The Boy Dueliet; out}?! Comer

err-l nWou. ByOo .

7 6 Abe Colt. the Crow-Kine“ By
Albert w. Aiken. »

\.

 

7 7 Corduroy Charlie: or, Tm: Leer
Aer or Dnnwoon DICK. By E. LWheeler.

7 8 Blue Dick; or, Tn: YELLOW Cam’s
Vmuxcr. By Ceptcin Home Reid.

798010 .73lean By
Albert . Aiken.

80 Rosebud Rob; or, NUGGI'I' Nrn, flu
[man orme Bell. LWheeler.

81 tn Jo. ms: 'l‘nnon or m
In y Capt-in J. F. 0. Adams.

82 Kit Barefoot. m WOOD-HAWK; or,
OLD POVDII-FAOI. By T. 0. Herbeuth.

83 Rollo. the Boy 3 or, Tn
fitness or m Gown: Hoax. 011 Coomes.
84 my;  By wwwh Wheeler.

8 5 Buck Ducks-em: on, Bree, m: Fl-
uu Tun-n. ByChth.l'.C.Adems.

8 6 Dzndg’ moTnn-Mm-rmx-Tnx-

8 7 The Lead Piretee: on, me LEAGUI
3! emu-om

or Drm’s been.
88 Photo ph Phil: on, Roannun
Ron‘s moi. By I'd. L. Wheelc.

89 Island Jim: on, THE PE? or T8)
Penna. Bysuthorot“.lsck Kerk-w.“

90 The Drend Rider: 03,111: Tum
Dmnrr. By George W. Bram

91 The Ca. tblll of the Club. By
B Hunyng. (Jock Emmi-y.)

92 Gen-do Chet: or, On: AIAOOIDA
nlSn-rnreBm‘eCm. By I. LWheeler.

93 The (grim Encamn

Midnight Jnch, Tar ROAD-Am.
94 By T. c. Buheugh.

9 5 The Rival Revere. By Lieuth
Col. Henltine.

96 “whim? m BI
97 The Outlaw Brothers: or, Tn
ClmvrormfilanByJ.J.Hmhell.

98 Robin Hood. ml 0mm mu.
By Prat. Steven Glldersleeve.

99 Twmm‘rmof Tnoe. By George

 Dmmthich  Lendv‘llle.

l 0 1 J sighs ark-meg in New York

102 Difinn‘a’fgf
 Thguensoiofthe See. ByCol.

 Deadwood Dich’e Device. By
Edwerd L. Wheeler.
105 “grammar;  :-

106 Olrdcl‘roety. the Guide. By
107 one... Sim; 03mi Ann-

honnrous-r Hon ll..qu
108 “mm. Hem Bu-
 Dendwood Dick u Detective.
BylldwerdL. Wheeler.
 The Black Steed ofthe Prod
rice. By Jones L. Bowen.
111 TheSea-Devilsor, mumm‘
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1 12 mmnsmwm

Tin my Sime-
1m

September 10‘.
 Jech Ho le.m Yours Snoo-
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needy September as.

Amwmm
n‘l'l.ltis'.:lelfgllI'ne [.1an tier ;elc ell
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We: eix cent. eech. Show e um
Pub \NWmh-Sumxewfork

 

 

 

 

 

 

32 Large Three-Column Pages.

1. A Hard Crowd: OR, GENTLEMAN
SAM’S SISTER. By Philip S. Warne.

3. The Dare-Devil: OR, THE lVIchzi
WrrCH or THE SEA. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

3. Kit Carson, Jr., THE CRACK SHOT <2?
THE WEST. By Buckskin Sam.

4. The Kidnapper : OR, THE Gums. '
SHANGHAI or THE NORTHWEST. By Philip S. W." -

5. The Fire-Fiends: OR, HERCULES. T :
HUNCHBACK. By A. P. Morris.

6. Wildcat Bob, THE BOSS BRUISIZZ‘.
OR, THE BORDER BLOODHOUNDS. B Edward L. th
ler, author of “ Deadwood Dick,” “ Double Daggers. '

7. Death-Notch, THE DESTROYER: ( I,
THE SPIRIT LAKE AVENGERS. By 011 Coomes.

8. The Headless Horseman. A stranyv
story of Texas. By Capt. Mayne Reid.

9. Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover.

10. Vidocq, THE FRENCH POLICE SPY. ‘

Written by himself.

1 1. Midshipman Easy.
ryat.

12. The Death-Shot : OR, TRACKED To
DEATH. By Capt. Mayne Reid.

13. Pathawa : 0R, NICK WHIFFLES, THE
OLD TRAPPER OF THE ORTHWEST. By Dr. J. H. Rob-
inson.

14. Thagendanegea, THE SCOURGE ;
OR, THE WAR- AGLE or THE MOHAWKS. By Ned Bunt-
ine, author of “ The White Wizard."

15. The Tiger-Slayer: OR, EAGLE-

HEAD To THE RESCUE. By Gustave Aimard.

16. The White Wizard: OR, THE GREAT

PROPHET or THE SEMINOLES. By Ned Buntline.

17. Nightshade, THE ROBBER PRINCE
or HOUNSLOW HEATH. By Dr. J. H. Robinson

18. The Sea Bandit: OR, THE QUEEN
or THE ISLE. By Ned Buntline.

19. Red Cedar, THE PRAIRIE OUTLAW.
By Gustave Aimard.

20. The Bandit at Bay: OR, THE PI-

RATES or THE PRAIRIES. By Gustave Aimard.

21. The Trapper’s Daughter: OR,

THE OUTLAW’S FATE. By Gustave Almard.

22. Whitelaw: 0R, NATTIE or THE LAKE
SHORE. By Dr. J. H. Robinson,

23. The Red Warrior: 0R, STELLA
DELORIIE'S COHANCHE LOVER. By Ned Buntline.

24. Prairie Flower. By Gustave Ai-
mard, author of “Tiger-Slayer." etc.

25. The Gold-Guide: 0R, STEEL ARM,
THE REGULATOR. By Francis Johnson.

26. The Death-Track: OR, THE OUT-

LAws or THE MOUNTAIN. By Francis Johnson.

27. The Spotter-Detective: OR, THE
GIRLS OF NEW. ORK. By Albert W. Aiken.

28. Three-Fingered Jack, THE ROAD-
AGENT or THE ROCKIES; OR, THE BOY MINER or HARD
LUCK. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.

29. Tiger Dick, THE FARO KING; or,
THE CASHIER‘S CRIME. By Philip S. Wame, author
of “ A Hard Crowd," etc.

30. Gospel Geor e; or, FIERY FRED,

THE OUTLAW. By Josep E. Badger, Jr.
31. The New York ‘Sha ;’ OR, THE
FLASH or LIGHTNING. By Albert W. iken,

32. B’hoys of Yale; OR, THE SCRAPES
or A HARD SET or COLLEGIANS. By John D. Vose.

33. Overland Kit. By Albert W.
Aiken.

34. Rocky Mountain Rob. BY Al-
bert W. Aiken.

35. Kentuek, the Sport. By Albert
W. Aiken.

36. Indun Dink. By Albert W. Aiken.

By Capt. Mar- I

 

LIBRARY.

 

 

 

 

 

KIT CARSON, JR.—NO. 3.

37. Hirl, the Hunchback; OR, THE

SWORDHAKER or THE SANTEE. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

38. Velvet Hand; OR, THE IRON GRIP or
INJUN DICK. By Albert W. Aiken.

39. The Russian Spy: on. THE BROTH-
ERS or THE STARRY CROSS. By Frederick Whittaker.

40. The Long Haired ‘ Pards ;’ OR,
THE TARTARS or THE S. By J 0s. E. Badger, Jr.

41. Gold Dan: OR, THE WHITE SAVAGE
or THE GREAT SALT LAKE. By Albert W. Aiken.

42. The California Detective : OR,
THE WITCHES or NEW YORK. By Albert W. Aiken.

43. Dakota Dan, THE RECKLESS RANGER;
or. THE BEE-HUNTERS EXCURSION. By 011 Coomes.

44. Old Dan Rackback, THE GREAT
EKTARMINATOR; or, THE TRIANGLE‘S LAST TRAIL.
By 011 Coomes.

45. Old Bull’s Eye, THE LIGHTNING
SHOT OE THE PLAINS. By Joseph E. Badger, JR.,

46. Bowie-Knife Ben, THE LITTLE
HUNTER or THE NOR-WEST. By 011 Coomes.

47. Pacific Pete, THE PRINCE or THE
REVOLVER. By Jos. E. Badger.

48. Idaho Tom, THE YOUNG OUTLAW
or SILVERLAND. By on (‘mwnrq‘

 

 

Each Number Complete. Price 10 ets.

49. The Wolf Demon, or, THE QUEEN m
THE KANAWHA. By Albert W. Aiken.
50. Jack Rabbit, THE PRAIRIE SPORT.
or, THE CmeREN on THE LLANO ESTACADO. B5 J08
er. r.

‘ 51. Red Rob, THE BOY ROADAGENT
By 011 Coomes.

52. Death Trailer, THE CHIEF OI
SCOUTS; or, Life and Love in a Frontier Fort. ls)
Hon. Wm. F. Cody, (Bufi‘a‘lo Bill.)

53. Silver Sam; or, THE MYSTERY or
Deadwoon CITY, By Col. Delle Sara.

54. Always on Hand; or, THE SPORTIVE
SPORT or THE FOOT HILLS. By Phillip S. Warm:
author of “A Hard Crowd," “Patent Leather Joe "

55. The Scalp Hunters. A ROMANCE or

THE PLAINS. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
56. The Indian Mazegpea; or, THE
MAD MAN or THE PLAINS. By rt W. Aiken.

57. The Silent Hunter; or, THE SCOWI.
HALL MYSTERY. By Percy B. St. John.

58. Silver Knife: or, WICKLIF'FE, THE
ROCKY MOUNTAIN RANGER. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

59. The Man From Texas; or, THE
OUTLAW or ARKANSAS. By Albert W. Aiken.

60. Wide Awake; or, THE IDIOT or
THE BLACK HILLS. By Frank Dumont.

61. Captain Seawaif. THE PRIVATEER.
By Ned Buntline.

62. Loyal Heart; or, THE TRAPPERS on
ARKANSAS. By Gustave Aimard.

63. The Winged Whale.
W. Aiken.

64. Double-S'ght, the Death Shot.
By Joseph E. Badger, r.

65. The Red Rajah: or, THE SCOURGE
or THE INDIEs. By Captain Frederick Whittaker.

66. The Specter Barque. A TALE
or THE PACIFIC. By Captain Mayne Reid.

67. The Boy Jockey: or, HONESTY

VERSUS CROOKEDNESS. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.

68. The Fighting Trapper: or, KIT
CARSON To THE RESCUE. By Capt. J. F. C. Adams.

69. The Irish Captain: A TALE or
, FONTENOY. By Captain Frederick Whittaker.

I

l 70. Hydrabad, THE STRANGLER; or,
1 ALETHE, THE CHILD or THE CORD. By Dr. J. H.
Robinson.

71. Captain Cool-Blade, or, THE MAN-

I SHARK OF THE MISSISSIPPI. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.

72. The Phantom Hand. A STORY or
is: YORK HEARTHS AND HOMES. By Albert W.
1 en.

73. The Knight of the Red Cross:
or, THE MAGICIAN or GRANADA. A Tale of the Al'-
hambra. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

F 74. Captain ofthe Rifles. A ROMANCE

; or THE MEXICAN VALLEY. By Captain Mayne Rom

By Albert

 

75. Gentleman George, or, PARLUR.
PRISON, STAGE AND STREET. By Albert W. Aikmn.

76. The Queen’s Musketeer, - r
THISHE, THE PRINCESS PALMlsT. By George All)!" y,

77. The Fresh of Frisco. or, 'i‘ s
HEIRESS or BUENAVENTURA. By Albert W. Ailrm.

78. The Mysterious Spy: or, Gmu- :
FEATHER, THE BUCCANEER’S DAUGHTER. By A. -‘ '
Grainger. Ready October 8th.

i
i
i
1

79. Joe Phenix, THE POLICE SPY. 3‘)

1‘ Albert W. Aiken. Ready October 22d.
A new issue every two weeks.

Beadle’s Dime Library is for sale by M?
Newsdealers, ten cents per copy. or sent by mail 0 r
receipt of twelve cents each. BEADLE & ADAMS
Publishers, 98 William Street. New York.