THE MAGA! OR WC ?] AfflAT all kin AMATEU the exposition, Hlustratiom kinds of work, comfort, well-b of ways. It is highh is essentially Home, in tha by text and illi hand>, may ex or go without i M ore thai Magazine pul: to Do and H Amateurs f( OF THE U N I VERS I T Y OF ILLINOIS 8Z5 V28m 1891 out from preliminary tailures, perhaps, to ultimate success. Specimen Copy, post-free, 7d. Subscription (post-free): Yearly, 7s. BUILDER, TIVE , ^ CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. A Midnight Guest # • • PAGE I II. In London . t • • 6 III. Master and Scribe • • • 12 IV. Biographical • • • 14 V. A Slip of Paper . • • • 1 7 VI. Moina and Madeline • • • 21 VII. May i 2th • • • 27 * VIII. L IX. After the Tragedy • • • 33 An Anonymous Letter • a • 39 A X. Mr. Follingsbee’s Case • • • 43 XI. A Strange Client • • • 46 XII. A New Home • • • 47 XIII. ‘‘For a Year” • • • 5o XIV. Among the Socialists • « • 55 XV. “How IT WAS TO BE , ’ • • • 6o XVL XVII. “No Commands” . • • • 65 Roger Drexel • • • 68 ixvin. How a Lawyer “Shut up Shop” e 73 P XIX. A Spy . • 75 XX. Madeline’s First Error 9 78 ! i 50425 vi CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXI. A Russian Princess • PAGE 82 XXII. Her Mission . » 86 XXIII. Hosmer finds an Occupation « 89 XXIV. About the R. M. P. U. . • 94 XXV. Drexel’s Perplexities . • 98 XXVI. The End of a Dinner Party • 102 XXVII. An Infernal Machine • • 109 XXVIII. Smiles and Tears • • 112 XXIX. Detective Hurst . • • 116 XXX. A Basket of Flowers • • 121 XXXI. Confidences • • 125 XXXII. Moina’s Struggle • • 128 XXXIII. The Three Warnings • 130 XXXIV. The Dagger in the Wood • 136 XXXV. A Cryptogram • • 140 XXXVI. Missing— a Boy • • 144 XXXVII. The Detective Camera • • 150 XXXVIII. Seeking a Clue . • 155 XXXIX. A New Pursuit . • 159 XL. Madeline Payne the Detective • 164 XLI. A Bird Ensnared . . • 169 XLII. Deep Waters • • 174 XLI II. A Night at Olim’s • • 1 77 XLIV. A New Terror • • CO XLV. A New Victim • 190 XLVI. The Twin Daggers • . 194 XL VI I. A Council of Three . . 200 XLVIII. Fernand Makofski, late of Irkutsk • 205 XLIX. A Detective’s Price . . . 209 L. Beginning to Burn 0 . . 214 CONTENTS ’ vii CHAPTER PAGE LI. A Little Detective * • • • 217 LII. Hosmer at Work . • • . 222 LIII. “ I Begin to Understand ” • • . 22/ LIV. Slaves of the Central Committee • . 23- LV. Strange Proceedings • o 238 LVI. Too Complicated . • • • 243 LVII. A New Ally • • • 247 LVIII. A Heart’s Awakening . 0 • • 255 LIX. Who Laughs Last • • . 260 LX. Frank Price Speaks • . 267 LXI. Counterplotting . • . 273 LXII. Bludgeon versus Cane . • • • 278 LXIII. A Successful Failure . • • • 283 LX IV. A Passing Stranger • • • 289 LXV. An Amateur’s Report • . 292 LXVI. What Little Hans Remembered • . 299 LXVII. Crashaw’s Last Card • • 304 LXVI 1 1. Moina Asserts Herself . • m . 310 LXIX. Section Number Five • • 3i£ LXX. Vindicated . . . • • . 323 LXXI. The Last Assault • • . 327 LXXII. A Surrender • • . 333 LXXIII. The Princess in Revolt © • . 339 LXXIV. Lifting the Veil . • • . 349 LXXV. A Mad Errand . 359 LXXVI. Dissett • 364 LXXVII. What Minna Knew • 37i LXXVIII. Preparing for the Fray . • 3S0 LXXIX. Only a Look • • 335 LXXX. Madeline’s Chase . • . 394 viii CONTENTS. CHAPTER LXXXI. Madeline at Bay • • TACtE . 401 LXXXII. The Dagger — at Last . • • • 407 LXXXI 1 1. The Haymarket . • • . 418 LXXXIV. Rallying to the Rescue • • • 423 LXXXV. Entrapped • • . 428 LXXXVI. At the Eleventh Hour • • • 435 LXXXVII. Explanations • • • 444 LXXXVI 1 1. All’s Well ♦ , • • • 453 M O I N A CHAPTER I. A MIDNIGHT GUEST. “ Eh ! What’s this ? Oh, there you are, eh ! ” • For answer only a sharp click ; it seems to stimulate the speaker, and he puts out a hand and snatches up a revolver that has lain ready on a table beside the bed. The situation is not a common one. Neither is it so uncommon as many easy-going people would like to believe. A bed-chamber, large and luxurious, in the middle of the room, a bed in which a man sits very straight, with rumpled hair and night-shirt awry. Close beside the bed another man, large and muscular, one can see at a glance. His garb a coarse home-spun, his face hidden behind a blue silk handkerchief, with holes cut through where the eyes look out, but with no opening for the mouth. One can breathe easily enough through that thin fabric, and it seems to muffle and change the voice wonderfully well. Over the blue handkerchief a close fitting silk cap is pulled down. The hands are gloved in coarse cotton, and one of them holds a big pistol pointed suggestively at the head of the occupant of the canopied bed, while the other puts a dark lantern down upon coverings at the bed’s foot, while he says coolly — “ Better look at that weapon before you make much fuss. I won- der what you take me for ? ” “Umph!” grunts the occupant of the bed. “Fora—- — burglar, of course, and a confounded impudent one.” And then as he turns his attention to the weapon in his hand, “ Curse you, you’ve emptied my revolver.” His eyes blaze with sudden anger ; for a moment he sits looking at the weapon in his hand, then he turns sharply upon his nocturnal visitor. “ Well, what have you taken ? ” The man in the mask started perceptibly. “ Stolen ! ’’ — then with a sudden drop of the voice, “ Oh — nothing yet.” “Nothing! Well, why don’t you begin?” Then suddenly he sprang from the bed with the revolver clubbed in his hand, the sudden movement overthrew the burglar’s lantern, and the fellow moved back a pace and stooped to catch it as it fell. Then there was a blow, a fall, and the two men were rolling upon the floor in a fierce struggle. 2 A MIDNIGHT GUEST. Presently the grasp of one of them relaxed, and he rolled over upon his back gasping under the strong hand of the other, who knelt above him grim as fate. “ Look here,” said the champion, “ I don’t want to kill you, old man ; but if you don’t stop this you’ll force me to it.’’ No answer, only the gleam of angry eyes and an ineffectual struggle. Then as he fell back — “ Do you think,” he panted, “that I’ll stand aside and see myself robbed?” The burglar uttered an oath and put one hand to his head, which was aching dizzily from the blow dealt by the clubbed pistol. “ I think you’re a cursed gritty old cock,” he muttered, looking about him uneasily in the darkness, and then putting out his hand to draw the dark lantern towards him, taking care to turn the open side upon the face of his captive and away from the bed. Afterward the assailed man recalled the act. Then for a moment the two were silent, each peering at the other, the blue handkerchief had been loosened in the struggle, and the fellow put up one gloved hand and fingered it uneasily, keeping the other all the time upon the old man’s throat. “ Look here,” he said at last, “ what will you do if I let you up ? ” “ Protect my property,” was the prompt reply. Suddenly the unoccupied hand of the burglar brought into view the threatening revolver. “ Look a here,” he said, “ I could make a finish of you in half a minnit with this, clean out this house, and get off safe. You know it. But maybe you’ve thought I didn’t. You’re alone in this house ; I might fire off this pistol half-a-dozen times and ’twouldn’t be heard outside through these thick stone walls. I might a gutted yer old plate pantry before I came near ye, instead of cornin’ here first. I might a drugged ye if I hadn’t been too confounded sure that ye were sound asleep. But I didn’t, and here we are, you and I, you haint lost nothing, and I haint made nothing — yet. Ye can offset the broken lock on yer area door and a cut ^ane of glass inside, against this crack on the head that you’ve give me, if ye think it worth while. Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You’ve give me a hurt , I’ll admit it, and I want to get where I can tend to it.” “ Before it gets so big that we can identify you by it easily, eh ?’* “ Ye can say that if ye like. The question’s this: will ye stay right here on the floor for a good twenty minutes by the watch, and give me yer promise not to get up nor make a loud noise, nor try by any dodge to give the alarm while I get away ? ” “ With my property ? no , sir I “ Dang yer property. I believe you cursed rich fellers vallers yer money ahead of yer lives. I think more o’ my head than of yer old money ; keep yer property for this time ; I won’t touch a thing in the house ; all I want is to git out of it.” The other stirred restlessly. “ I see ye don’t like it ; and there’s another thing you are to promise, that ye won’t set the police on my track, or to trouble me in any way.” A MIDNIGHT GUEST 3 M And if I won’t?” Click spoke the revolver in the burglar’s hand. I can’t stop to parley with you. If you won’t you won’t, you’ll stay here just the same, only you’ll stay so long that somebody’ll come to hunt for you, and the newspapers will report how the dead body of Mr. Elias Lord, the wealthy banker, was found l)*:ng in a pool of blood, with a gaping pistol wound, etc., etc. Come, one way or the other, you’re bound to stay here ; will you stay with the pool of blood and gaping wound, or without ? ” During this harangue, Elias -Lord had found time to think, and he now said without any sign of fear, “ I’ll stay without.” The burglar shifted the bull’s-eye until it shone upon a little bronze clock upon a mantel opposite them. “ It’s just half-past one,” he said, “ does the thing strike the hour ? ” il Yes.” “ Well — when it strikes two you may get up and be your own master. Sorry to leave you like this, but I’ll come again, perhaps.” “ Do,” said the old man, grimly, “ I’ll be ready for you.” Elias Lord was not the man to break his word, even when it was extorted by a burglar. And he lay upon the floor almost motionless for long minutes. The room was now in total darkness, and he could do nothing but think. What a fool he had been to stay in that great house alone, and with doors and windows that were not burglar proof ; why had he not a burglar alarm ? One thing was certain : he would be ready for the next visitor of that sort. He would see that nothing was lacking that could protect or help make his house secure. He would investigate those wonderful much-lauded safe locks and window fastenings. Tick, tick, how slow the time went ! It was not for his plate that he cared so much ; and as for money, well, he would be a fool to have much money about him. But those papers, they were in his pocket- book, together with such money as he had, with drafts, and cheques and notes. If those papers had been stolen — well, he had learned another lesson. He would have one of those tiny safes, just such another as was in his private office, let into the wall of his bed-room. Tick, tick, tick, would that clock ever strike ! How like a fool he must look lying there in the dark, and his bed not two feet from him. He was getting chilly, too. Well he was glad that no one need know of this night’s business. The burglar need not fear, he would never tell the stcry. Heavens, how ludicrous, how absurd ! How it would look in cold print ! After all, had he not taken the wisest course ? If Mrs. Ralston and Madeline Payne were to hear of this, would they not fear to make his house their home ? Even now they were on their way in mid ocean, what would they say if they were greeted with such a tale as this ? Tick. He forgot about the time while he thought of the changes these two women would bring into his house, if only they could be prevailed upon to come. It had been a home to Mrs. Ralston when his wife was its mistress, and now that these two, his wife’s cousin and the fair young woman who had been her companion for more than two years, were coming back to New York, why should they not come to him ? 4 A MIDNIGHT GUEST. They must live somewhere, and they had asked him to find them a suitable home. For more than a year, ever since his wife’s death, this great house had been closed, he had lived in it almost alone. Yes, he would open the house at once, he would fill it with servants, refurnish, repair, it should be ready for them. One , two . He was on his feet in an instant, sleep was out of the question. * He groped his way to the mantel, found a match, and lighted the gas, letting it burn dimly while he dressed. He was really chilled, and he hastened to touch a match to the fuel laid ready in the open grate. As it began to crackle and blaze and send forth a ruddy glow, he stood before it stretching himself and enjoying its warmth. “ I think I’ll look about a little,” he muttered, and turned and set the gas jets to flaring brightly. What is it that catches his gaze and holds it as he stands with his hand still upraised beneath the chandelier and facing his bed — some- thing white, something coldly glittering ? He goes toward it slowly as if fascinated. He pauses by the side of the bed, and looks, and looks, with both hands dropped at his side. “ Great Heavens ! ” He sits down weakly upon the bedside, and still looks at the thing that glitters in the wood just above the pillow where he lay when aroused by the burglar. u The burglar ! Was he a burglar, after all ?” Presently he puts up a hand and touches the gleaming thing : it quivers and vibrates, a touch displaces it, and in his fingers he holds a long, keen, slender dagger ; while the letter which it had pierced and pinned to the carven board above his sleeping head, falls and lies before his startled eyes upon the pillow. A letter pinned against his bed’s head with a dagger. Not a toy, but a weapon keen, firm, whetted to slay. And this was the mission of the man whom he had mistaken for a mere burglar. Mechanically he lifts the dagger, examines its keen edge, its slender hilt. Ruthlessfy he tests it upon the polished wood of the bed, how it cuts its way, how pliant it is, how strong ! He puts the weapon down upon the pillow beside the letter, which he does not even touch. His face is very grave now, and paler than it has been at any moment since his awakening. He goes to the mantel, and there lights a small brass lamp. With this in hand, he goes about the room examining everything. “ I must be sure? he mutters. Nothing is disturbed about the room ; he peers into back rooms and closets, and then he goes out into the hall, locking his door and taking the key with him. Then, slowly he makes the tour of the house. Nothing is disturbed. All is as it has been for weeks — yes, months. Ever since his wife’s death the splendid rooms have been closed, all save his own apartments, the dining-room and the library. For months it has been his habit to breakfast down town at his club or at a convenient cafe, to lunch wherever it happened, and to dine and sleep in his own house, going straight from his dressing-room to A MIDNIGHT GUEST 5 his carriage in the morning, and seldom returning before six o’clock. His cook and housemaid, the only house servants he had retained, made a pretence of sleeping in the house ; but they found it dreary, and as their services were not required early in the day, they had asked and easily obtained permission to sleep at their homes, going at night and returning about midday. When he had convinced himself that nothing was amiss, and that his mysterious visitor had left no trace behind him, Elias Lord returned to his own room and locked himself in. The trouble in his face had deepened, and its pallor had increased. He sat down upon the bed, and holding the dagger in his hand, reviewed in his mind the words of the burglar, trying to recall his voice and manner. “ How clearly I see it now,” he mused. “ That man had no designs upon my money or valuables ; he might have made me lie here while he robbed my house if he had chosen. And he had no wish to take my life. Why, then, did he risk his own safety merely to place this letter in my room. Clearly it was to prove to me how entirely I was at his mercy had he chosen to strike. How easy it will be to put an end to me at his pleasure. Well ! ” he arose and looked about him. “ I realize now the gravity of the step I have taken — but it is taken. I shall not draw back ; I could not if I would.” He put out his hand and took up the letter from his pillow. “ I must read it, I suppose,” he said, reluctantly. It was a folded sheet, without envelope, which he opened as if eager to have done with it. Every word stood out in characters that were as plain as print, and the words were few. “ Elias Lord , Sir, “ As the head of a new league for the oppression of the poor and the upholding of the rich, it is in your power to say how far their oppressions shall go. Be warned in time, use your authority wisely, pay careful heed to the notes of warning or requests that will find their way to you from time to time. Let this letter prove that you cannot escape us. Use your power to help us, and live . Hurt us, and your last hour follows the deed. Our eyes are ever upon you ; we never sleep? There was no signature, the strange document was written upon a plain square of white paper, and in a copy-book hand that was as characterless as print. Having read it, Elias Lord pondered long. He was a man of prompt action, of strong character. He knew what this ghastly warning meant, and had no inclination to treat it other than seriously. Sitting there with the letter in his hand, and the gleaming dagger before him, what he thought was practically this : — Here am I, Elias Lord, with an immense fortune which I have won by my own industry and energy, with large interests in factories, and workshops, and foundries, and here is a great faction of disap- pointed labourers and of rascals who won’t labour. These men have leagued together to extort money from me, not because they have a right to it, but because I have it and they want it. They’ve been 6 IN LONDON fighting me, and others like me, for years, and now when 1 am finally driven in self-defence to take a stand against them, when I have allied myself to a society which promises me and my property protection, they come with a deadly threat — I must use my position in this society to serve them or suffer dire consequences. That the enemy is strong and has its emissaries everywhere is proved by their knowledge of the fact that I am known to be an officer of the new league before I have been such three days. That they are in deadly earnest is proved by this knife and this letter. So it is to be war, stern war, between myself single-handed, but forewarned, and an unknown enemy. Very good. I have wronged none of them ; I owe no man anything ; I will fight for my own. Let them do their worst ! CHAPTER II. IN LONDON. The pleasantest time of year to be in London is, no doubt, in “ the season ” — that mystical time when the odour of society, wealth, fashion is all about, and all the visible world — visible, that is, from Mayfair, Belgravia, the Row, the Gardens— lives for naught but pleasure. But even the season has its better days and its best. Its better, when everybody is in town, and the dowagers know how to lay down their lines, and arrange their dinner lists ; and its best, when, after the Easter recess and the reassembling of “the House, ” politics become of secondary interest to society, and even poli- ticians give themselves over to dining, and going about in the train of fair and stately dowagers — willingly, or unwillingly, what matters ? — only the outside and visible is of consequence in Mayfair, in “ the season.” And yet, on one of the best, the fairest, the gayest days of the gay season, in a pleasant house in the Belgravia district, with the odour of fashion rising to his very nostrils, the whirl of fashion surging to and fro beneath his gaze, one man stood looking idly out upon gay London, and seeing not its gaiety. He was a tall spare man, erect in spite of his age, which was far past middle life. His face was pale, and had once been very hand- some, the hair, brushed straight back from a high white brow, was fine and soft, slightly waving, snowy-white, and so long that its curling ends rested upon the velvet collar of his rather unfashionable “ frock ” coat. His face was beardless, and the thin cheek as smooth as that of a boy. The mouth was fine, and thin lipped ; the eyes dark, and capable of many expressions. The face, in fine, was, at all times, refined, intellectual, the face of a man well born, well bred ; usually, the dark eyes looked out upon the world with dreamy melancholy, but sometimes they lighted up with a strange intensity of scorn and bitterness and stern resolve. At such moments, the stately old man with the gently dignified demeanour, the low voice IN LONDON. 7 and kindly half smile, became another being. The erect form seemed to grow more erect, to expand with vital force, the slender old hands were alive with nervous gesture, the thin lips set themselves in two scornful lines, the eyes flashed and blazed, and the slow voice grew ringing, clear, and strong with the strength of the enthusiasm that swayed him. Such to see was Miles la Croix, as he stood that fair morning looking out upon fashionable London, and seeing it not. . “Father,” a step, a voice, and the sound of a closing door; all these were not enough to rouse him from his reverie. “Father? this time a firm white hand upon his arm brought him back to the every-day world with a start, and instantly a tender smile routed the dreamy look from his fine old face. “Ah! so you have been dreaming again. And I caught you fairly. Where now, father dear ? but, never mind. You shall confess to me by and by. You are wanted below, dear.” “Wanted — below?” the old man passed his hand across his white brow, and looked down upon the girl beside him. “ Who — who is it, Moina ?” “ Monsieur Passauf.” “ Passauf ! ” the old man started. “ Only he, my daughter ? ” “As yet. He spoke of Mr. Crashaw as if he expected to find him here. Father,” hesitatingly, “ is there anything amiss ?” “ No, no, Moina. Amiss-— why, surely not ! what could be amiss here f ” he was already at the door, and he turned with his hand upon the latch. “ It’s only a little discussion, Crashaw set the hour for it, and I — I had quite forgotten. You — you will remain here, my daughter ? ” The girl laughed lightly. “ When did I ever intrude unasked, father mine, when your guests were — Jules Passauf and Mr. Crashaw ?” then, seeing the look in his eyes, “ There, dear, never mind me. Mr. Crashaw is too statistical for unpractical me, I suppose ; that is all; don’t mind whims. You know I am always ready at your call.” And then, as he turned and went silently out, she dropped into a seat beside the window, murmuring under her breath, “ All the same, I do detest you, Monsieur Rufus Crashaw ! ” she dropped her cheek upon her hand, the same fair firm hand that had recalled her father from his mental wandering, and a very serious look crept into her face. “ I wonder what they have come for,” she mused. “ Oh, I wish they were not” — she checked the rebellious thought and lifted her head. “ I am an unworthy daughter of my father,” she said, aloud, “ and a weak sister of the oppressed.” She pushed the window further open, and leaned cut, looking up and down. “ How beautiful it all is ! ” she sighed. And then she started back from the window. “ Bah, he has spoiled it all ! Ah,” here she nodded as if to some one in the street below, “ he has seen me, I must go and let him in. Ugh / ” A moment later she was holding the street door wide open for a stout man, who entered briskly, and greeted her with a nod and a crisp, “ Haw de do, Miss Moina,” pulling at a pair of adhesive gloves 8 IN LONDON ; the while. “ Fine day,” went on the new comer. “ By the way, con- gratulations are in order, of course . Wish you much pleasure in your good fortune, Miss La Croix.” “ Thanks,” said the girl, composedly. “ I fancy you won’t play at being your own handmaiden any longer, eh — at any rate, not much longer. Ah /” a glove came off at the syllable, and he at once began to wrestle with its mate. “And why not, Mr. Crashaw?” She was leading the way toward the little back room where she knew her father and Jules Passauf awaited him, and she flung the question back over her shoulder. “ Why not ? oh, well, because it isn’t the custom of the country, for one thing ; an English heiress, you know — ” “ I’m not an English heiress, sir, and as for the customs of the country — ” she threw open the door of the little back room, dropped a curtsey, with her eyes upon her father’s face, and then demurely announced — “ Mr. Crashaw.* When that gentleman had crossed the threshold, she dropped a second curtsey, drew the door shut, and went back to her window above stairs, smiling slightly, and with a gleam of mischief in her eyes. Rufus Crashaw entered the small room with the air of a man assured of his welcome. He merely nodded to Passauf, but he greeted his host, who rose to receive him with stately courtesy, with his nearest approach to respectful deference. He was a square shouldered, square featured man, strong and somewhat heavy ; in his rugged face shrewdness and force, a strong will, prompt and indomitable energy were strongly indicated, and a goodly amount of confidence in Rufus Crashaw spoke in his eyes, his voice, and his manner. Brisk, brusque, energetic — these words were frequently applied to Rufus Crashaw, and they fitted him well. His advice was considered worth the asking, and — quite another thing — the taking. His judg- ment was pronounced “sound.” He was frequently mentioned as “a man to be relied upon.” A man who knew the world, and who under- stood human nature. About the worst that was known or spoken of him was that he “ took very good care of number one,” was “ fond of running things,” and “ pretty sure, sooner or later, of getting his own way.” A good man to voyage with ; an unpleasant “ breaker ” to buffet against. For the rest, he was well dressed, well mannered, after his fashion, well informed, if not exactly well educated, and possessed of more finesse and tact than might have been expected from a man of his methods, when he saw fit to employ those subtle gifts. Lastly, he was a man of middle age, and a bachelor ; six months earlier he might have been described in the directory as Rufus Crashaw, ironmaster, with a long row of figures to indicate his value in pounds and shillings. Now, he was simply, “R. Crashaw, gentle- man of leisure,” and with an “ independent fortune.” “Good-morning, Mr. La Croix. You are well, I hope. Ah, Passauf, you are here before me ; punctual as ever. Well,” he seated himself at the word, and laid the moist gloves across one knee, “ are we ready for business ? ” IN LONDON. 9 Mr. La Croix bowed, and resumed his seat near a small square table, upon which were scattered several maps, writing material, two or three long narrow books that looked like records, or list books, and a number of newspapers, mostly foreign. Jules Passauf, a little dark man, with small keen eyes looking out from a little face almost lost in a short but thick growth of beard, drew his chair up to the table with a quick jerk, and mechanically took up a pen. “Not yet, Passauf,” interposed Crashaw, as he drew his own chair forward. “We will talk first, for ” turning again to La Croix, “ we have something to do ; something to decide. I have here a letter from — Sharlaw? “ Sharlaw ! ” “ From Sharlaw ! * Both men started ; La Croix was on his feet. Crashaw quietly took a letter from his pocket, withdrew it from its envelope, opened it, and held it out to Passauf. “ It is in our cipher,” he said. “ You’re better at ^ciphering it than I — no pun intended I assure you. Read it.” Then, with a gesture commonly used by him when he found it necessary to recall any of his words, “ Or, wait. La Croix, you have had your seven days. Have you decided ?” The old man had resumed his seat, and dropped his head upon his hand. “You had my decision seven days ago, Mr. Crashaw ; they were your seven days, not mine.” “Well, well ! you know what I mean. Have you decided for your daughter, or has she decided for herself?” Miles La Croix lifted his head. “ Neither,” he said, firmly. “I have not spoken to my daughter, Mr. Crashaw, since our last meeting. A change has come into my daughter’s life. She has inherited, from her mother’s sister, a fortune.” “ Yes. I know that.” “You know it! How?” Crashaw smiled. “You forget,” he said. “In such a matter as this it would be strange if I did not know. Your daughter is— one of us.” “ Not quite.” “Well — that is not her fault. But we are wasting words;” he turned again to Passauf. “ Give me the letter,” he said ; and his face settled into sternness. Without one glance at the document, already open in his hand, Jules Passauf gave it back into the hand outstretched to take it, and turned his keen little eyes, and expressionless face, upon Miles La Croix. Rufus Crashaw refolded the letter, replaced it in its envelope, and laid it down upon the table at his elbow. Then he turned a cool gaze upon the old man opposite him. Miles La Croix was trembling visibly now, and drops of sweat stood out upon his temples ; but he met the cold eyes squarely, and his own were unwavering. Presently Crashaw withdrew his gaze, and taking up the letter 2 10 IN LONDON. began to trifle with it, his hand resting upon the table between them. Finally he spoke very mildly. “ So— after all, La Croix, you are going to lose your opportunity. You!” Miles La Croix did not withdraw his mute gaze. “ It’s too bad,” murmured Crashaw, as if to himself. Suddenly the old man arose, and stood erect, but trembling still, before the two men, looking from one to the other as he spoke. “ Crashaw, Passauf ; you know me, and you know the desire of my heart. If I stood before you to-day a solitary man, a man with no ties, no vows to break, there is nothing that lay within my power, nothing that my intellect could grasp, or my strength compass, that I would hesitate to undertake. America, India, Australia, the uttermost parts of the earth, all are alike to me ! If I possessed a hundred millions, I would put them all into the treasury of the great cause , and set forth alone and penniless upon its humblest mission 1 ” he broke off abruptly, and sank panting into his seat, a flame of crimson had replaced the pallor in his face, his eyes were glowing almost fiercely ; he looked at them again silently for a moment, the hand which had rested upon the table as he sank down was still trembling. 6i Do you believe me ?” he demanded, hoarsely. Crashaw made a quick gesture, which Passauf seemed readily to interpret. “ La Croix — my dear friend,” he exclaimed warmly, u we believe your lightest word. You — why, man, you look ill! Passauf — ” but Jules Passauf was already at the door, which he opened hastily, calling, with his face thrust out, and his body still within the room — “ Mademoiselle ! oh, Mademoiselle La Croix ! ” and then, as a clear voice sounded a quick answer, “ Come ! come quick, and bring water ! ” Then, while the old man dropped his head upon his hand, and Rufus Crashaw and Jules Passauf exchanged swift glances, light steps came down the passage, and Moina La Croix, a glass of water in her hand, came swiftly into the room. Not one glance did she give to the two who now stood respectfully near the old man ; instead, she hastened to his side, and lifting his bowed head, gently held the glass to his lips. “ Papa ! This is too bad ! and just when you were doing so well !” The old man drank the water greedily, and in a moment lifted his head and smiled upon the fair girl, whose arm still rested about his neck ; seeing which she put down the half-drained goblet, and turned swiftly upon Rufus Crashaw. “ Mr. Crashaw — is there any real necessity for interviews now ? Just now, when he was recovering so nicely? Did not you promise me ” She stopped abruptly. Mr. Crashaw had taken up the letter, the reading of which he had so lately bidden, and forbidden, and held it out to her with a deferential bow. “ Miss La Croix, you \yill find my reason there.” The girl drew away from him -a little. “ What is it?” she asked coldly. IN LONDON. II “A letter.” “ I see — a letter.” “ A letter —from the master P “ Ah ! ” the girl’s face flashed, and she drew away yet further ; so that she stood directly behind her father’s chair. “ From him!” she breathed, “and does it— does it concern— us ?” “ Yes ; all of us.” “ What ! you, I — my father f n “ Your father first and most. You, I — Passauf here. Well, I was about to let Passauf read it aloud. You may read, Miss Moina.” She shot him a quick glance, and drew the letter from its envelope. Then she looked down at her father. His head had dropped once more upon his hand. Again her eyes sought the face of Rufus Crashaw, even while she shook open the flimsy sheet. “ Perhaps you would rather read it for yourself, first” he suggested. Without a nod or another glance she withdrew the hand that rested upon her father’s shoulder, and, moving back a pace, began to scan rapidly the closely written pages. Then, suddenly, all the life and colour died out of her face. She put up a hand to stifle the cry that rose to her lips, and the letter fluttered from her fingers to the floor. Across the face of Crashaw came a look of consternation, and he turned to meet the calm little eyes of Jules Passauf, who nodded reassuringly, and bent to take up the fallen letter, which he proffered again to the still motionless girl. But she waved it away with a quick gesture, and then, suddenly, all the blood came surging back to her face, and into her great dark eyes came the burning look which made father and child so wonder- fully alike. “Father ! oh, father, mine !” She flung herself down beside him, and drew his head down to her shoulder. “ Father, dear, it has come? It has come? Look up— don’t you hear me ? It has come, father, mine. The dream, our dream is to be realized at last ! Good heavens ! Help me, Passauf, he has fainted.” In another moment she had tenderly laid the senseless head upon the shoulder of Jules Passauf, and flown from the room in search of a restoring cordial. As she vanished across the threshold a wolfish look came into the face of Rufus Crashaw. “ Fool ! ” he whispered sharply ; “ give me that letter.” With a perfectly immovable face the man thus savagely addressed held out the letter. Crashaw took it, and at once changed his tone. “ She would not have understood — but he. It must be read to him. See.” He held the letter up before the eyes of Passauf, who bent forward, near-sightedly, to look — not upon the closely written words that covered the last page, but at the lower right-hand corner, as was indicated by Crashaw’s extended finger. And then he saw only this — 3 single round red blot that looked }i /CO a drop of blood. 12 MASTER AND SCRIBE. CHAPTER III. MASTER AND SCRIBE. N Thames Street, that home of busy dealers, and goal of lesser endors, all is bustle and confusion. From early dawn to late after- noon the narrow, dingy, dirty street is thronged with eager buyers aid urgent sellers, while the fish boats come and go, and the air is aden with unpleasant odours. Pushing his way through the throng at three o ; clock in the after- noon, went a man who might have been a small and unusually well- mannered tradesman to judge by his dress ; but no tradesman eager for a sharp bargain at the close of the day ever wrestled his way through Billingsgate, caring for its sights so little, and for its smells so much. He was a small, thin man, with a quick nervous stride, and a habit of carrying his head a trifle bent, while a slight stoop of the shoulders made his stature seem less than it really was. He wore a long loose top-coat, which fluttered, as he walked, almost at his heels, and a wide-brimmed soft hat, pulled low down upon his forehead, concealed all of his face that was not otherwise hidden beneath a straggling growth of beard. His hands were carried in two deep pockets, possibly to conceal from the scornful gaze of Billingsgate the fact that he wore gloves. On he struggled, into Lower Thames Street, past the Custom House and Billingsgate Fish Market, and finally in at the en- trance to a towering building whose dingy fa9ade fairly bristled with dingier windows. Up four flights of stairs, dark and steep, he toiled, slowly, like one who knows his way, to enter at last a small dark ante-room, the door of which he found locked, but which he opened promptly by the help of a key, one of a dozen, which jingled at the end of a leathern string. When he had closed the door behind him he found himself in total darkness ; but again he was equal to the emergency, and a small gas burner was soon flickering at one side of the doorway, showing duskily the smallness of the room, the two wooden chairs standing stiffly against the wall at one side, and the tall old cabinet or wardrobe opposite. Before this wardrobe the man stopped, having first examined a door on the side of the room opposite that by which he had entered, ending his investigation by shooting a tiny bolt noiselessly into its place, and then, with his hand upon the lock, he seemed for a moment to listen intently. Satisfied, seemingly, with the silence about him, he once more selected a key from the leathern string, and with it opened the wardrobe. It was lined with plain deal boards, narrow, and well filled with hooks, and was otherwise quite empty. Touching one of these hooks, seemingly at random, two of the boards forming the back swung inward, showing a shallow cavity behind lined like the front, with deal boards, and similarly supplied with hooks. Then, with swift movements, he took off the long coat and slouch hat and thrust them into the cavity. Another rapid motion, and the MASTER AND SCRIBE . hirsute covering dropped from his face and followed the hat and coat. A wig of unkempt hair came next, and then the aperture swung to, and the manipulator of this most convenient wardrobe moved a step towards the end nearest the outer door. Here a second hook served as a lever, and a panel again swung inward. This time the cavity revealed appeared to be well filled, for, thrusting in his hand, the man drew out a coat, which he donned, and which fitted him well ; a hat of quite another style than that which he had discarded, and last, a clean and savoury handkerchief, a brush, a comb, and a tiny hand-mirror. Having critically surveyed his face, and arranged his scant and closely-cropped hair, which was quite white, very soft and fine, and with a natural tendency to curl in spite of its brief length, he again drew on the gloves which he had removed upon entering, took off the well-brushed hat, and, after shutting the wardrobe and locking it as at first, he turned once more to the inner door. A moment he stood beside it in silence, his ear close to the panel .j then a smile of satisfaction came into his face, lighting it up in t wonderful way, and he tapped lightly three raps, and then noiselessly, as he had shot the bolt, he withdrew it. Another moment of waiting, and then a third key was applied, and the door pushed hastily open. Standing upon the threshold of this inner room, the man paused the smile still upon his face. What he saw was very simple : a large square room with dingy walls and ceilings, but scrupulously clean ; a big square table of some thick dark wood occupied the centre of the room, a dozen chairs were ranged about it in stiff array ; in two of the corners, those opposite the door of entrance, and between the windows, of which there were three, stood desks, five in all, and each unlike the other. Four of these desks stood closed, and the seats before them empty. The fifth, a long narrow leaf falling low, and with rows of shelves ranged above it, each shelf piled full with small tin boxes, each box labelled and securely tied, was open, and before it sat a man who bent above the low desk, a pile of unopened letters near his left hand, and another of letters opened full, and piled in orderly fashion as if ready for filing, at his right elbow ; upon the upper left-hand corner of the topmost of these last could be seen, in a large clea? hand, the written words, “ Answered, May nth, etc., 18 — .” The envelopes which had contained these letters were scattered upon the floor at the foot of the desk, just as they had been cast away by the quick hand of the scribe ; and upon a small movable upright little rack, held securely in its place by a hinge at the top and a paper weight at the bottom, was an open letter, written in strange hieroglyphics, which the man at the desk was rapidly and easily transcribing into very legible English. At the sound of the knock he had started slightly, but had not turned his head, and now, as the door swung inward, he did not pause in his work, and he gave no sign that he heard. The man in the doorway smiled still as he looked across at the quiet figure with the automatic movement, glanced swiftly about th; room, noting everything. At the windows, smoothly screened with some opaque white stuff, that admitted the light while it excluded 14 BIOGRAPHICAL, \ ision ; at the walls thickly hung with maps and charts ; at the vacant desks, and the bare table in the centre of the room ; and finally, at a desk placed diagonally across one corner, heavier and larger than the others, having two compartments, which were filled with pigeon holes and lettered boxes, and which, when swung open as they were at the moment, formed a wing at either end of the desk proper, and when closed, the outer surface of the desk. Upon the open desk were placed, ready for use, pens, ink, and a supply of blue tinted paper, and in a most conspicuous position a stack of unopened letters was piled. At sight of these the smile faded from the face of the new comer ; he dosed the door and locked it with a quick hand, and in another moment was seated at the desk, drawing off his gloves with eager haste. As he took up the first letter the automatic scribe put his pen behind his ear, closed his ink-bottle with a sharp click, and turned slowly half-round in his chair. “ Good-morning, your honour.” The man addressed put down the letter he had but that moment taken up. “ Well, Disset?” The scribe held up an open letter. “ Well ? ” said the other again. “ From America,” said the scribe. “ From America ? Ah ! ” He sprang up and came to the side of the man he had called Disset, who remained seated, while the other caught the letter from his hand. At sight of the opened sheet the colour forsook his face ; and yet, one glance could take in all that the sheet contained. At the top of the page, faintly traced with a pen, was a noose with a running knot ; and at the bottom, in firmer outline was a date — May 1 2 th . CHAPTER IV. BIOGRAPHICAL. “ May i 2th,” the face of the man hardened perceptibly ; he put down the sheet and went back to his desk. “We can do nothing, then,” he said. “Nothing — except offer a resolution in the ” “ Drop that, Disset. You and I need not cant.” The secretary turned back to his desk, and for some moments nothing was heard save the scratch of a pen, the sharp sound of a paper knife, and the rustle of folding and unfolding pages. Presently the secretary spoke again. “ Mr. Sharlaw.” “Well?” “ There is a message from Crashaw.” “Eh? What is it?” “He will be here in an hour.” “ Will he ! and who was his messenger ? n BIOGRAPHICAL. 15 “ Passauf “Jules Passauf?” “The same.” “What position does he occupy — relatively to Crashaw ?” “Very much that which I occupy relatively to you, Mr. Sharlaw.” “ Ah ! Indeed. The trusted and trustworthy confidential friend and secretary then.” No reply. The trusted and trustworthy was again scratching at his desk. Mr. Sharlaw leaned back in his revolving chair and smiled. Stripped of the long ill-fitting coat, the low felt hat, and straggling whiskers, he was a man to look at twice, and to admire greatly. Small in stature, and delicately framed as he was, he presented an embodied argument in favour of the supremacy of mind over matter ; strength of will ; power to control ; keenest insight ; all were manifest in the deep-set eyes, the firm nostrils, the thin-lipped mouth, the square jaw, and clear-cut chin ; in the firm grasp of the nervous white hands, in the very carriage of the man ; and all this fire and force he habitually masked behind a manner that was courteously calm, or listlessly indifferent : two masks that are often worn by strong character and indomitable will. In all the world there were not a dozen persons to be found who knew Anton Sharlaw well— and by those few he was loved and trusted implicitly, or hated to the utmost. Presently Sharlaw spoke again. “Are there any letters from Glasgow or Dublin, Disset ? ” “The mail is delayed to-day, sir.” “ Is your summing-up of the late reports ready ? ” “ Not yet, sir. The change in our address has delayed me. Some of the reports have gone a long way round.” “ So much the better.” Sharlaw arose and came to the secretary’s desk again. “You have been careful to have no letters come directly here?” “ I have taken all possible precaution.” “And your own going and coming ?” “Is always by the rear entrance. I am taken for a gentleman’s valet.” “Ah! really.” Sharlaw laughed lightly. “Are there any letters that require my personal notice ? ” “ There are some here — shall I run over the list ? ” “ Yes.” From a long narrow slip of paper, closely written over, the scribe began to read in a tone that was quite expressionless, with a pause after, each item, and, usually, a written note upon the margin of the slip, after the instructions of his chief had been heard in emotionless silence. “ From Cairo. No. 19, De Kayven reports strong feeling. Thinks a demonstration is just now very much needed.” “ From Cairo ! ” a moment of silence, while Mr. Sharlaw opens a large book and runs his eye over a list of names. “Put the matter into the department of Dr. Lossen.” 16 BIOGRAPHICAL. " Umph ! Lossen has just written for funds.” “ From ” “From Paris.” “ Send him fifty pounds.” “Pardon. Drasky ” “ Let Drasky send it, then ; it is in his department. What a memory you have, Disset.” “ Wainwright reports the pamphlets exhausted in the provinces, and a need for more. They are for the most part well received.” “ Let him be supplied at once.” “ Wainwright suggests — for later circulation — a stronger pamphlet.” “ Stronger — umph ! Who wrote the last ? ” “ La Croix.” “ Eh?” “ Miles La Croix.” “ What, Crashaw’s candidate ? ” “ The same.” “ We will go back to La Croix again. Stop — do you know him ? ” “ Yes.” “ I might have known it. Well, suggest, Disset, who shall write the stronger pamphlet ? ” “ I would suggest — Sharlaw.” Sharlaw laughed. “ I might have known that, too. But, no ; suggest again, Disset ” Disset turned in his chair. “ There is a youth here — in London — who is the ideal of the rhythmic, the picturesque, the fiery, silver- tongued orator. I hope I quote correctly.” Sharlaw nodded and smiled. “ He has made one or two addresses to the— masses.” “ Bah!” “ Oh they are by no means bad. He has also written a brochure — and submitted it.” “To whom ? ” “ To me. Will you read it ? It is here.” “ Ha vz you read it ? ” “ Yes.” “Weil?” “ Eh ! ” “ Your opinion, man.” “ I think it good. That is— it’s the thing Wainwright asks for, and done in good, strong, but somewhat luxuriant, English.” “ Strong and luxuriant ! We won’t bite at words. Your judgment is sufficient. Who is this youthful author ? ” “By name, Rene Savorin.” “Umph ! Assumed?” “I think not.” “ No ? A Frenchman, then.” “ I think there is mixed blood.” “ Describe him.” “ Refined — a gentleman, twenty-one, or possibly two ; slender and handsome enough for an opera tenor.” A SLIP OF PAPER. 17 a Where does he live?” “In lodgings — Jerymn Street.” “An income, then ?” “ I believe so.” “ You believe so ?” “Yes” “ He is a member, then ? “Of the Third Division.” “ Ah !— that ! ” Sharlaw left his desk and stood midway between it and Disset. “ How long have you known Mr. Savorin ?” “ I — or the order ? ” “ Both.” “ The order some eight months. Myself — four months.” “ How was he first brought to your notice ?” “Through Crashaw’s friend, La Croix.” “ Ah ! ” “ I think he is one of La Croix’s converts.” “ I see that you don’t like this young fellow.” « I ? ” “ Yes, come ! In a word, tell me what is the worst thing you know about him ? ” “ I have told you my best and worst. Mr. Rene Savorin is very young, very good-looking, tolerably rich, very enthusiastic, full of chivalry, full of fair feelings — enthusiasms — nice scruples.” Disset turned back to his desk, and a queer smile came into the face upon which he thus turned his back. Then, suddenly the smile passed, Mr. Sharlaw grasped one of the chairs standing about the central table and brought it to the desk of the secretary. “ Now, Disset,” he said, while he seated himself, “ about this can- didate of Mr. Crashaw’s — this Miles La Croix.” CHAPTER V. A SLIP OF PAPER. The secretary pushed back his chair, threw back his head to look at a clock high above him, and then began to arrange his desk, closing and locking it at last. Then he arose and went over to the table, where he also secured one of the wooden chairs, and drew it toward Mr. Sharlaw. As he moved one could see that he walked with a very decided limp ; one limb seemed shorter than the other, and painfully mis-shapen. “ Miles La Croix is nearly seventy years old,” he began. “ He never speaks of his family, but he is said to have good blood in his veins — his father, they say, was a French adventurer of good family but fallen fortunes, and his mother was the daughter of a Florentine noble, a revolutionist. La Croix married an English gentlewoman, who died, leaving him with a little daughter two years old — Moina La Croix. La Croix in his youth inherited a competency from some female relative on the French side, I believe, and it was lost by some unhappy venture in which he represented the trusting amateur with a i8 A SLIP OF PAPER . little money to invest as against ‘bloated capital,’ with the usual result La Croix has high notions, refined — one of those men who inspire confidence and draw friends from among the trusting, the confiding, and — the unhappy” “ Ah ! a visionary ! ” “Not altogether. Just enough of the practical in his talk to save him from that charge. He himself would probably plead guilty, if it were a crime, to be called an enthusiast.” “ Well, go on ; I see, at least, that you respect this La Croix.” “ So does every man who knows him ; except, perhaps — Rufus Crashaw ; and I respect and admire his daughter Moina.” “ Oh ! There again ! Why except Crashaw ? ” “ Because But wait until you have seen the two men. You will not need my explanation. You know men.” “Well, well ! About the young lady, then? Moina La Croix— it’s a pretty enough name ! ” “And the owner is pretty enough to wear it well. But you know women, too — I dare say.” “ Not to yom knowledge, Disset. Go on. I choose to hear your version of the La Croix, father and child.” “Then I will put it into the fewest words possible. Miles La Croix is an honest man — a gentleman by nature and by grace. He is an honest believer in the rights of the people, An aristocrat born, he has known wealth and poverty. There w T as, I believe, some trouble about his marriage. His wife’s friends had other views for her, and they were very wealthy. I have heard that his wife died in want, and that during their short married life they passed through many vicissi- tudes. It is said that he learned his lesson, and had a fine chance to study the woes of the working people at close range. He lived among them, and his wife died among them. All the kindness she knew in her latest hours was at the hands of those poorer than themselves. And at the same time, certain acts of untimely and unfeeling harsh- ness upon the part of some of Madame La Croix’s great relatives made upon Miles La Croix a lasting impression ; the result you have in the present Miles La Croix. In looks and manners, in all his tastes and habits, an aristocrat — his heart is with the poor and the oppressed, and his voice against the wealthy oppressor, the titled aristocratic monopolist of labour, of capital, of bread-and-butter, of any of the good things of this world. If Miles La Croix can be regulated, kept within bounds, he ought to be a power for us — in America.” “So! After all, Disset, you have a faculty for putting things tersely. c If he can be regulated ’ — what does that mean ?” “ I have said that La Croix is an enthusiast, is a gentleman, and that he has a long-nurtured grievance. He is finely organized, capable of rising to great heights, and — you are putting him in leash with Crashaw.” “And you have spoken again like an oracle. His leash with Crashaw Well, pass that ; what is the daughter like?” “ In face pale, with a fine red mouth, gteat dark eyes, and hair as black as possible. Tall, slender, and an enthusiast, like her father, whose disciple she is ; she is only eighteen, but yet has travelled A SLIP OF PAPER. 19 much. She has gone with him everywhere ; I dare say she knows more men than women. I even doubt if she has one woman friend. And yet she is as modest and sweet as a convent-bred maiden. She is frank, fearless, cordial. She is absolutely destitute of all little femininities, fine lady tricks learned at a finishing school.” “Upon my word, Disset, I didn’t know it was in you to be so eloquent.” “No,” said Disset, quite unmoved by this note of sarcasm. “I want you to know what she is, for if La Croix goes, she goes.” “ Of course.” “And if she goes , she will become one of the workers.” “ You think so ? ” “You will think so when you know her. And, look here, Mr. Sharlaw. Moina La Croix, in spite of her lack of womanly com- panionship, is a most womanly creature. In spite of her continental journeyings and her male companionships, she is as pure as a baby — a woman at eighteen, absolutely unspotted from the world.” “Umph!” Mr. Sharlaw said nothing more. Instead, he went back to his desk and seated himself before it, and for some moments there was silence in thk room. Then he spoke, but without turning or ceasing to write rapidly. “What are La Croix’s circumstances now?” “ Pecuniary ? ” “ Of course.” “ They have improved much of late years. La Croix has inherited from some source a second modest competence.” “Ah ! ” on went the nimble pen in Mr. Sharlaw’s hand. “But,” and here Disset, who was also writing, stayed his hand, “ Miss La Croix is an heiress.” “Ah!” “ Yes ; within the week only she has inherited a fine fortune from her mother’s eldest sister, a penitent spinster.” Mr. Sharlaw laid down his pen. “ How will this affect Mr. Crashaw’s enterprise?” he asked. “ Mr. Crashaw will tell you that, when he comes.” Again for many moments the two pens wrote busily, then Disset arose and came slowly towards Mr. Sharlaw — as he moved one saw that he was very lame indeed. “ Mr. Sharlaw.” “ Well ? ” Sharlaw dropped his pen. “ During the past three years have I been of any use to you — to the cause ? ” “ Man alive ! what a question ! As if you did not know how valuable your services have been.” “Then have I earned the right to ask a favour, a change ?” “A change ! what change, man?” “ Of work — of scene. I want to go to America.” “ You, Disset?” “Yes, I.” “ And in what capacity ? ” Disset was silent. 20 A SLIP OF PAPER. “ Crashaw, you know, has his own secretary .” “ Yes, I know, Passauf ; and a very good one, too." “Well, La Croix— is that your idea?” “ La Croix, if he choose an aid, will name Rene Savorin, or his daughter— perhaps both.” “ Well, then, what will you be ? Not one of the gardeners ? " “Bah ! no.” “ What, then ? Oh, yes ; I see ! You will be a— what shall we say? — a detective in the interest of the U. C. ? Is that it ?” “ Plain words are best,” said Disset, doggedly. “ I would be a spy." “An ugly word, Disset.” “There’s need enough of the office, though. There’s ugly work done there. You don’t know the worst, perhaps.” He turned and limped back to his desk, from which he took an envelope, which he gave to Sharlaw. “ Read it,” he said. Sharlaw drew from it a printed slip, evidently cut from a news- paper. For a moment his eyes were riveted to the bit of paper, then a sharp exclamation broke from his lips. “Horrible!” he muttered under his breath, and then, aloud : “Another useless sacrifice, and the work yet to be done ! ” He got up and began to pace the room, his lips and hands working nervously. Presently he spoke — “ Disset, you are right ; we do need — a spy. But your lameness, will it not be a too serious drawback ? ” “ I’m willing to risk it,” said Disset. “Then call it settled. If you can find and instruct a substitute in your duties, you sail with Crashaw and his party. And now go and bring him to me at once— Crashaw, I mean.” As the newly appointed spy hastened to close his desk, possess himself of his shabby hat, and go limping forth upon his mission, Mr. Sharlaw watched him furtively, holding the while the newspaper clipping closely clutched in one hand, a fact of which he was seemingly unconscious. When Disset was out of hearing he opened the crumpled paper and read it again, with a nervous tremor shaking his whole body. It was from New York, and dated some twenty days back. It read as follows : — “James Johnson (which, of course, is an assumed name) the man condemned upon his own confession for the murder of Jacob Traill, an inoffensive and elderly man, refuses to speak of the affair, although he converses upon most other topics with the few persons who have followed his rather strange case from the beginning. He does not deny that the name James Johnson is a false one, but will give no other. He admits freely the killing of Traill, but refuses to name a cause or provocation. In fact, no one can imagine such a man as the victim giving just cause, or any cause, to an assassin. Clearly it was not murder for robbery. Altogether, the case is a strange one, and the stranger man who will die for this crime will, it is most probable, go out of the world carrying the secret of his own identity and this other more sinister secret with him.” MOINA AND MADELINE. 21 CHAPTER VI. MOINA AND MADELINE. u Godmother, look — look quick ! Ah ! there, she has turned away ! * “ What is it, dear ?” “ That beautiful creature again, of course.” “ Oh, the lovely girl ! What a Quixote you are, Madeline. You are as anxious to make the acquaintance of that young lady as if you were a young man, instead of “An old maid.” “ Nonsense ! Old maids must be at least twenty-four before they can lawfully claim the title, and you ” “I am approaching that blissful age fast enough, dear god- mother. Yes, I admit that I do want to know that girl ; at least, to speak with her.” “ I should think that might be easy enough.” “ Tm not so sure ; she seems very reserved. I was about to say shy, but that is not the word ; shyness implies self-consciousness, and that girl is as natural, as unaffected, as gracefully unconscious of her own grace and beauty, and of the admiring eyes that follow her, as if she were alone with that stately old man, who must be her father, and with this old ocean, which she seems to love, for she gives it more of her notice than she gives to ship, passengers, and crew, always excepting the father, who might be a fine old picture come to life.” The lady lying back in the deck chair, wrapped in her rugs and trifling with some fleecy wools that lay tangled in her lap, making vivid contrast against the sombre hue of her robe and wrappings, smiled up into the face turned toward her, letting her eyes linger lovingly there. It was a beautiful face, and a youthful one, in spite of its owner’s avowed nearness to the mystic line which cuts off the maiden from the realm of spinsterhood. And it was more than this ; it was a face whose beauty had been chastened, disciplined, and purified— a fine, firm, courageous face, at once strong and tender, self-contained, and sensitive, helpful and womanly sweet. At twenty-three Madeline Payne had lived out one lifetime of trial and suffering ; had passed through bitterest sorrow ; had known the world as a hard task-mistress ; had been sinned against, tempted, per- secuted ; had fought her battles, and conquered — first her enemies, and then herself ; and now, chastened, purified, humbled, and strengthened, she stands looking down into the face of her nearest and dearest friend, for blood relative she has not one, and is a happy woman. Knowing the world and humanity ; loving its good things, loathing its evil ; ready with heart and hand to help its sufferers ; to pity the weak, to cheer on the strong ; trusting in God, and believing fully, after many fierce battles with her own fiery nature, that all her life has been, and is, “ Best for her and for mankind.” As the elder woman looks and smiles, Madeline draws nearer. “ Are you quite comfortable, dear ? Let me pull up that rug.” 22 MO IN A AND MADELINE. “No, child, I am very comfoi table, and what a lovely morning * I wish I were a better sailor like you ; I feel like a passenger just come on board ; the life on deck is so new to me. And you, in a week you know everybody here, of course.” “Not quite — you forget .’ 5 “ I mean in your way, and in a very good way. Sit down here and tell me about your fellow-passengers . 55 Madeline seated herself with a smile in her brown eyes, but with a very sober face. “First , 55 she began, “there is a lady on board who interests me more than all the rest ; more, even, than does the lovely dark-eyed girl over there. This lady is tall and slender, and rather fragile — not z//, you understand, not in the least — only dainty, and, I sometimes fancy, a bit spoiled by a rather domineering young woman who looks after her very sharply, and of whom I have not a very flattering opinion. This very gentle sweet-voiced lady has been shut in her state-room ever since the first day out, and has appeared on deck to- day for the first time. She is dressed in soft black garments, and I dare say she knows how very becoming they are, and her hair, which is very soft, abundant, and wavy, is as white as silver frost-work. She is sitting at this moment in a deck chair, and the red-haired domineering young woman before-mentioned is telling her about the passengers, and, in a moment, will present to her the captain of the ship, which is not a ship, but a very prosaic steamboat. The lady put out a slender hand and laid a finger lightly upon the lovely lips now parting in a smile of welcome as the captain ap- proached ; and in another moment Mrs. Ralston and Captain Hardin were made acquainted, and were exchanging the usual courtesies, while Madeline Payne, standing erect, was looking seaward, and now and then contributing her w^ord to the conversation. “ Captain , 55 she said after a time, “ I am growing interested in one of your passengers, and I want some information concerning 55 “Him ? 55 “Her , 55 Madeline laughed softly. “ I mean the beautiful girl who is almost always with the old man ?” “ Her father . 55 “ Yes, I had guessed that . 55 “The lady is a Miss La Croix, booked from London, via Liverpool, to New York, like yourself. The old man is a gentleman, and I have found him most interesting, although very reticent. He had favoured me with an introduction to his daughter, but her reserve I have not as yet been able to penetrate. Do you know I fancy that there is a romance going on, perhaps I ought to say beginning, under our eyes ? 55 “ Indeed ! 55 Madeline turned a smiling face upon the captain, who had taken a seat besides Mrs. Ralston. “ Pray let us into the secret . 55 “ With pleasure. Have you observed that very handsome young man, who is nearly always on deck, seeming to know nobody, yet very affable to all who address a word to him ? 55 “Alas ! 55 replied Mrs. Ralston, to whom the question seemed MO IN A AND MADELINE. 2 3 addressed, “ I have seen no one, except the stewardess and Miss Payne, until to-day, captain, and nothing except the walls of my state- room, and an occasional glimpse of a big wave.” “ I think I know the person,” said Miss Payne. “A foreign-looking young man ; that is, he looks neither American nor English, and might be either a poet or a musician.” “An actor, perhaps,” smiled Mrs. Ralston. “ No, indeed ! he is not in the least self-conscious. He does not pose, nor pause for an effect. I see you know who he is, captain.” The captain nodded. “ I have fancied that this youth is casting longing eyes toward Miss La Croix,” he said ; “in fact, I have seen her eyes follow some movement of his more than once, and I fancied this morning that the father noticed something of the same sort, for f saw his eyes follow the young fellow in his promenade, and then turn toward his daughter, with, I thought, a look of warning or mild reproof in them.” “And you think it is a case of mutual admiration, captain ?” asked Miss Payne. “ It looks strangely like it.” “ Well, now, I am going to be confidential. I have let my eyes follow the lady very persistently during the week of my solitude on deck. Why, Mrs. Ralston, only fancy, except for Captain Hardin here, I have only made one acquaintance in the proper fashion, and I am indebted to him for that.” “ I don’t know about the indebtedness,” said the captain with a shrug. “ How have you found Crashaw, Miss Payne ? I never quite considered him a ladies’ man, although he can find plenty to say among men.” “ He has not lacked for words, nor, indeed, for ideas, when in con- versation with me,” said the young lady. “Mr. Crashaw, Mrs, Ralston, is the matter-of-fact Englishman of whom I told you.” “ I remember.” “ I am glad you found him interesting, Miss Payne. Crashaw’s a good sort of man to know. He’s crossed, one way or the other, with me several times, and I’ve met him in New York and in London. He’s a business man, a practical man, through and through ; he’s lately retired from active business, he tells me, though ; iron trade it was. But your confidence, Miss Payne ” She laughed lightly, and for a moment seemed to hesitate. “ Do you believe in antipathies ? ” she finally asked. “ Yes, heartily. Don’t you ? ” “ A little. Well, captain, I hope you realize that we are gossiping recklessly, and since we have brought up the name of your friend, Mr. Crashaw, I might say unpardonably.” “ Not quite so strong as that, Miss Payne. Crashaw’s an acquaint- ance ; I can write the names of my friends on the palm of my hand But about your antipathy ?” “ Oh. it is not my antipathy ; it’s Miss La Croix’s.” “ Oh ! ” “ Yes. I have not observed her glances of admiration for the hand- 24 MOINA AND MADELINE. some young man, though I have observed him . But I have seen her shiver— actually shudder, when Mr. Crashaw has chanced to pass very near her ; and once I saw her fling at his back a look, which, if she had known the man, I should call of actual loathing .” “ Why, Madeline ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Ralston, half laughing, half in amazement, “ have you really been driven to this ?” u Oh, I know it’s bad form, godmother, but really I don’t feel very sorry. Captain Hardin may be trusted, I know ; indeed, he’s a partner in my guilt.” The captain made some light response, and then grew thoughtful.