- ny Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1888. dy Streer & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. QO. Enterea at the Post Office, New York, as Secund Class Matter. ¥ Office Vol. 43. WIAD WOAAAAOAAAAAGNBDNN Te et a A Pe Es P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. a re Sk “WAS YOUR HUSBAND EXPECTING THE HOUSES TO BURN DOWN THIS AFTERNOON 2" 3! Rose St. Te Se A Ie New York, September 29, 1888. 1} ‘ i li i n » Peo ha : al it dn a My HEHEIH HN uy oF ie ae. i mi | | | } YY | Sx< e ; ee y) \\\ is = MAY GOD NEVER FORGIVE ME IF 1 DO NOT HUNT : ‘one = THE AUTHOR OF THAT INFAMY TO HIS GRAVE!" ROAST Agatvne?? JERE D THE MYrYsSs'THRIOVUS Voice. Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. Hi ie 77) YY \ a | | “YOU GAN FIND HIM BY CUTTING yo 6 6g [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK FORM. } FIGHTING AGAINST MILLIONS; THE DETECTIVE IN THE JEWEL CAVES OF KURM. BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE WALL STREET HAUL.” CHAPTER I. THE DETECTIVE’S MYSTERY. “What are you looking for, Nick ?”’ “The insurance papers on our up-town houses.” “Didn’t you take them out ofthe safe yesterday ?” | “Yes, but ’msure I put them back when that man | called about the embezzlement case. They’re not here now. Could you have taken them out in a mis- take ?” “Thavyen’t been to the safe fortwo days. Maybe you put them in your desk.” “T’ve looked there.” “Singular! What can have become of them ?” “Tean’timagine. They’re of no value to anybody, and if they were, who could have taken them ?’ Little Mrs. Carter laughed. “Well, yes, who could? I'd like tosee the thief that wouldn't rather steal from the Tombs than from Nick Carter.” Nick shook his head and smiled, but a serious, per- plexed look settled on his face. “T don’t really suppose the papers can have been stolen, and the loss of them doesn’t matter anyhow, for the policy runs out to-day at noon; but there is a mystery in their disappearance that I don’t like.” “Mystery, Nick ?’ in surprised inquiry. “Yes, mystery,” he answered slowly, as if in deep thought. ‘‘Have you noticed nothing out of the way happening in the past six months ?” A bappy smile lighted up Ethel’s face. “You don’t call baby Ralph anything out of the way, do you ?” she asked, with demure roguishness. “Bless his heart! no,” answered Nick, fondly. ‘I was thinking of all the money I’ve lost. Everything I’ve invested in has proved a failure, so that all we have left now are those three houses and this one.” “Well,” said Ethel, cheerfully, ‘‘we won’t starve yet, for the four houses are worth a quarter of a million at least.” “The loss of the money doesn’t trouble me, it’s the mystery.” “Now, Nick,” laughed Ethel, “I do believe you have livedso much in other people's mysteries that you want to bring one home to live with.” Nick smiled, and then became serious again. “T may be fanciful,” he said, ‘but itis not my way to deal with anything but cold facts. I don’t want to alarm you either, butif Iam right itis best to face it.” He was so much in earnest that Ethel instantly be- came serious, and listened attentively as he gave his reasons for his belief. “Of course,” he went on, ‘any man might make uniformly unfortunate investments, so I will pass that fact;now, even though the circumstances at- tending many of the losses were peculiar. You know that up to six months ago, Inever failed to win any case I took up.” “Yous.” “Then think back over the past six months and see if I have once succeeded.” “But you always formed a correct theory,” said Ethel, looking puzzled. “That only makes it look worse. I would work on my theory until it was clear, while the other de- tectives would be on the wrong track. Then all ofa sudden and without a bit of warning, one of them would abandon his theory and arrest my men. Not only that, but he would have the case in good shape, though I know that he could not have been working it up.” “Itis singular.” “Worse than singular. These six months of failure have undone all that I gained by previous successes. Why it used to be thought that when [I took a case it was as good as ended, and more than one smart rascal gave up from very hopelessness. Now I’m no amore than any other detective.” “But Nick, dear,” said Ethel, laying her hand on his, and looking at him with sweet hopefulness, “you will fathom this mystery as you have all others, and then you willregain yourreputation.” “Then you are already convinced there is a mys- tery ?”’ “Not entirely, but I think you know best. I never knew you to be mistaken, and so aceept your judg- ment now.” “It is whispered that I sell out to any criminal rich enough to pay my price.” “Tnfamous !’’ “More than one captured criminal has declared that I approached him with that purpose.” “Oh, Nick!” “And what is worse, all the men who have accused me really believe it.” “How can they ?” ‘Somebody has personated me !”? “Who ?’ “T do not know, and you will comprehend that itis really a nystery when I say that I fave vainly tried to fathom it.” “It is the work of some one who owes you a grudge.” “Probably; but it is startling to think that any enemy can keep such close track of all my move- ments and yet remain undiscovered. Do you know, Ethel, [am fearful sometimes that what I say to you may be overheard.” “But that is impossible, unless you suspect Kitty.” | “T don’t suspect her, because I’ve watched her.” “Then who could-hear you?” “Nobody, I suppose, and yet my secrets are known.” Ethel looked distressed, and then with a resolute toss of the head, exclaimed: “You'll win your own case as you’ve won others.” “T think I shall,” answered Nick, ‘but in the mean- time I have been as nearly frightened as I very well can be.” “T guess you’re not badly scared.” “Not badly, perhaps, but the loss of these papers has been enough to make me more than ever anxious to have the houses re-insured by noon.” “Then you will go at once?”’ “Yes, ’l giveup hunting for the papers, and go down townnow. Ah! There goes the telephone.” CHAPTER II. ANOTHER BLOW. “Well ?” “That Mr. Carter ?’ “Yes. Who wants him?’ “Inspector Byrnes. Hello, Nick, is that you?’ “Yes.” “Telegram from Chief of Police, Philadelphia, says | Jimmy Case caught there, and found a letter on him from you offering to get him out of the country for | five thousand dollars. Better go on there atonce.” “Thank you, I'll go. A letter will be a clew to work on.” “Hope you'll give your enemy a black eye. Good luck to you.” “What is it?” asked Ethel. Nick repeated the conversation. “What anoutrage?’ exclaimed Ethel; “butperhaps you can trail the writer of the letter. You will go, of course ?”’ “Yes, but not to-day, I suspect a trap.” “Not Inspector Byrnes ?” “No, he is my friend.” “The Philadelphia chief then ?”’ “No; but on the part of my unknown enemy, who a some reason wants to get me out of New York to- ay.” “You know best!” said Ethel. “T will pretend to go, and will buy my ticket for Philadelphia, but will hurry back here iu disguise. | In the meantime, do you-go to the insurance com- pany’s office and re-insure. Kitty can take care of the baby while you're gone. Now I'm off.” } “T’lldoas you say, dear, Wull they have all the} necessary information about the houses ?”’ | “Yes,” “Tell me, Nick, do you suspect any reason for want- | ing to get you out of the city?’ “No. Frankly I am only trying to do what I nat- urally will not be expected to do. And yet [I have a/| vague fear that makes me anxious to have those houses insured. Fear oft what I don’t know. I am | | | | simply nervous, I suppose.” The idea of her husband being nervous and anxious about an unknown and only suspected evil filled Ethel with a strange feeling of apprehension. There was something awesome to her in the spec- tacle of masterful Nick Carter the victim of an im- penetrable mystery. Never before had he failed te see through the dark- est mystery, and the dread of this one grew on her | more and more as she thought of it. Was it gr that for six months an unseen enemy had been silently and successfully stealing from them their money, their reputation, and their honor ?”’ Was it possible that for six months Nick Carter had vainly fought this mysterious foe ? Tf their money and honor could be the this person what might not follow? their lives and happiness in jeopardy ? ‘But, pshaw!” she cried, as she hurried down town. “Who can resist Nick long? He is roused now, and may fathom the mystery by to-night. I will | not worry.” But she did worry. She could not escape from the | feeling of dread that had taken possession of her. The mystery which had overshadowed her home for | half a year was only now known to her, and it seemed to gather in blackness every moment, till it hung about her like a pall. Flurried, and quite unlike her usual sweet and placid self, she entered the insurance company’s magnificent offices, and explained her business. The clerk gave her a quick, curious glance, and | asked : “Where is the old policy ?” “Mislaid. My husband could not findit. He said it would not be needed.” ‘No, it will not be needed. speak to the secretary.” He went away, leaving Ethel greatly disturbed by his peculiar manuer. | She saw him speak to an elderly gentleman, who at once started up and glanced curiously at her. After a few minutes’ whispered conversation, the clerk returned to her, and said, politely : “Wait a few minutes, please. Mr. Barton will look up the houses. Will you take a seat, please ?” There was no fault inthe young man’s words or manner, but with-increasing alarm, Ethel] noticed that he looked at her ina way that seemed partly pitying, partly curious. The dread that had been growing on her since she had left home oppressed her more and more, and a wie feeling came over her to start up and fly to ick. She who had always felt so fearless because she Me Nick Carter’s wife, not sat trembling at undefined ears. laything of Why were not Excuse me, and I will | office clock pointed at half-past eleven before the | was bending all his thoughts to the solution of the | you tell me anything about the matter?” The minutes dragged slowly along, and the great secretary approached her, and said: “Ts this Mrs. Carter?” **Yoa, sir.” “T find on looking over the policy that I shall have to see your husband to find out about some matters that have come up since the old policy was issued.” “But my husband was called to Philadelphia this morning. Can’t lanswer the questions ?” ‘ “Hardly. Butit won’t matter; it can rest until he returns.” “But you will insure the houses right away, will you not?” “T cannot until I have talked with your husband.” “But the policy runs out at noon, and Mr. Carter was very particular about having it renewed at once. “Was he expecting the houses to burn down this | afternoon ?’”’ The question was asked quietly and suavely enough, but there was something in the secretary’s tone that stung Ethel’s proud spirit, and she in- stantly rose haughtily, saying: “You may ask that question of my husband. I will tell him what you say.” “Thank you.” He bowed and smiled, and she hurried away, a prey to the strangely mingled feelings of indignation and fear. Nick was home and waiting anxiously for her, wondering at her long absence. eae recounted her experience at the insurance office. An angry light flashed from Nick’s eyes as he lis- tened, but he only said, quietly : “I think I did well to stay in New York. have lunch, and I will go try my luck.” He was silent duriug the meal, and Ethel did not disturb him, for she knew from his manner that he Let us strange mystery which had entered their lives so in- sidiously and yet so effectually. After lunch, Nick went to the insurance office. “Ts Mr. Barton in?” *Out at lunch, sir.” “My name is Carter. My wife was here this morn- ing about renewing the policy-on three houses. Can “Mr. Barton has it in charge. him ?”’ ‘*When will he be back ?”’ “Tn less than an hour.” “T will wait.” Nick sat down with an air of unconcern that was in strong contrast to his inward turmoil. He had noted, as Ethel had done, a quick look of | Will you wait for , Surprise and curiosity in the clerk’s face. | “T began,” he said to himself, ‘by laughing at this | thing, and behold, I am a hunted creature, even as I myself have hunted others. I find myself despoiled | of money and robbed of my good name, and yet I do not know how. I, Nick Carter, am baffled by a mys- tery in my own life. I ama thing of wonder to this clerk, and I do not know why. But I will know. Wealth, power, and cunning are leagued against me, but they shall not prevail. I dare not even whisper to my wife, but it is known. My very safe is searched, and I can only look at it and wonder. Well, we shall see. It shall be my one purpose to unearth this hidden foe.” It was two o’clock when Mr. Barton walked lei- | surely in. The clerk told him who Nick was, and he called him to his desk, and said, with a peculiar smile: “Your wife said you had gone to Philadelphia.” “Bither you forget or you lie,” said Nick. “Mr. Barton flushed. ‘‘“How dare you, sir? I——” “Mr. Barton,” said Nick, incisively, “my wife told | you I was suddenly called to Philadelphia, which | was true. I bought my ticket, and then did not go. My wife said you wished to ask me some questions. Tam here to answer them, and to ask why you do} not issue a policy on those houses. The risk is $ first-class one, and you do me a wrong in delaying to issue a policy.” 1 “We are the best judges of the risks we take, and | we are not obliged to give our reasons for refusing to issue a policy, merely because some blustering fellow comes along and demands to know.” “Do you refuse to renew my policy ?” “ Assuredly.” cone do you also refuse to tell me why?’ “T do.” “T will make it my business to discover why.” “T don’t think you will.” There was a contemptuous insolence in the man’s oe and manner, that puzzled more than it annoyed ick. Mr. Barton in his treatment of him was evidently acting in good faith. What was the ground of his peculiar conduct?” Whatever it might be, it was undoubtedly a part of the general mystery, and Nick knew he must wait for its solution. He made no answer to the secretary’s remark, but quietly bowed and walked toward the door. He had not reached it when he heard the telephone ring, and saw Mr. Barton step to the instrument and answer the call. He was partly out of the door when the secretary called: “Stop, Mr. Carter!” Nick returned, and looked inquiringly at him. Mr. Barton was listening at the telephone, and merely motioned with his hand to Nick to wait. “How many did you say?’ called Mr. Barton through the telephone. Then, after listening again: ‘What are the numbers?” “Entirely destroyed, did you say?” “Cause known?” Ah!” The answers to Mr. Barton’s questions were in- audible, but the nature of his words made it easy to surmise that he was asking the particulars of a fire. Everybody in the office was covertly listening and watching. Mr. Barton turned to Nick, and said: “Tt is well for us that we did not insure you,” “Why ?? “Because, as you will no doubt be surprised to learn, your three houses have been burned to the ground.” “What!” “And the cause of the fire is not yet known, though it is suspected.” Nick understood now. All this had been carefully planned and as carefully executed. He was not only to lose his houses, but was to be made to appear as having burned them in order to obtain the insurance which had been refused him. Ethel’s visit, her statement that he had been called to Philadelphia, his effort to get the policy renewed at once, would all make a bad showing | against him. In a twinkling he had realized all this, but, thanks to his wonderful self-control, did not betray himself. He looked sternly at the secretary, and said: “Your evident premonition of this fire is at least suspicious, You will hear from this again.” He walked from the office, heedless of the angry secretary’s rejoinder that he had better look out for himself. CHAPTER III. WHAT THE PAPER SAID. Nick’s first impulse was to go to his burning houses, | but an undefined feeling of dread led him to go rapidly home instead. In spite of himself he could not repress a sigh of relief when, on entering the sitting-room, he saw cant with baby Ralph in her arms waiting to greet im. The next instant he asked himself why he should sigh, and with the downright honesty he always practiced with himself, he answered that it was be- en he feared that the next blow would fall on them. And would he wait for it to fall? No. To-morrow he would take such measures of precaution as would insure their safety even against his seemingly omnipotent foe. He said nothing to Ethel about the fire, preferring to let the evening paper first confirm the story. He told her the company had refused to renew the policy, but made light of it, and to turn her mind from the dire mystery that had come into their lives, set himself so gayly to the task of entertaining her that she never dreamed of the new woe that had be- fallen them. P When the evening paper came he glanced at it, and knew the secretary had spoken the truth. “Tn flames,” read the big head line. “Half a block of brownstone palaces on Madison avenue burned to the ground.” : That was enough; he dropped the paper on his lap and smiling at his dainty little wife, said: “Do you fee’ philosophical ?.’ “Oh, ves, 'm always so when I have youand Ralph near me.”’ “Then I'suppose you mean you don’t care what happens so that we remain to you?’ Ethel glanced up in startled dread, but answered stoutly: : “That is just what [mean. Tell me, has anything new happened ?”’ “Our houses that we could not insure are burned to the ground.” Ethel hugged her baby closer to her, and trembled as she murmured, as if to herself: “How they pursue us!” : “So they do, dear.” He went to her side and put his arm around her; “but have no fears. I have a little plan for turning the tables on these enemies of mine who work so well in the dark. Come, little wife, don’t be disheartened. Look up into my eyes and say if you don’t see the old light of success there.” eee i She looked up with a sort of child-like trustfulness, and presently smiled, as she said; 7 “Now, I almost pity them for I knowyou will never rest until they areat your merey, I am not afraid any more. Here, take this little cherub while I read all about how the best part of a quarter of a million burned up.” i o “That's the way I like to see you,” said Nick, ad- miringly, as he took the crowing baby and_tossed himin the air. “Read it aloud to me, and we'll enjoy it together. My enemies make a mistake when they strike my pocket. I feel ahurt there less than any- where. Go ahead.” Ethel read the account of the fire as composedly as if she had no special concern in it. “Ttis not known,” she continued, “how the fire broke out. but there seems to be no doubt that it was the work of anincendiary. Itis noted as a circun- stance that will bear explanation that the owner of the three houses nearest the corner was extremely solicitous to have the houses re-insured by noon to- day.” “Oh, Nick, now dare they,” cried Ethel. “A reporter dares anything for a sensation. I expected it.” ; “The owner is the well-known detective Harvey Jones, who is equally well-known in society as Mr. Nicholas Carter. This gentleman's reputation is not as good as it wasonce, and it has been charged that he will for a consideration help a criminal to evade the law.” “How does he dare, Nick?’ “T don’t know. Never mind. Goon.” “His wife is an extremely pretty little brunette, whom he found a few years ago in a short skirt theatrical company. Since her marriage, nothing very damaging has been alleged against her reputa- tion. She is admitted into society.” Ethel’s voice had fallen low with horror, and she ended the paragraph with a piteous gasp. Nick sat white and stern, like a man turned to stone. There was a moment's silence when she ceased reading, and then Nick gently laid the baby in her lap, and kissed her. Fie walked to the door of an inner-room, and then turning back a few paces, raised his hand, and said with terrible intensity : “May God never forgive me if Ido not hunt the author of that infamy to his grave!” He procured his hat, and said : “T will not be gone very long.” “Do nothing violent on my account, Nick, dear.” He smiled bitterly. “T am afraid I shall have no oceasion for violence. Iam merely going to put in the thin edge of the wedge.” He went directly to the editorial rooms of the evening paper, and asked for the managing editor. The busy time for an afternoon daily was over, and he was shown at once to Mr. Grayton. “Well, sir?’ “fama detective and am looking up the case of the fire on Madison avenue this afternoon. The ac- count in your paper was such a peculiarly graphic onethat I knew it must have been written by one whois quick to see and hear. [I thought if I could talk with the gentleman I might get some valuable oints.” * “Yes, yes; quite likely,” said the pleased editor, as he pulled a bell-cord hanging near him. “Mike,” to a boy who opened the door, “has Mr. Farren gone home yet?” “No, sir; he’s in the local room.” “Take this gentleman to him. Mr. Farren is the man, sir. Good-day.” Mr. Farren was evidently a man whose genius needed stimulating, and got what it needed; for he was at that moment neither sober nor drunk, and bore himself like a man who was used to being in that condition. Goon. “Mr. Farren,” said Nick, suavely, ‘Mr. Grayton tells'me that you can putme on the track of this man Carter who owned the houses burned to-day.” “T?’ in a tone of surprise. ‘I know nothing about him ” * ; " ‘ “But Mr. Grayton says you wrote that very graphic sketch of him and his wife.”’ “Oh, yes,” indifferently. “Then you must know something about them.” “Nota bit of it. I got the facts as I wrote them from a man not likely to lie. The chance to use them came to-day, and I used them, that’s all.” “Perhaps you will tell me your informant’s name. If I could see him now——” A peculiar smile passed over the reporter’s face, as he said, ironically * “Yes, if—” “Have you any objections to telling me the man’s name and address ?” “T’ll tell you his name; I don’t know the address.” “That will do. I guess I can find him.” “Oh, Lean tell you how to find him.” “Thank you. If. you will be so kind.” “His name is White—John J. White.” “And how can I find him ?’ . “By cutting your throat.” “What do you mean ?’ demanded Nick, sternly. “T mean that John J. White was hung for murder last Friday week.” Mr. Farren leered at Nick asif he expected him to enter into the richness of the joke he had per- petrated. But Nick had no heart for joking. The cunning way in which this last move had been made came over him like a flash. The evening paper was innocent, the reporter was innocent, and the only clew to the real culprit was wiped out of existence; for Nick knew that the hanged man had only been an instrument in the hands of his secret enemies. “To-morrow,” he said to himself, as he walked homeward, ‘Nick Carter and his family will dis- appear from the world, not to appear again until these miscreants have been brought to justice. And whatis more I will keep my own counsel until the disappearance is eftected, since it seems that all I say is known.” CHAPTER IV. be “HE SHALL LIVE A LIFE OF SIN!” Ethel looked anxiously at Nick when he entered the room where she sat, but she did not speak. “Unsuccessful again,’ he said, with a smile; “but I do not mind now, for I see my way clear. So forget all that’s past, and hope for a speedy clearing up of this mystery.”’ Always quick to feel his moods, Ethel soon re- covered her lost equanimity, and when it came time to retire had begun to feel as if it were foolish to yield so easily to an enemy, however powerful he seemed, merely because he was as yet undiscovered. “Come here, Nick,’ she said, gayly, ‘“‘look at this precious baby and acknowledge that you don’t care what happens so that he is left us.” “IT don’t much care, that’s a fact; but my pride is hurt when I think that I have not yet even suspected the author of all our trouble.’ “Oh, come now, Nick,” laughed Ethel; ‘on your honor, don’t you even suspect?” “T suspect half a dozen, but only one of them has either the wit or the means, and well, never mind, little woman, suspicions don’t count in this matter. I will have certainty pretty soon, or my name is Hodge.” “Good,” cried Ethel, merrily. “Now I know you are on the right track, since you have become mys- terious.” Both were usually sound sleepers, but this night neither seemed to rest comfortably. Nick, particularly, was restless, though he did not wake until shortly after midnight, when he was thoroughly roused by a feeling that he was being crushed, He lay quite still for a second, thinking he had been the victim of a nightmare; but suddenly he realized that there was an actual pressure on his chest. Then he felt the presence of something or some- body by his side, and through the intense darkness he could see a shadowy outline. Quick as thought he made up his mind that a hand lay on his breast, and he felt that at last he and his enemy were together. , His hands were under the bed-clothes: but with wonderful celerity he slipped them out, and, sitting upright, caught at the shadowy figure. Empty air was all he caught, but a low, mocking laugh falling on his ear, told him that he had not been mistaken in thinking he had seen-somebody. #4 He knew the room so well that even in the dark he felt that no one could elude him in it. He sprang from the bed, and darted in the direc- tion of the laugh. “What's the matter, Nick?’ cried Ethel, in alarm. ‘““Where’s your baby ?” asked a muffled voice. With a mother’s quick instinct, Ethel put her hand on the crib, and felt wildly over it. A wail broke from her. “The baby! Oh, Nick! My baby! My baby!’ Nick was feeling for matches. THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 VOL. 43—No. 48, mufiled voice, mockingly. Nick bent his head to listen, “You needn’t listen,’ said the voice, ‘with any hope of catching me. I am safe from you; but if you want to know about your baby, and your money, and your reputation, I will tell you about them, for the time has come when I may put the final touch to the first act of the sweetest drama of revenge that ever the eyes of hate witnessed.” “Give me my baby !’”’ moaned Ethel. “Your baby!” laughed the voice. ‘‘Was it dear to you? Did you love it? Ah! I have watched the pretty fellow grow since his birth. I have joyed in every little coo and smile that opened wider still your hearts to Bim, because I knew that the sweeter he was the more you would suffer when I took him from you.” “Oh, Nick, bring him back to me.” “T will, Ethel.” “He will! Hearhim! Yes, you shall have him back when you bring me back my loved one. He was my all. I had none left when you took him, andi swore then that I would be revenged, and have I not been?” “T never harmed you,” wailed Ethel. “You! And do you think I care for you? No, but your turn will come because he loves you. [ have taken everything but you, and, hide you as he will, you cannot escape me. Shall [ tell you what will be- come of your baby? He shall live a life of sin, and die by the hands of the public executioner. Do you doubt that I cando it? TI, who have caught all your secrets as they dropped warm from your lips. I, who have ruined your every enterprise. I, who burned your houses and made you seem guilty. TI, who have taken your baby from your very side and dare to tell you of it with my own lips. I, who have kept you here while Pour house is burning under your feet. Take my advice, and die here, pretty lit- tle Ethel.” A laugh that was positively devilish smote their ears, and they shuddered. “My baby! my baby !’? moaned Ethel. ‘Who are you?’ asked Nick, hoarsely. “Do you think I dare not tell? Why, my revenge would not be complete if you did not know. I ex- pect you to escape from this burning house, and spend your life in a vain pursuit of me. Who am I? Tam Grace Eldredge, the wife of Howard Wilshaw, whom you hunted to his death. Now find me, tind your baby if you can.” The smell of smoke had every moment been grow- ing stronger, but Nick had not heeded it. Stealthily as a panther he had moved about the room trying to find the point nearest the voice. And at last he had found it. It grew fainter at the last words, and he threw himself forward. The closet door was there. He dashed it open and sprang in. A dense cloud of smoke and a great burst of flame drove him out. “Try againif you want to roast alive!” jeered the voice. CHAPTER V. MOUK-MA. For a brief moment Nick was stupefied by the calamity which had befallen him. But he was above everything else a man of quick decision and action, and even a blow as terrible as that just struck him could not for long paralyze his faculties. Pressing his hands to his temples, as if to force his brain under control, he stood in the stifling smoke for several seconds, motionless, heedless of Ethel’s piteous cries for her baby. Suddenly he sprang from the closet, and had it been light enough a look of terrible determination could have been seen on his face. bt “Ethel, darling,’”’ he whispered, ‘“‘be silent. “We must pursue that woman and recover our baby.” “She will kill it, Nick. Let me die here.” : “As you will,” answered he, with stern calmness; “we will die here together, and the world will say I have fled a dishonored man, while I shall die saying that the wife, whom I loved even better than my baby, has robbed me of the courage to live.” The reproach acted as he had expected. Ethel sprang up, and catching his arm, cried: “Forgive me, Nick. Go and I will follow you.” “No,” said Nick, sorrowfully, “since you, too, have lost faith in me, I had better die.” “Oh, Nick, dear, I haven’t lost faith in you—indeed, I have not. Let us go—please, darling !” _ Having accomplished his purpose of rousing her, he wasted no more time in words, but lifted her quickly in his strong arms, and with a rapidity and directness that proved he had formed and was earry- ne oe a plan, he sprang through the door into the hall. Dense clouds of smoke were rolling up, and already the lurid gleams from the licking tongues of flame cut the blackness With fitful blades of light. ; He burried to the stairs leading to the floor above —the top floor—and dashed up. The flames had found the staircase, and played about his feet as he bounded upward. But he minded : more than he did the suffo- Cetin es smokes area wee ee we So that he could breathe at all, so that the stairs would bear his weight, was allheasked. Reaching the top he opened a door, and, with the’ certainty of familiarity, he went to a chair in the darkness and sat Ethelinit. — 3 ae “Do not move from there, dear,” he whispered, and then hurriedly left her. C He sped to the extreme back part of the house, passing through the several intervening rooms as rapidly as if they were light, and stopping at last in | a small closet-llke room by which, by means of a | ladder, the roof was reached. | He climbed the ladder softly, and when his head | was at thé scuttle door stopped and listened. “Ah! he muttered, “my wit is not gone yet; they | are waiting for me, then.” He hurried back to where he had left Ethel. “Are you here, Ethel!” cy a.” “Good!” He lighted a candle—he knew it would be useless | to try the gas—and by its light began to don a dis- guise, for it was in this room that he kept his detec- tive wardrobe. Atthe same time he directed Ethel | to dress herself. When he had finished, which was in a marvelously | short time, he turned to his wife, saying: | “There! Do I not look like a fireman of the regu- } lation sort, fit to rescue you from the flames ?” “Ye-es,’” answered she, with a painful hesitation. “You mean no,” he said, quickly. ‘*Why ?”’ She almost wrung her hands as she answered: “Your face—you forgot—lI’m afraid you will be recognized,” “Aha! Itseems to you that my troubles have un- | nerved me so that I have missed the most important | part. Is it not so?” “Tt would be no wonder,” she said, sorrowfully. i “Tut, little woman,” he whispered, “have no such | fears. My foes will find I was never. stronger; but | I want them to gain the very impression you have, | that I am beside myself. Is your faith restored ?” “Yes, yes. But for this great sorrow I would never | doubt. Your confidence gives me strength. Can I do nothing to help you?” “That’s my own brave little wife. Yes. Ah! here come the flames; we must lose no time. Matt Solo- mon and two men are waiting on the roof for me. Matt owes me a grudge, and would not hesitate to prostitute his detective’s office to put me in disgrace. He, therefore, I know, will be a ready tool in Grace Eldredge’s hands. I hope to turn that circumstance to my advantage. Under the fireman I am made up for Matt. I tell you this to completely restore your confidence in me.” “Tt ought not to have been needed; but now, at least, you may depend upon me as of old. Geo on.” “T will be seized as soon as we are on the roof, I have no doubt. You must actasif in a swoon. If, as I hope, we are taken down through the next house, I will create a commotion, and you must es- cape and get away. Be stealthy and cautious, and see that you are not shadowed. Goto Philadelphia at once. There disguise yourself, and then come back to New York to-morrow, and put up at the Astor House as Mrs. Morrow, a widow.” “T will try to do my part so well that you will see I am no longer untrustful.”’ “That’s right. Now let’s be off.” He caught her up and started rapidly for the ladder. “Nick,” she whispered, as she was borne along, “‘do you think we shall find Baby Ralph?” “On my honor I do.” “Arriving at the ladder, Nick held Ethel—already feigning a swoon—on one arm, while with the other he aided himself up. He fumbled at the fastening of the seuttle, pounded it, and finally hurled it off, and scrambled out, erying: “Safe! Safe at last, my darling.” “Oh, yes, you’re safe enough,” said a sarcastic voice, which Nick recognized at once as Matt Solo- mon’s. “I'll take good care of you.” “Ah!” eried Nick, with a pretense of boisterous joy, ‘some of you came up by the other house, eh 2 [had a narrow squeak of it, boys, I tell you. Let’s get out of this, the lady’s in a dead faint.” He made a movement to hurry away from Matt’s restraining hand. Matt laughed a coarse, exultant laugh, and cried out: “Good enough, Harvey Jones—good enough, Nick Carter; but you can’t fool an old fox twice. You’re my prisoner.” “You're crazy, man,” answered Nick; ‘I’m Jimmy Callon, of No. 12.” “Allright, Jimmy, of No. 12,’’ jeered Matt, ‘we'll get out of this, and put youina safe place. In the meantime, here’s a pair of bracelets for you to wear.’ “Get away from me, you old fool, or Pll put day- light through you.” “Nab him, boys.’’ Three men, besides Matt, sprang upon Nick, and in a few seconds he was handcuffed. Ethel, never forgetting her role, fell like one life- less on the roof. “Pick her up, boys, and hurry up.” commanded Matt. ‘‘And don’t you,” he said, with a menacing look at Nick, try any funny business with me. The _ - Now for: jig is up, and you might as well make up your mind to it right away.” “What am I arrested for?’ ‘“‘Arson—that’s what.” “Where? When?’ “Oh, you make me tired. Come along, and you'll find all that out soon enough.” He hurried Nick down the seuttle of the adjoining house, and as the latter looked keenly about him, he could not fail to be struck by the fact that every door was shut, while the halls, from top to bottom of the house, were well lighted. Another fact which he noted was that the hall of the house was not next to his house, but on the opposite side. 3 He listened, intently, as he was led down the stairs, but was unable to detect a sound coming from any of the rooms. , It would have been difficult to hear Sie thy any- how, because of the noise made by his party, and by the more distant, and even greater uproar of the fire- engines in the street. Ethel was carried by two men, and was borne along in advance of him. He watched her closely, but, to his admiration, could not detect a movement to indi- eate that she was acting a ee ’ When the party reached the main hall, Nick no- ticed her head fall over, as if by accident, and he knew she was noting her position in anticipation of her flight. The time for action had come. As a professor of magie will perform a trick, so, in a twinkling, Nick had freed himself from his hand- cuffs, and put out the hall gas. Instanly arose a hubbub, which lasted hardly more than a minute, when Matt Solomon’s voice was heard from the back end of the hall. “It’s allright, boys. I hope I haven’t killed him, but I had to use him pretty hard. Got the woman ?”’ “‘No-o!’ was the answer, slowly and sheepishly given. “Well, never mind. I’ve got the chap I was after, and I don’t care what comes of his wife. Can’t some of you light that gas?’- “T will,” said one of the men. “T don’t know as you need to, after all. ‘ses, BIT.” ; “Step here a minute, will you?’ The man did as bidden, and the following conversa- tion ensued in a whisper: “T haven’t killed my man, but he’s stunned and hurt, and [ don’t want him taken in until he’s con- scious again.” (08.7 ; j ae big money in this, if we work it right.” “Yes.” There’s the reward of the insurance company to divvy among the lot of us; but, Dooley, old man, there’s a little private reward about ten times as big for you and me, if we land him safe in the Tombs, On the square, too, you know.” “Go ahead,” said Dooley, eagerly. “Well, if the inspector sees him brought in all used up, he’ be mad, cause he likes him, and he’ll do something—have him in the hospital, maybe—so reat the fellow will have a chance to skip, d’ye see?’ ‘*Y es," s : “Well, ’'ve got to stay here a while to look after the private reward, and what I want you to do is to drive around in some of the dark streets for about fifteen minutes, and then go to the Tombs where I'll be waiting. Then, if ’'m there Ill see that he’s prop- erly disposed of.’ ; : “That’s easily done.” e “Then eall one of the men and carry him out. Boys, Dooley will take charge forine. I’ve got business on hand yet. One of you come here and help carry{this tired man out.” ; The men laughed at their superior’s joke, and did as bidden. In a few minutes they were gone, and the door was shut behind them. “T wonder,” muttered the man who was left behind, and who looked like Matt Solomon, “if Ethel got away. I didn’t hear the door open or shut, but I guess she must have been successful. At any rate, I must hurry with my work, for I don’t know how soon they may discover that it’s Matt instead of me they’re riding around. The fool! to think he could outwit me.” With a careful hand he tried the parlor doors. They were locked, and afier a moment of hesitation, he drew out a picklock, and, after working quietly a moment, opened the door. The rooms were dark, but Nick had his small pocket- lantern ready, and quickly flashed it around, and then as quickly darkened it. The two parlors were bare of furniture, were en- tirely empty, infact. “Does this mean that the family has moved out?” queried Nick, ‘‘or does it mean that the family that lived here was puthereasablind? The latter I guess, and probably the house was furnished only just enough for them to livein. Well, ’l) see. The house may be empty, but I have @ feeling that somebody is e it, though I do not hope te find Grace Eldredge ere.” t : Like a shadow he moved up the stairs to the next floor, and after listening at the doors there, tried them. They all opened réadily, and a flash of his lantern in eagh room told himghat it was furnished as a sleeping-room, but was erfpty of occupants. Dooley ?” where [ hope to OVEN: Grace must have lived if 1 fire must be under conti ‘om the way they are working, but thesewsines be here all night, no doubt.” | Pe hraky: Ome Ee He put out the gas before going up stairs, and then with redoubled care 0 that floor, too; and then, with a map of the floor in his mind’s eye, approached the*door that led to a room that, as he calculated, must be side by side with the room he and Ethel had slept in. i; a . “T'll see,” he thought, ‘if there is not a secret com- munication between ‘the houses. In no other way could Grace have escaped. Last summer, while we were away in the country, the work could have béen done. Yes, that would account for it; six months is correct. ago ny mysterious troubles began. *® Yes, every room | on this floor must have some device for one’s hearing what was said on my flats. enough. Very clever, Grace, very clever; but the end is not yet.” He listened at the door before trying it, and his quick ear caught the sound of a faint footfall. He knelt softly and applied his eye to the keyhole, but could see nothing. Suddenly he sprang up, and like a snake darted to the farther end of the hall, where he crouched on the Staircase in the darkness. The door he had stood at was opened, and some person peered out and evidently listened. There was a short grunt as of dissatisfaction, and the door was closed again. Presently a light streamed under the door, and after afew moments of cautious waiting, Nick stole “ ae spot and once again placed his eye at the key- 101e. He could see now. A tall, powerful man was moving about the room, seemingly taking a last look a it, and arranging its furniture according to some plan. ; When that was done to his satisfaction, he went to the wall just opposite Nick, and softly passed his | hand over it. ‘ Then he pressed his finger here and there against it, and then, as if satisfied, dréw back and contem- plated the spot. i ‘Been sealing the place up,” muttered Nick. ‘Ah, I understand; they’ve fastened it, and put a new eeu wall paper over the spot. I'd like to see his ace. He was gratified almost as he wished it, for the man, with one final glance around the room, took his hat and coat from a lounge and turned. “Mouk-Ma!” hissed Nick, and the next instant was gliding down the stairs as if bent on escaping from the man he had seen. Reaching the hall door, he listened, and hearing nothing, softly opened the inner and outer doors, and passed out. As he paused for a second in the vestibule, a low cry escaped his lips. It was: *““Mouk-Ma.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) bm @ <4 - RATS AS INCENDIARIES. Fire Marshal Whitcomb, of Boston, has been ex- perimenting with rats and matches, shut up together ina cage, in order to ascertain whether they were likely to cause fires or not. In the absence of other known causes, frequent fires have been ascribed to their agency, while at the same time many under- writers affected to scoff at the idea. The question may, however, now be considered as settled. The very first night that Marshal Whitcomb’s rats were left alone with the iatches, four fires were caused, and not a day passed while the experiment was being tried that fires were not set in this way. The rats were well fed, but they seemedto find something in the phosphorus that they liked. It was noticed that only the phosphorus ends were gnawed, and in near- ly every instance the matches were dragged away from the spot where they had been laid. ee ELECTRIC LIGHT AS A FERTILIZER. It is said that trees planted under the electric light increase in size much more rapidly than those set out under ordinary circumstances. This assertion is well illustrated in Fairfield, Me., just at present, where at a street corner stands a little tree that was set out lastspring. It grew fairly well last season | without the electric light, but this season, under its jeffulgent rays, it has stretched out with great rapidity, far outstripping allits fellows set out at the same time. f : The explanation of this wonderful growthis that the tree grows. both day and night, the electric light taking the place of the sun at night. Under all the circumstances this would seem to be a very plausible explanation, and if it is true the electric Jight will come into general use in hot-houses and other places where it is desirable to force vegetation. tered Lot aT BS The + | go up. He put out the gas on | I see it now clearly | BONNET. HER BY MARY E. WILKINS. When meeting bells began to toll, And pious folks began to pass, She deftly tied her bonnet on, The little, sober meeting-lass. All in her neat, white-curtained room, before the tiny looking-glass.” x So nicely, round her lady-cheeks, > She smoothed her bands of glossy hair, And innocently wondered if Her bonnet did not make her fair ; ; Then sternly chid her foolish heart for harboring such , fancies there. Squarely she tied the satin strings, And set the bow beneath her chin ; Then smiled to see how sweet she looked; Then thought her vanity a sin, And she must put such thoughts away before the sermon should begin. But sitting for the preacher’s word, Demurely in her father’s pew, She thought about her bonnet still, Yes, all the parson’s sermon through, About its pretty bows and buds which better than the text she knew. ; Yet sitting there with peaceful face, The refiex of her simple soul, She looked to be a very saint, And maybe was one, on the whole; Only that her pretty bonnet kept away the aureole. Pes [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM'] Manager's Favorite The Tragedy of -amlegh Shores, A STORY OF THE STAGE. By HERO STRONG. Author of “The Captain’s Orphan Daughter,” “The Lost Bride,” ‘‘Born to Command,” etc. (“THE MANAGER’S FAVORITE” was commenced in No. 46. Backnumbers can be obtained of all News Agents. } CHAPTER VY. ETHEL MEETS JOHN BELMONT. A new and extremely popular play of the serio-comic style had just been placed before the public on the boards of the Argentine Theater in New York. Now, none of our readers need look over the directory to find the location of the Argentine, for it is not down under that name. The name is our own, but the theater is one of the best-known places of amusementin the city. The play was a booming success. The audience had filled the house to the roof, and the applause and the re- ceipts had both been overwhelming. In consequence, Manager John Belmont buttoned his overcoat over his broad bosom with a feeling of good nature and self-complacency very pleasant to experi- ence. \ It is, no doubt, a fact that the dross we call money isa filthy substance, but it is astonishing how friendly and at ease with all the world a sufficient quantity of it will | make a man feel. Mr. Belmont said to himself he would rather walk to -his hotel. The night was fine, the stars were out_in myriads, and a late moon had just-risen in the east. e ste busily out from amid the crowd of car- riages and pedestrians e theater struck into a Somewhat unfrequented street as being the | St Short cut to his hotel. ; y 1 in calculating hew much cle i his when the run of his play was ov cratulating himself on the shat spar tite We Madoussteaie Hognrospue, oh ay! Oo Mademoiselle Eup! : e layed One of the minor parts, but upon tegen eee much of the suc- agepended. ae He rouse mhis agreeable meditations by a shriek of distress and fear on the opposite side of the street, and, rushing across, he was just in season to knock down an insolent young rough who was forcing his company upon a frightened young girl. _ Mr. Belmont spoke to her kindly and reassuringly. «He will not trouble you again. I trust you are not hurt.” . “No; but I have had a severe fright. I am not used to the streets, and I had lost my way. I have been trying to find my boarding-house for the past two hours, and, unfortunately, I asked him the way.” ~ «You should have inquired of a policeman.” “Should 1? ButI did not know. Ihave only been in New York two days.” : “Ah! From the country ?” “Yes, sir? ’ ; ‘Will you tell me where you are stopping? I will see you safely home.” ~ “Oh, thank you. Itis No, 110 Blank street, at Mrs. Tracy’s.” ; . “Tt you will allow me, I will walk in that direction with you. Itis quite too late for a young girl to be out by herself.” «7 know that. But what could I do? I was out search- ing for employment, and, as I told you, I got bewildered and lost my way. New York is a big city.” “Well, yes, quite good sized,” returned Belmont, who had caught a look at the girl’s face by the light of the street lamp, and had seen such a face as one seldom sees out of a picture-gallery. A clear, creamy com plexion, with a rose flush on the cheeks; eyes dark and and soft, and deep as mountain wells; hair golden as the summer sunbeams ; and over all the fair, sweet face, the radiance of youth and innocence. «Ah! it was a face to make poets rave, and to make some men forget their vanity. John Belmont was a shrewd man, and he had not lived five-and-thirty years for nothing. Ideas formed quickly in his well-trained brain—trained to catch on to oppor- tunities calculated to redound to his benefit. But he must proceed with care, er he might frighten this timid young thing at the outset. ~ ee is your name?’ he asked, as they walked along. He fancied that she hesitated before replying. “My name is—Ethel Atherton.” “A pretty name. May I ask where your home is, or Ww ” was ovE «7 do not wish to tell you,” she said, frankly. «But Shall I not need to study 2?” “Not so very much. The role you take can be learned in half a day’s t rward, if you do well in this, as I feel you will, w have you trained for other parts more important. Can you put on your walking-dress ahd come with me at once ?” Ethel hesitated. Although she had consented to Mr. Belmont’s plan, she felt doubtful of herself. It all looked so new and strange to her. She, who had never even seen the inside of a theater, to be thus suddenly thrust before the footlights, and expected to do with credit to herself—she hardly knew what. “I might be afrald at the last moment. Is it not ter- terrifying tostand before a great crowdin the way I Shail have to do ?” she said, timidly. ; «You will on the. stage with and Ido not think you will find it all embarrassing. «You will forget all about yourself when you get interested in the play, and [ predict that you will make a grand success,” “Thank you. But 1must speak to Mrs. Tracy. What time shall I come home ?” “Oh, you will not return here, of course. This is no suitable place for you. I will engage to find you a board- ing place with a lady who will be qualified to instruct you in what you do not understand. Mrs. Vanstead has been an actress herself, and she will be invaluable to you, And besides, Madame Therese, our leading lady, has her home there. You can call Mrs. Tracy in, and we will sever our ties with her.” Mrs. Tracy, who had been lingering in the hall, trying if by chance she could catch any portion of the inter- view between the manager and her er, came in with her chin well in the air, and disposed to be bel- ligerent. But Mr. Belmont soon silenced her. d “TJ only hopes that the young lady has found true friends,” said Mrs. Tracy, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye with the corner of her apron; ‘but I never did think much of these theatrical people. But as she makes her bed so she must lie,” ; «And I trust her bed will be a very pleasant one,” said Mr. Belmont, with his good humor unruffied ; ‘‘and be kind enough to receipt your bill, and you shall have your money.” Mrs. Tracy signed her name with a grand flourish and a very stubby pencil, and condescended to open the door for them. to you, miss,” was the parting salutation. “Good-by J ‘7 hopes you'll never regret going.” Mr. Belmont called a cab, and, putting Ethel inside, they were soon set down at the door of the retired act- tress, Mrs. Vanstead. A quiet house in a quiet street, not very far from the theater, and the neat maid ser- vant ushered them into a very handsomely furnished room on the first floor. Directly the crimson draperies at the back of the apart- ment were pushed aside, and a lady entered. Mrs. Vanstead was tall and rene. with a rather pale face, lighted by dark gray eyes,and framed in snow-white hair. She advanced with a grace which would have struck the most ordinary observer, and offered a slim, white hand to Mr. Belmont. “This is Miss Ethel Etherton, Mrs. Vanstead, “the young girl I spoke to you about,” said the manager. _ Mrs. Vanstead took in the face and figure of Ethel at aglance. Her face lighted up, a flush of color dyed her pale cheek. She took the young girl’s hand in both her own. 7 “You are very welcome, my dear. And I am glad to see that our enthusiastic friend here has overrated your attractions. Nay, do not blush: In the way in which we theatrical people look at beauty, you need not mind our paying compliments. And you are to learn the business of being an actress ?” y “T am to try.” : “And I trust you will succeed. Do your friends ap- prove ?” asked Mrs. Vanstead. _ ; “J have no friends who would feel especially interested a me,” Said Ethel, sadly. “1am alone with my bread earn.” *‘And with your face and your innocence, you are ex- tremely fortunate to have fallen in with Mr. Belmont, who, even if he does belong to the class which some ex- tra good moral people so severely condemn, is not by any means the worst man in the world,” she added, haif smiling at the manager, who had retired a little into the background to give the women a chanee to get ac- quainted. ; “I am sure I feel very much obliged to you for your in- dorsement,” said Mr. Belmont, bowing. “And now I bespeak for Miss Atherton your kind care and oversi¢ht, and I trust you to make her conversant with the hundred and one little points that she will need to know. Later on, if she does not disappoint me, I shall send her to the training- school and have her perfected. And mean- while, I trust you to _teach her the role she has to play to-morrow night at the Argentine——” ; “Oh, not to-morrow night!” cried Ethel; ‘certainly not soon as that!” ; “You will be ready, never fear,” said the manager, en- oe: “and I predict that you will bring down the ouse.” / “And what about Mademoiselle Euphrosyne »” asked Mrs. Vanstead. 7 . re k. ~ touches the VOL, 48—No, 48, “She will, no doubt, be ina fine temper,” said Mr. j Belmont, stroking his rd; ‘but it is allin a life-time. And it will teach her not-to put on airs.” _ Ethel listened, but shé did not comprehend the drift of their remarks, and very soon the manager departed, leaving the text of his great play with Mrs. Vanstead. It was comparatively easy work for the xeon girl to commit the t assigned to her, but she felt full of mis- -givings lest She should not be able when the time came to sustain the self-possession—the aplomb necessary to success. r But Mrs. Vanstead encou her; and Madame Therese, 0) down into the parlor in neglige cos- tume, and the play-book in her hand, muttering over her role in low tones, pronounced favorably on the new comer. ed * «Don’t be afraid, my dear,” she said, amiably; “there is nothing distressing about it, though, of course, one has to get used to being stared at, and to having one’s joints, good or bad as may be, commented on. I remem- per thatin my early days of theatrical life I suffered greatly because the reporters would persist in comment- ing on my feet. One cannot help having number five feet, I suppose,” said m lazily stretching out to view the members in question, incased in their silken hosiery and their well-fitting bronze kid slippers; ‘but it dis- me beyond everything the way they harped on my feet. Ihave got wellover that, and many other things as well; and last night, when Iread in an even- _ ing paper that Madame Therese was positively setting up the wrinkles on her alabaster brow and that her nose was perceptibly sharpening, it did not in the least destroy my appetite for cold chicken and cranberry sauce. Oh, you will get in time, dear, and you are certainly far more beauti- ful than Mademoiselle Euphrosyne. Only fancy, that creature expected to be put above me, and she has been in the sulks ever since.” ; ‘ nae who is Mademoiselle Euphrosyne?’ asked el. “Her real name is Belinda Jones, I believe,” said madam, erigerens a curl paper which had started to creep out of her auburn ringlets; “but she is another person altogether in the play. You are to supersede her, and I fancy there will be some loud talking. But Bel- ee does not care. And the rest of usare glad she is going. “Oh, I amso sorry to steal any one’s place,” began Ethel, but madam cut her short. > «Pon’t trouble yourself about that. She will find another engagement directly, and it would have made little difference if you had not appeared to take her part. Some one would have been found. Belmont was determined not to stand her airs. ; But Ethel was sadly out of sorts with thinking over how disappointed Mademoiselle Euphrosyne would be at losing her place, and heartily wished she had not promised to enter Mr. Belmont’s company. CHAPTER VI. THE BOUQUET OF TUBEROSES. The night came all too soon, and Ethel Atherton at- tired as she had onlydreamed queens were attired, waited in fear and trembling in the greenroom of the Argen- tine the rising of the curtain upon the scene in which she was to make her debut. § Diamonds flashed upon her neck and arms, and there was aglow upon her cheek which no artificial means could ever have produced. «Do not spoil that delicious color with rouge,” said Mrs. Vanstead to the costumer’s assistant; ‘nothing _ could be more charming. And now, my dear,” to Ethel, “forget Seton except that you are the most beauti- ful woman who has ever trod these boards, and that ye are going to succeed In convincing everybody of that The curtain rose at last, the instruments stopped their noisy clangor, the orchestra prepared to take breath, and the vast audience bent forward to listen. Madame Therese was greeted with wild applause, and then it was Ethel’s time to goon, | She was not Ethel Atherton any more—she was Queen Mallory, who ruled the kingdom and swayed all. hearts by her grace and beauty. In her trailing robes of azure silk, decorated with golden stars, shimmering from beneath the costly dra- peries of lace ; with the priceless diamonds on her round white arms, and on her fair young bosom; with her golden hair flowing down her shoulders, a billowy mass of sunshine, Ethel was, indeed, a vision radiant enough to entrance the senses of any crowd of beauty-worship- ing spectators. * ‘The representations of Mr. Belmont had prepared the audience -for a vision of rare beauty, but when Ethel came timidly forward, and, standing in the full glare of the glas-light, recited in her clear, sweet voice the few words of her response to Madame Therese, the building - shook with applause. And again, and yet again, was she called out, and still they did not seem to tire of feast- —— eyes upon her wonderful loveliness. hel heard the tumult, she felt the eyes of the multi- tude upon her, her head swam, and for a moment it seemed to her that she must turn and flee ; and then her senses came back ; she roused herself with a mighty ef- fort, and courage flowed into her heart. And she felt as free andas brave as ever she had felt in treading the eo cliffs of Carnleigh. isa sort of intoxicationin the applause of a multitude, whether it be given as a tribute to beauty, or genius, or bravery, which it is difficult for tlle average aan or woman to resist. ¢ And Ethei Atherton, all unused as she was to the great world and its falseness, its cruelty, and its coldness, felt her young blood t! and her pulses leap at this grand demonstration of approval which had curtain fell at last on the closing scene, and the the greenroom was besieged by a throng of ar- “geeklug to. be presented to the new at- nager Belmont was a shrewd man, and he h that nothing: was so attractive as a fused all requests for an introduc- L Pee was the stage name he had 2 not desire to make acquaintances at esent, he told them, blandly ; there were circumstan- ces in her life which made her desirous of keeping the time she called her own unbroken by the calls of society or friendship; and the manager's manner more than his words made an impression, and the story circulated that Miss Le Bosquet had a hidden romance in her life, and that there was a mystery about her which no one could fathom.. ; And consequently she became a great deal more inter- athe and the Argentine was packed nightly to see r. “She will never make a great actress,” said Mrs. Van- stead, in answer to a question proposed to her by John Belmont; “of that Iam satisfied. She has not the am- bition to study, and she lacks enthusjasm. Whatever she does she will do it conscientiously, and she will try to please you, for whom she feels a very warm gratitude for what you have done for her, but she will never be great. She will always be pleasing, because beauty Y public heart every time; but my opinion is that she would shine much brighter as the center of a happy home than as an actress.” “You have a delightful habit of throwing cold water on my plans, Cornelia,” said Mr. Belmont, with the free- dom of a familiar acquaintance. ‘I remember that you have done that several times before; but I shall not quarrel with you. It does not matter whether she is a great actress or not, so long as she can draw a crowd. That is the main point. But, by Jove! itis curious to see how jealous they all are of her already. 1t is strange that one pretty woman never can abide another pretty woman. I fancy that even our cold-blooded Madame Therese is envious; and Signor Carriniis as madly in = ar her as he can be outside of being in love with imself.” “Signor Carrini is a dude of the first water, and he has not the brains of a monkey,” said Mrs. Vanstead, con- temptuously. ‘And, indeed, in my experience, all hand- some men are fools.” “You are hard on us, Cornelia,” said Mr. Belmont, smiling. “I never thougnt of including you,” said Mrs. Van- stead, frankly. ‘‘You do not come under that head at ll. And then they both laughed, and Belmonttwent over to the mirror and took a good look at himself.? «J am not an Apollo by any means, that is a fact,” he said, when he had finished the scrutiny; ‘‘and I never found much favor in your eyes, but nevertheless we have been good friends, Cornelia. It is not every rane who manages to keep a discarded lover as a lend.” . “] wish you would not speak of that foolish episode in your life, John,” said Mrs. Vanstead, a mist of sadness clouding her gray eyes. ‘You were only a boy and I Was a mature woman, almost old enough to have been your ae It was a youthful folly you should try to 0 e ke Me * vrAnd yet I have never loved any woman since,” said Belmont, with some warmth in his measured tones, “and I am notsosure that we would not have got on well together. But the time has passed, and you have been a successful woman, Cornelia, and happy, as the world goes, have you not ?” TGs err. so. Ah, here comes Miss Le Bosquet herself. Well, my dear, and how fares it with you this morning ?” Ethel came in fresh and bright from a brief morning walk and shook hands with the manager. “You look as brilliant as the morning !” said Belmont. “You are at the age when late hours and the fumes of gas do not tell on you. Happy stage of being! Would that we could all be young always!” “You were young once, Mr. Belmont,” said Ethel, sweetly, never dreaming how her words mortified Mr. Belmont, who was fond of speaking of himself as old, but liked to have others consider him young. “Were you any happier then than now ?” “Man is never satisfied, 1 suppose,” he returned, eva- sively. “But how do you like theatrical life, on the whole ?” “T am very Well pleased.” . «And we are not half as bad a class of people as you thought us, eb ?” “J have never had any prejudices against theatrical people,” said Ethel. ‘I did not know any of that kind, and why should 1 have? I do not know why one cannot be good and pure in one kind of life as well as in another. The sunshine is just as bright and clear when it is reflected from the mud-puddle as when it shines on the clear mountain stream.” «Ethel—Miss Atherton, you have had a grand success, and { congratulate you. It is a great deal better than doing chamber work, is it not ?” «7 think it is.” " ; Mr. Belmont had plans for a new drama he was about toeven unjust criticism ‘cerned, she could bury herself forever from the knowl- actress at a glance, and a gleam of sa the boards, and a long talk ensued ‘pe- | . aa Vanstead touching the role for n it. . Mrs. Vanstead came off triumphant, and Ethel was assigned a part where there was not much acting re- quired, instead of one of the leading positions, which Mr. Belmont desired her to take. 5 “Never mind, Miss Atherton,” he said, as he took his leave; ‘‘you Shall not always have these minor parts, I will bring you to the front when you have had a little more training and experience.” *T am quite satisfied as itis,” said Ethel. ‘1 am sure that dear Mrs. Vanstead knows what is best for me.” Time passed, and Ethel Atherton had been nearly three months on the stage, when one night. just as she was bowing her acknowledgments to a perfect ovation of sent: she lifted her eyes to the audience and met fixed upon her face a pair of dark, magnetic eyes, which held her own inspite of herself, and for a moment caused her to lose her presence of mind. She trembled as she went into the dressing-room, and, Madame Therese, who was already half disrobed pre- paratory to assuming her ordinary attire, noticed it. sae is it, child? Are you not well?” she asked, found you,” was his greeting, . Sin simulated earnestness and Y sincerity. WSS But neither his words nor IA his manner put her at her scat ease, or changed the current of her thoughts. “Let me pass, if you please,” she coldly said, but in atone of command, 2 ih But he made no move te accommodate her. “You are angry with me, and I must admitthat you have some cause for the‘feeling. But before Ilet you pass, you must listen to au explanation of my con- duct last night; you must be informed of the reason why I failed to come to your assistance.” “T do not care to hear you, sir—at least, not now,” she added, as her mind be¢amg clearer, and her ap- preciation of her difficulties moreenlightened. ‘You can say What is necessary to be said after I have reached the hotel.” ees iba = : “You are unfair, Bris Die preserving his self- control, and regarding her sadly. “You must have a poor. opinion of me to imagine I have lost my regard for you.” “Tf you have the slightest regard for me”—her eyes flashing, and her caution deserting her—‘“‘you will stand out of my path, and allow me to resume my journey. No gentleman would seek to detain a lady against her wy.” The expression of his dark face changed. The mask was dropped, and henceforward there would be no misunderstanding between them. There was a Vicious ring to his voice when he an- swered her. ; “You will not listen to me, you say. | le: you shall! The farce has progeeded to its legitimate end. You shall soon know Who I am.” id “T have known you as, you are ever since last night,” she contemptuo es “IT do not wish to listen to pouty iat, for I so ®horoughly detest you, my soul isse filledevith goathing when I look at you, that I would rather beeome blind than permit your polluted presence in my sight, even for a day.” Her bosom heaved, her eyes gleamed with virtuous anger and abhorrence, and her cheeks glowed with excitement, as these scathing words fell from her lips. ; ‘ “But you shall ha ne for days and months and years, my proud, disdainful beauty,” he passionately retorted. “I have staked too much in this fight to lose all by a woman’s whim. Be careful, therefore, of what you say in future, for much depends upon the line of conduct you may choose to adopt. This is no child’s play with me. I possess more power than you imagine.” “The power to do evil,” scornfully. “So do your worst! Kill me! Iam not afraid to die. Heaven will judge me, as it will one day judge you.” “Why should I kill yon?’ He spoke in gentler ac- cents, for his admiration of her beauty and her fear- lessness had for the moment got the better of his re- sentment. ‘I want you to live—to livefor me, to en- joy a life of luxury and happiness. You shall be tenderly cared for, and your slightest wish shall be obeyed.” : ( : “Tenderly cared for!” with biting sarcasm. “As tenderly, perhaps, as you treated me last night. The marks of your cowardly fingers are on my throat et. “What? Itreat you in that way?’ : In his look amazement was mingled with fear. _ “Yes,” her voice rang out clear, cold, and convinc- ing. “You are the man, the brute rather, who as- saulted me with less compunction than you would have shown a wild beast that had aroused your dead- liest anger. It is useless for you to make a further denial. I recognized your voice, disguised though it was, and if I had entertained the slightest doubt, it would have been dispelled by your present words and actions. You to prate of love and tenderness! You to talk of obeying my slightest wish! As well might one expect affection for human kind froma rattlesnake.” : : “J thought you were not going to listen to me, that it was revolting to your soul to even speak to me,” he maliciously rejoined, for now that she knew him as he was, his old hardihood and effrontery were re- turning. “Tt cannot help myself. I am a woman, and I find it almost a pleasure sometimes to relieve my mind of a burden of oppressive thoughts. But Iam done. You now know my sentiments.” F She stepped back into the clearing, and turned her face away from him. ia “Have you no desire to learn who i am, and what my motives are?” he asked, as he took up a position a tote feet from her. : “No, Leare nothing about you. What I already know is sufficient. Imagination will supply what is lacking.” at ; : “But if my history has an intimate connection with the life and prospects of Creed Lawton, what then?” “Even then your words would fail to interest me. There is little you can tell that Iam not already aware of, or cannot divine.” “Still Iam determined to unbosom myself. I came to California three months ago from Colorado.” Colorado! That was where her cousin, Lawrence Carlton, was eneoeee to be, the cousin who would receive her brother’s share of the half million of dollars. As a strange thought entered her brain, she turned and looked at Holton searchingly. : “T believe,” she said, with emphatic earnestness, “that you are Lawrence Carlton.” The color forsook his face fora moment. Then he laughed queerly. j : “Thave heard of the gentleman,” he replied, in a nervous manner, ‘and I believe he is at present in San Tomas or vicinity.”’ “Have you seen him lately ?”’ “T saw him last night.” “You saw my Cousin Lawrence last night ?” Alda Duane looked at him incredulously. “Yes, but he went by another name.” “And that was?’ eagerly. “Quotation Marks.” Her lovely face flushed with hope and pleasure at the words. For her own suspicions seemed to confirm Holton’s assertion. : “T had been a miner,’ he went on, observing her change of expression with evil satisfaction, “and soon after my arrival in California, I obtained the By Heaven, sition I now hold, that of superintendent of the ajah.” “You have not allowed your mining duties to inter- fere with your private affairs, I presume?’ “What do you mean?” he asked, looking at her curiously. “That as captain of a band of highwaymen, you . ¥ must devote considerable time to the urgencies of that responsible and dangerous vocation.” He winced at the words, but soon recovered his equanimity. ‘Yow have made that discovery, have you? Well, ITshould have told you some time,so it does not matter. Yes, I am Captain Careless, at your ser- vice. “And my rescue from the hands of your minions was but a sham, of course ?” : “Nothing else; simply one move in the game. Very te done, was it not? Deceived everybody, didn’t it? He laughed gleefully at the recollection. “T should not have disclosed my identity, nor shown my hand to you; I should not have used force last night, and you might never have ‘discovered that I was other than the kind, considerate, gallant acting Maurice Holton, but for the dangerous weapon you possessed in the note written by Rattler to your de- tective lover. My intention all along had been to compietely deceive you. I am frank, you see,” “There is one person you have not deceived; T am sure of it,” was her cool, yet tantalizing rejoinder. “Quotation Marks, as he calls himself, has seen through your ‘little game.’ ” i be spirits rose at the thought, and her heart grew ighter. “Tf he is my Cousin Lawrence,” she continued, ae out for yourself, for he will assuredly hunt you own.” A satanic chuckle, and then the answer: “He will never injure me or any one else, for though the mortal part of him is in San Tomas, his soul has long since left his body.” “Captain Careless, I beg leave to differ with you.” The voice came from beyond the clearing, and upon the words, Quotation Marks, with his long, black hair, his swarthy face, and his drooping mustache, stepped forward with a smile. Holton’s programme, in a most important respect, had failed to carry. CHAPTER XXI. A STARTLING INTERRUPTION. The surprise and consternation of Maurice Holton, alias Captain Careless, at the sudden appearance of the man who he believed had received his death-war- rant from the hands of Duke Vallance, the night be- fore, may be imagined. He choked, his face became livid, and he trembled like an aspen. When cool reason had resumed her sway, and he would have drawn his revolver, he found that the opportunity for either a defensive or an aggressive moyement had slipped away. The Man of Mystery had him covered, and there was no mercy in his brilliznt eyes. As for Alda Duane, it required all her self-control to restrain herself from throwing her arms around the brave fellow’s neck. But she looked, and voiced her happiness. and her admiration. “Tknew help would come; my heart told me so. Heayen bless. you for saving me from this villain. I know him now, and he is the master-spirit of the conspiracy.” “T know him, too,” responded Marks, ‘‘and better than he thinks.” Then, with aggravating jocularity, he called out: “Captain Careless, you’ve made another mislick. Why will you be so careless, Careless? If you had possessed the North American sabe of a cotton-tail rabbit you might have been a different man. But now, the bent of your aspiring mind, unless I inter- fere, will lead you into still more dangerous and soul- destroying channels. You may become the editor of @ newspaper or a member of Congress. There’s no telling. But regrets are useless, eh? ‘For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been.’ Yes, ‘history repeats itself,’ and in the long run, Careless, you will find that honesty is the best policeman. You can’t make ‘a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ no more can you filch from honest men without having a reprisal made which shall not only gather in the misappropriated plunder, but the boodler, yourself. Careless be careful in future.” “T may go, then?” said the villain, eagerly, misin- terpréting the jester’s words. “Use your own discretion about going,’ was the nonchalant reply. ‘“Butif you willtake the advice of one who knows the difference between ‘a hawk and a handsaw,’ you will remain here a while longer; for asa cold-blooded matter-of-fact, Careless, I hold in each hand a work which should interest you greatly. It is in six volumes, bound in one, and when it speaks it is with most miraculous accent! Would you like to hear it? It sha‘n’t cost you a cent. Marks brandished his revolvers as he spoke, and showed his white teeth in merriment as Holton dodged about in terror. “Miss Duane,” he continued, turning his attention to that lady, who had been smnilingly regarding him the while, ‘‘there is aseat yonder,” pointing toward the mouth of the cave; ‘‘andif you will rest your- self, I will proceed with this exhibition of my trained Guyas-cutas under more favorable conditions. I de- sire that you shall be in such a position as to give an impartial, yet critical, verdict upon the performance. In your judgment, ‘nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.’”” Watch closely what may occur, with the accent on the ‘cur,’’ indicating the wretch , youu ‘ quested, making no sug- gestions, for she reposed utmost confidence in the man who had constituted himself her champion. “Now, Careless,” he commanded, ‘disarm yourself. ae ee motions, or I’ll convert this play into a ragedy. When satisfied that Holton’s fangs, so to speak, had been extracted, Marks handed a pistol to Miss Duane, and then asked him this pertinent question: “Where did you become acquainted with Duke Valllance ?”’ “In San Tomas,” sullenly. “How long ago?” “The day you showed up.” “What inducement did you offer him to join your band ?”’ “T decline to answer.” “Oho! Want to consult with your lawyer, I sup- pose. Well, let that question slide, then, for I see you regard it as immaterial, incompetent, and irrele- vant.’ But you knew he was after Florence Aldwyn, and had no love for the dead Carlton Duane, Lsup- pose ?”” , “You may suppose anything you like,” with a venemous look. “Then I will suppose this: You discovered, by some words dropped by my esteemed friend, Creed Lawton, on the occasion of his interesting seance with you onacertain bowlder, that Duke Vallance was his enemy and the enemy of those who were dear to him. You wanted a tool; you hunted up Vallance; you found he was not overburdened with moral sense, and you made certain propositions which were greedily accepted. That’s the size of it, Careless, so T’li waive any more questions on that point. Now for question number two. Prepare to be astonished. Who killed Carlion Duane ?” “How should I know ?’ with a slight start. “Who is better able to furnish the information? I don’t say you killed him; in fact, Careless, I will ease your mind by saying that I don’t believe your hands, foul as they are, are stained with his blood. But all the same, oh, careless captain, you know the murderer, or if you don’t, you can guess his name.” “Perhaps I have a suspicion,” with a cunning look. ‘What will you give to know what I suspect ?”’ “Tf you can tell me who murdered this young lady’s brother, and your statement is susceptible of proof, T will turn you loose and forget that Il ever met you.” “You will? You are in earnest in what you say ?” Holton now stood erect, a confident look in his dark eyes. “T never lie, Careless, unless there’s money in it. Come, name the man.” “Duke Vallance.” “Bah! That won’t wash.” “T know better. It was because I had this hold on him that I induced him to join me in my under- takings.” ‘ The mine superintendent seemed to be in ‘dead earnest,” but his asseveration did not appear to have much effect upon the strange man before him. The following question was asked: “Where can Vallance be found?” “In San Tomas.” “When did you latt see him ?”’ “Late last evening.” “Where was your humble servant about that time?’ Marks closed one eye, and looked at Holton so queerly with the other, that the villain lost his sud- denly acquired composure. “You?” he stammered. ‘“I—I don’t know where you were.” “Then I will tell you, for [do not desire that you shall ‘burst in ignorance.’ I was with Mr. Vallance fora while. We disagreed in a little argument that followed our meeting, and we parted in anger. A small matter of a knife that cut our love in two was the cause of our difference. By the way, now that I think of it, I believe the argument was decided in my favor, for here is the weapon.”’ He drew from his pocket the weapon which had been in the possession of Vallance, and held it up to the astonished gaze of the arch villain. “Where did you get it?’ he hoarsely demanded, a strange fear coming over him, “Got it from Vallance.” “When ?”’ “Last night.” “Where ?’’ . “At the point of rocks, near the Rajah mine.” “And Vallance?’ He trembled as the question formed itself in his mind, for already he began to have a suspicion of the truth. ‘Where is he?” “Dead !—everlastingly dead! And when you say he killed Carlton Duane, you lie! Ihave been play- ing with you, Careless, for lexpect soon to have an addition to our little party. But I want to say this: If your malice and your fears had not blunted your common sense, you would have known that I would not take your word for anything in which you hap- pened to be interested, unless it should come in the shape of a dying confession. Why’—in a mocking tone—‘‘oh, why will you not act like a sensible man? The poet says, ‘Splendor borrows all her rays from sense;’ and there’s ‘something previous e’en to taste, tis sense.’ ”’ “Curse you!” Holton shouted, his dark face ghastly with dread alarm and baffled rage. ‘‘Give me but i aye chance with you, and we’ll see who is the ool.” ‘*T make no terms with villainy.” The mine superintendent’s jaw fell, and his heart became oppressed with gloomy forebodings. “Vallance dead!” he muttered. ‘I thought—no, it cannot be.’’ With a shiver he looked up, and his blood-shot eyes sought his tormentor’s face. “Was Vallance at the shaft last night?’ came ina hoarse whisper from his lips. “No.” “Then who personated him ?”’ “Quotation Marks.” Holton was about to speak again, when suddenly his eyes dilated and his heart began to beat like a trip-hammer. The next instant a pistol-shot rang out, followed quickly by another. There had come a startling interruption to the scene, CHAPTER XXII. ALDA DUANE TAKES A HAND. Creed Lawton had not suffered death at the hands of his enemies, although he had no hope of escape when he was lowered into the shaft. _ It seemed, after a time, as if he had passed an age in that awful hole. The darkness was impenetrable, and the air close and stifling. When the basket stopped on the platform which masked the shaft at the hundred foot level, he felt in his pockets for matches, but conld find none. This was a bitter disappointment, for he dared not attempt to make any explorations in the darkuess. So he remained in the basket, waiting for death, and a prey to the gloomiest thoughts. When the vitiated air began to most unpleasantly affect him (he would not have lived an hour had he been lowered to the next level), a change for the better suddenly came. The atmosphere grew fresher, and looking up, he saw, to his intense amazement, stars gleaming in the heavens. As he tried to conjecture what had taken place above, a faint “Hallo!” reached his ears. - He answered with all the strength of his lungs, but only a strange, hollow sound was emitted from his throat. But he had been heard, and, a moment later, a par- tially coiled rope struck the basket at his feet. He understood its meaning, and his heart, that five en before seemed dead to hope, now beat ex- ultantly. Attaching the ends of the rope to the basket, he sent up another shout to signify that he was ready. Then, to his supreme joy, the basket began to rise, slowly, but surely, to the surface. He did not stop to consider whether the man at the windlass was friend or foe; his only thought was the prospect of life, his only desire to escape from the noxious, darksome hole. But his happiness reached a culmination when, as his head rose above the mouth of the shaft, his hand was tightly grasped by Quotation Marks. In language which strongly expressed his appreci- ation of the service rendered him, Lawton poured forth his thanks. : “Marks, you have saved me from an awful death, T shall never forget this—never! I will go through fire and water to serve you. Ugh!’’—with a shudder —‘from what a terrible fate have I escaped! Twice you have stood between me and death. How can I ever repay you?”’ “Nonsense, man!” was the cheery response. ‘You owe me nothing. Didn’t you save me in the cave? And isn’t my life worth two of yours?) Consequently we are even, for I have got there twice. Say no more about it. We're friends, and that settles it.” “Till death !”’ And hand met hand in a fervent grasp. The detective had beenunderground but little over an hour, as he soon learned to his great astonish- ment. “T should have been dead before morning,” was his comment. Then he asked for an explanation of his friend’s presence. **T followed the rascals when they carried you off,” Marks began, ‘‘and suspecting an ambush, I exer- cised due caution in proceeding. I was not far from Duke Vallance when he halted at the point of rocks, and when he concealed himself I knew that he was waiting for my approach. But I circumvented him, though in a struggle I was forced to kill him.” “Tam sorry for that,’ remarked Lawton, gravely, “though I must haye donethe same had I been placed in your position.” “Why are yousorry ?”’ in atone of puzzled in “Because he might have proved an importe ness against the murderer of Carlton Duane, “He knew nothing at all of that affair,’ Marks, confidently. ; Be “What makes you think so?’ : bi “Because he was in San Francisco when the mur- der was committed.” ; “How did you make that discovery ?” a Lawton, in marked surprise, asked this question. ¢‘Oh, I have been making a few little investigations on.my own account. Vallance is well outof the way. His death simplifies matters. He wanted to marry Florence Aldwyn, and the extent of his villainous work, before his arrival in San Tomas, consisted in the sending of the anonymous letter you told me about. Although he did not kill Duane, he was glad to have him out of the way; but, as I said, he had nothing to do with the plot until he met Captain Careless in San Tomas after the murder.” “Then who is the assassin ?” “That is what we must find out, and I think we will get important information when we corner this black-bearded leader of the highwaymen.” Marks then resumed his narrative: “After I had appropriated Vallance’s coat, hat, and false whiskers, and with the aid of a pool of water, had ceased to be an alleged Ethiopian, I disposed of the body, and then hurried on to overtake your cap- tors. I was greeted as Duke Vallance, and after you had been disposed of, I pleaded sickness and re- turned totown. Atthe hotel I obtained a rope, and —you know the rest. I would have made a fight for you before the basket was lowered into the shaft, but prudence suggested the course I afterward took. Thave been down in the shaft several times, and I knew you would survive for hours. But I see now that it was aterrible risk. What if I had met with an accident, had been overcome and unmaskedt Heavens, Lawton, you ought to scold instead of thank- ing me!” “You’re a brave fellow,” was the manly rejoinder, ‘and you did exactly right in the premises. I'll trust you anywhere.” “Much obliged for your confidence; but, really, you don’t know me,” dropping into a jocular strain, and exhibiting the most conspicuous phase of his strange character. “I am a reckless hair-brained, many sided sort of a watermelon, and there's no tell- ing what I may do when a queer mood strikes me.” “Marks,” said Lawton, seriously, ‘isn’t it about time that you told me the truth about yourself? Sometimes I think your voice is familiar, but I can’t place you. You are a walking mystery, and I am convinced that you are playing a part. Asa friend, one whom you may trust, tell me who you are.” The answer came lightly: “+Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, and the mate of the Nancy brig, and a bo’sun tight, and a midship- mite, and the crew of the captain’s gig.’” The detective looked hard at the speaker, and plainly showed his disappointment, but did not press the matter further. “Some day you shall know me better, Lawton, but for the present I must be Marks, the great Northern California puzzle. But come—let us be going. I would fain seek my couch of roses, and sleep that sleep which innocence only knows.” The detective assented with a sigh. Cautiously they wended their way to the little cabin, which was Marks’ temporary abiding-place. In the morning Lawton, issuing forth in disguise, learned of the disappearance of Alda Duane. He at once associated it with the cry he had-heard on the previous night, and his mind became op- pressed with the most frightful imaginings. After a consultation with Marks, a plan of cam- paign against the common enemy was agreed upon. From fhe occurrences of the night, the conclusion was reached that Maurice Holton and Captain Care- less were one and the same person. In fact, Marks had suspected as much ever since the attack on the stage. It was determined that the first step should be the shadowing of the mine superintendent, if he could be found, either in town or at the mine. But, after an investigation, which lasted several hours, no trace of him could be discovered. Another move was then decided upon, and it was in pursuance of its details that Marks appeared in the clearing at the cave at amost opportune mo- ment. When Maurice Holton was about to open his lips in response to the startling assertion of Marks that he had personated Duke Vallance at the shaft, he saw Pete Rattler’s face peering out of the bushes back of his enemy. The next instant the thin-faced highwayman stepped into the open and fired. The smoke had not cleared away before there came a second report. Alda Duane had taken a hand. Rattler dropped to the ground with a yell of agony, while Quotation Marks maintained his erect position, unharmed. One look at the prostrate form of his satellite, and Maurice Holton, heedless of danger, leaped into the bushes, and flied for his life. (TO BE CONTINUED.) —_— et 0 ONE of the most effectual ways of pleasing, and of making one’s self beloved, is to be cheerful; joy softens more hearts than tears. iffy. wit- 5 ODD Omens mam ans Sie eeeeerwree eee NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 239, 1888. nt een rey Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 3months - - +--+ +. 75e,|2copies -- +--+ $5.00 4months - - - - - $1.00|}4 copies +--+ + + 410,00 lyear --- + - - 3,00|8 copies +--+ + + 20,00 Payment for the NEW YORK WEEKLY, when sent b mail, should be made in a Post Office Money Order, Bank Check or Draft, or an Express Money Order. When nei- ther of these can be procured, send the money in a Regis- tered Letter. 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FIGHTING AGAINST MILLIONS, By the Author of ‘‘The Old Detective’s Pupil.” With these stories of rare excellence, the NEW YORK WEEKLY has its usual variety of entertaining and instructive sketches, essays, and miscellaneous matter—by KATE THORN, HARKLEY HARKER, ELLIS LAWRENCE, and others—as well as a new series of humorous articles from the sparkling pen of the ever-popular MARY KYLE DALLAS. No other paper presents such a number of novel- Our large and rapidly increasing circulation shows that the public are not ties of undoubted merit. slow to appreciate the works of first-class authors. The New YORK WEEKLY holds the foremost rank, and is universally recognized as THE MODEL STORY AND SKETCH PAPER. ONCE WILL DO. BY HARKLEY HARKER. “That man lied to me once.” “Well,” I replied, ‘‘that is once too many; but the gentleman may have since changed for the better.” “Gentleman. indeed!” fairly hissed my friend. “Wher a man lies to me once, once will do. I never give him a second chance.” And the speaker turned contemptuously away from the retreating form of the merchant whom he so despised. Itisnotabadrule. If youfind a man out to be “tricky,” unmistakably so, it is best to settle it that that is his measure. Never give him asecond chance to wrong you. “The leopard may change his spots and the Ethiopian his skin,” but I have little use for a man who has deliberately wronged me once. Iam not disposed to lay myself open to his secret stabs again. I have fonnd this to betrue. The greatest mistakes that I have made in employing men were when I recast my opinions of them, after deliberate first con- clusions. I say deliberate. Now, there is a hasty way we have of “sizing a man up,” by impulse, by prejudice, by hasty passion, or irritation. All this is as oiten erroneous as it is accurate, and possibly more so. No one of us is willing to be judged hastily. We ought to accord to others the justice that we claim for ourselves. But when, aftermature thought and accurate observation, one has come to a conclu- sion concerning a man, ninety-nine times outof a hundred it is a mistake to recast an adverse conclu- sion. It may be that [am inerror. Possibly the man is titted to get along finely with most people,but heis not fitted to me; for me it is safest to*avoid close business relations with that man. We are the oppo- sites of each other; we shall never get on together if we try. I fully believe all men are better than they seem, down deep in their hearts. I believe that the worst of men may reform. [ would put no straw in any man’s way of recovering his standing among men. Nay, I would, I trust, try to help any man. But for instance, I have always been bitten when [I tried to forget a deliberately mean act, and again sought in- tercourse with the author, on the ground that I hoped that he had reformed. “A liar is always a liar. A thief is always a thief. An impure man is always impure.” Those are my rules for intercourse. Let a man once show himself coolly wrong in his treat ment of me; he shall never have another chance at me, if I can helpit. I willdo no more business, in the line of trust, with him. I may call on him and his family with my wife, of an evening. I may rent a pew next to himin our church. I may belong to the same club. But as to close, confidential business relations, or any unguarded point in our business correspondence, never. Once will do. The most painful wounds are cuts through old scars. The most terrible injuries are breaking the bone where it was once before broken. The most uncomfortable errors of my life were those of a second attempt to trust a man once fairly proved false. I do not try any more; I would not try, evenif it were my own brother or my own son. Now if my minister were to read this—and he probably will—he may remind me of the duty of for- giveness. Iconfessit. And I wish to add that it is the effort to forgive that leads so many good hearts into the snare of a scoundrel the second time. I maintain that [ can forgive and forget; that no man can forgive unless he forgets, Lagree. Butit 1s the malice, the sense of burning, that I am to forget. The experience I am not called upon to forget. I I have the same right to remember the deceit of a man that I have to remember the weakness of a bridge, or the dog that snapped. I may even come to think fairly well of aman. He is trying to do bet- ter; he wants to reform; he is my brother-in-law, if you please, and family reasons would then enforce eaceful living. But if I were so unfortunate as to avein my own domestic circle a person who had once done me a greatinjury, with malice prepense, I forgive the pain and forget the indignation; but I remember to look sharp next time, that he have no turther opportunity. There are so many new friends to be made that one had better go try another new friendship than to build much weight on a timber once proven to be rotten. Or there is yet another wise way to deal with men. Itistoselect them as you do wood, iron, and stone for building purposes. Woodis good, yet it has its weaknesses. Iron has its uses, yet also its deficiencies. Each man, almost, has his possible usefulness ; but many aman has diplayed his rotten spot. Ah, look out for that man in any situation that would put strain on that spot. Having been detected once, he may be useful in other situations; but you ought to know his fault. Ithink most of us learn, sooner or later, the good in each and the badin each. A man may be very particular about his veracity, but ut- terly unscrupulous in his selfishness. Use him for truth-speaking, reject him as a partner. Another may be very generous, but given to his appetites. Use him where you want big-heartedness; but hay- ing once laid open his weakness of. passions and ap- petites, never put any of your family in his power. You see the point, dear reader. The strong hand of God may cooper up a poor fellow’s weak spot; God may even cure him. But don’tlet the man practice on you. Once cruel always cruel, is the rule of your actual guidance in association with him. Let him prove himself to others. You know him well enough to satisfy you. Life is too short to spend giving the same man too chances to ruin us; most of us have too many precious interests at hazard—wife, chil- dren, credit, our career, and our hairs are graying at the temples—to go about fooling with dogs that have once had the rabies and bitten us. Far better part company with that dog and buy anotber; or, if you must keep him, chain him at the stable where he can do no harm. Sri Cre ii a A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES. “He used to love me once—I know he did; and now this little insignificant chit of a Mabel Leslie has come across his path, with her baby-blue eyes and seventeen-year-old freshness of lip and cheek, and I am forgotten. Do they think I am going to let him slip so readily? Itis just possible that there are more heights and depths in Octavia Hardwicke’s character than they have given her credit for.” There was a defiant sort of brilliance in Miss Hard- wicke’s beauty, as she sat staring into the full-length mirror which occupied the space between her bou- doir windows. It reflected flashing black eyes, hair darker than the raven’s wing, and a complexion whose exquisite blending of pink and white was, per- haps, in some degree owing to art, but art so skill- fully concealed that it was almost impossible to de- tectit. She was dressed in a rich wine-colored silk, trimmed with expensive black lace, and dead-gold jewelry gleamed in her ears and on her arms, while a heavy necklace of the same, fashioned to imitate a serpent, with emerald eyes, encircled her throat. Presently she rose and went down stairs, and as her foot paused on the last of the velvet-carpeted steps, she stopped to listen to the silver-sweet echo of Mabel Leslie’s voice. “Only this once, uncle; I promise you I will not ask to go again.” “But you know, darling, I don’t approve of balls, and still less of masquerades.” “T won’t wear any fancy costume, uncle, only just a plain white domino, edged and trimmed with gold, and a wreath of ivy-leavesin my hair. Ernest isto know me by the wreath of ivy-leaves. Uncle, please say yes.” “For this once, then, child, “I am willing to con- fess that I can’t resist your coaxing ways.” There was a contemptuous curye on Octavia Hardwicke’s lip, as she swept into the room at this instant. Her pretty young cousin ran up to her side. “He has promised, Octavia—he has said that I might go. And you will be there, too, won’t you?” “T think not,” said Miss Hardwicke, indifferently ; “T have been to so many masquerade balls that they have ceased to be a novelty.” And she sat down and apparently became ab- nS in anovel which she took from the center table. Mabel looked half timidly at her tall, beautiful cousin. She would have liked to persuade Octavia to go, too, but she was a little afraid of her, and to speak truly, she distrusted her somewhat She had an instinctive feeling—how or whence derived, she could not possibly have told—that Octavia was false and treacherous. “Of course itis only a prejudice,” Mabel said to herself, ‘but prejudices, at times, are as strong as absolute conviction.” Mabel Leslie was as complete a contrast to her cousin as exists in womanhood. Slight and fair, with great blue eyes, and yellow wavy hair, she ap- peared much smaller than Octavia, though there was in reality but a trifling differencein their height, and her shy, retiring manner made her seem much younger than she actually was. “After all,” thought Mabel to herself, “I am not sorry that she is not going.” And when the long-wished for night of the mas- querade arrived, Octavia coolly took herself off, ‘‘to spend the evening,” as she casually remarked, ‘‘with a friend.” “It’s decidedly mean of her,’ said Lauretta, the chambermaid; “she might, at least, have staid to help you dress yourself, Miss Mabel.” “Oh, never mind!” said Mabel, lightly, “you will do just as well, Lauretta, and you know it isn’t as if IT had a whole fancy costume to put on. A domino is the simplest thing in the world.” Mr. Ernest Delafield, meantime, accoutered as a “Knight of the time of Richard III,” was already at the house where the masquerade was to be held. Lovers are proverbially impatient. and Mr. Delafield could not accommodate his restlessness to the slow moments of the clock. “Past ten o’clock, and she not here,” he murmured to himself. ‘Can it be possible that she is not com- ing, after all?’ At that instant, however, his heart gave a joyous throb, as he caught sight of a tall, graceful figure, in a white merino domino, fringed with gold, while through the folds of a white and gold hood he just discerned the dark polished leaves of a wreath of ivy. There were many white dominoes there, but only one wreath of ivy leaves, and Ernest Delafield was cer- tain that his long vigil was about to be rewarded. “Mabel!” he whispered, coming as near to her as the crowd would permit. “Hush!” wasthe whispered answer, and a little folded note was thrust into his hand. He waited an instant or two, to avoid suspicious glances, and then eee and read it. Theinscription within was very rief. ; “From the Wreath of Ivy to the Brave Knight! A cavalier’s duty is always to obey the behests of his lady. Leave this place at once, and do not attempt 1° see me again until you hear from me. This, if you ove me.” Hurriedly drawing forth his tablets, Ernest Dela- field scribbled upon a bit of paper: “T do love you, and you alone. I obey your bid- ding, even while I wonder at it. “ERNEST DELAFIELD.” The gold-fringed domino was hovering near him as he wrote it. Heslipped itinto her hand, bowed until the long white plume of his casque drooped low, and retired. And as Mabel Leslie entered the ball-room, lean- ing on her uncle’s arm, her young heart throbbing high with radiant anticipations, Ernest Delafield’s carriage was rolling away in the opposite direction. Miss Leslie was pale and looked dispirited the next morning as she came down to the late breakfast- table. Octavia sat behind the coffee urn, looking as fresh as if she had never known what it was to. dance at a ball until three o’clock in the morning.” “Well, Mabel, did you enjoy yourself last night?” she asked, with a mocking smile. “N—no; not much,’ Mabel answered, with a sor- rowful sinking at the heart. ae Mr. Delafield—Ernest—there ?” seh o.* “T could have told you that,’ said Octavia, calmly. “He spent the evening with me /” She told the lie without a droop of the eyelids or a quiver of the heart. “With you, Octavia!” “Yes,” she answered. ‘See the note that I received from him.” Instinctively Mabel’s eyes glanced over the words, which seemed to burn into her heart: “T do love you, and you alone!” And then it dropped from her relaxed fingers, and a deathly paleness crept over her features. “You are not ill, Mabel ?” “Oh, no, only—only a little fatigued, I think.” And Mabel quietly fainted. Three days passed by—four—five—and a week —and still Mr. Delafield never came near Mabel Leslie. She waited, watched, and wondered with sickening heart, aid at last made up her mind. “Uncle,” she said, one evening, with a faint, star- light sort of smile, ‘I am going home to-morrow.” “To-morrow, pet! Why, your visit isn’t half made out. And what will Ernest say ?’ The burning scarlet suffused Mabel’s cheek. “T think we have all been mistaken about Ernest, uncle. He doesn’t care for me.” Old Mr. Leslie looked sharply from one of his nieces to the other. But Mabel was perfectly calm, and Octavia never looked up from her reading. “Then all I can say is, that he has behaved like a scoundrel!’ he broke forth. “No, uncle, we have no right to say that,” inter- posed Mabel, with a shudder, as if his blunt words hurther. ‘I have been foolish, that is all. Let us forget it.” And so she went home the next day. Octavia Hardwicke exulted—the coast was at last clear. Mr. Delafield met herin the street the day after. She was prettier than ever—her cheeks glowing like roses, her dark eyes sparkling as if each were a well of diamonds. He stopped to inquire about her Cousin Mabel. “Oh, didn’t you know?” she artlessly cried. Mahel went home yesterday.” “Went home ?” “Yes. Some rustic love affair, I shrewdly guess, though, of course, she wouldn’t confide in me, know ing that I was your friend.” “T am much obliged to you, he said, coldly. she leave any message for me?’ “No, none.” He lifted his hat and passed on. Octavia looked after him, with a genuine French shrug of the shoulders. “Tt cuts more deeply than I thought,” she cogitated, “put he will get over it in time.” Miss Hardwicke had based her calculations on wrong premises this time, however. She had fatally damaged poor Mabel’s cause, but she had not ad- vanced her own by so much as ahair’s breadth. Mr. Delafield never came to see her again. It was a year afterward when Ernest Delafield met “Dear “Did 4 «