The Black Cat

    March 1896.

    =Eleanor Stevens’ Will=,      Isabel Scott Stone
    =To Let=,                     Alice Turner Curtis
    =Of Course—Of Course Not=,    Harry M. Peck
    =The Marchburn Mystery=,      A. Maurice Low
    =Their Colonial Villa=,       Charles Barnard

    THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON MASS.

    No. 6. Copyright, 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.




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                              The Black Cat

              A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

            No. 6.       MARCH, 1896.        5 cents a copy,
                                             50 cents a year.

  Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.

      =IMPORTANT.=—The entire contents of this magazine are covered
      by copyright and publishers everywhere are cautioned against
        reproducing any of the stories, either wholly or in part.

    Copyright, 1895, by the Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights
                                reserved.




Eleanor Stevens’ Will.

BY ISABEL SCOTT STONE.


When the following notice appeared in the columns of the daily
newspapers, society experienced an absolutely new sensation. People who
hadn’t known the late Eleanor Stevens immediately began to inquire into
the history of the woman whose name was coupled with so singular an
announcement. And people who had known Eleanor Stevens forthwith revived
long lists of her curious fads and fancies, concluding always with the
declaration: “Well, it’s just what you might expect from Eleanor Stevens.”

    PERSONAL. The rejected suitors of the late Miss Eleanor Stevens
    may hear something to their advantage by communicating with
    Willard Pratt, Counsellor at Law, International Trust Building.

Now, Eleanor Stevens had been by no means either the crotchety old maid
or the rattle-brained young one that these remarks might imply. On
the contrary, she had been a rarely charming and gifted young woman,
well born, well bred, the heiress to an enormous fortune, in fact, the
possessor of beauty, brains, and money, sufficient to equip half a dozen
so-called society belles. But in spite of these endowments, or, perhaps,
because of them, Eleanor Stevens had been an eccentric, and with every
year since her début her eccentricity had become more marked. At times,
for example, she would dance and golf, pour at teas, and talk small
talk to eligible young men with a persistency and success that made
her for the time the sun of society’s solar system. Then, suddenly,
and with no excuse whatever, she would withdraw into herself, refuse
all invitations, and spend a month or more in studying Buddhism or in
inquiring into the condition of the poor in great cities. As to her
suitors, the most remarkable reports had existed concerning Miss Stevens’
treatment of those gentlemen. It had been said by some that each in turn
underwent a period of suspense hung, like Mahomet’s coffin, between
earth and heaven, at the end of which time he was always lowered to the
former element by Miss Stevens’ unqualified refusal. Certain malicious
rivals had even claimed that at times these proposals were so numerous
that Miss Stevens used printed forms of rejection,—like those sent by
publishers with unavailable manuscript,—with space left blank for the
name and date. There were others who had declared that her drawing-room
was always as crowded with suitors as a fashionable doctor’s waiting-room
with patients. Occasionally, it had occurred to an exceptionally
keen-witted person to connect the girl’s periods of self-exile with
her reputed refusal of some specially manly lover. But each of these
reports was, after all, founded only on surmise. For it was cited as
a crowning instance of Miss Stevens’ eccentricity that she had looked
upon the subject of love and marriage with an old-fashioned romanticism,
and that while she had never found her special ideal, she yet believed
too thoroughly in the honor of her would-be lovers ever to betray their
confidence. In the end, society had concluded to accept the girl’s
vagaries as simply “Eleanor Stevens’ way.” And this formula had been made
to cover a multitude of oddities, ranging from the wearing of high crowns
when low ones were the fashion, to Miss Stevens’ sudden and mysterious
departure for Europe exactly two days after she had taken apartments for
the summer with a party of friends at a watering-place hotel. Indeed,
when, six months after her abrupt departure, the notice came of the young
heiress’ sudden death—unattended except by her maid and companion—in
some obscure village in the Black Forest, even her friends could find no
phrase that so well expressed their shocked surprise as: “Well, that was
just like Eleanor Stevens. She couldn’t even die like other people.”

And now, following upon the news of her strange death, had appeared this
still stranger notice.

Eleanor Stevens’ rejected suitors! Who were they? Would they present
themselves according to directions? What were the advantages they would
gain by so doing?

To the last of these questions the public had not long to wait for an
answer. Three days after the extraordinary “personal” had made its
appearance, the announcement was made that Eleanor Stevens had left a
will, and that this will had been probated. Before this news was twelve
hours old, the sensation caused by the advertisement was completely
overshadowed by that produced by the following clause with which it was
discovered the will ended:

“To each one of my rejected suitors I give and bequeath twenty-five
thousand dollars, to be paid subject to certain sealed conditions,
exactly one year from my death, in the library of my residence in
Beechwood Street, Philadelphia.”

Decidedly, society had never found a more tantalizing subject for gossip
than was furnished by this mysterious will. The latest scandal, the
approaching wedding at St. Peter’s, and the forthcoming private ball
all faded into nothingness beside this all-absorbing sensation. In the
newspapers long accounts of the dead woman’s life and character, of
her house and gowns, ways of wearing her hair, and such light-throwing
investigations were published daily. A popular preacher referred to the
subject veiledly in his Sunday night sermon. Men who had never seen
Eleanor Stevens quizzed one another about the wide swath they would
cut when they claimed the money due them under her will. While every
masculine being, from an office boy to a gray-haired clergyman, that rode
up in the elevator in the International Trust Building, where Willard
Pratt had his office, was regarded as a possible applicant, bent on
further informing himself concerning the curious legacy’s conditions.
One man only knew the facts in the case, and that was Eleanor Stevens’
lawyer, Willard Pratt; but from him neither hints, nor bribes, nor open
question could drag a syllable. As for Mr. Pratt’s office boy, he reaped
a harvest of retainers for worthless tips on the “approaching race.”

In the end, people decided that the legacy had some connection with the
late Miss Stevens’ romantic ideas concerning her rejected suitors; and
accepted, grudgingly, the necessity of awaiting the slow coming and going
of three hundred and sixty-five days before they could find out who those
suitors had been.

Meantime, Willard Pratt, counsellor-at-law, was deriving from the
administration of Miss Stevens’ will the keenest enjoyment of his
long and varied legal career. Being a shrewd reader of character,
and possessed of a large fund of humor, he had vastly enjoyed being
interviewed by the claimants or the claimants’ friends, and, though they
had got nothing out of him, he had, on the other hand, got a great deal
out of them. As one after another left him the keen jurist invariably
chuckled to himself:

“Smart girl to refuse him. He was after the money, that’s plain. But what
in the name of all that’s holy made her give him twenty-five thousand
now?”

But his enjoyment reached its culminating point when, just one week
before the day appointed for the settlement of the will, society was
again startled by this notice in the daily papers:

                        TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.

    The rejected suitors of Miss Eleanor Stevens are requested to
    meet at her late residence on Beechwood Street, Philadelphia,
    on Monday, the 21st inst., at ten o’clock A. M., with reference
    to the legacies due them under her will. WILLARD PRATT,
    _Executor_.

“I think that will reawaken popular interest,” said the old lawyer dryly.

And so it did. Seven days later, when the hour appointed for the
reception of Miss Stevens’ rejected suitors drew near, the street in
the vicinity of her late residence was lined with an eager multitude of
men and women. From behind the curtains of every window within a block,
unseen spectators awaited the morning’s developments; while people who
would not acknowledge their curiosity by joining the crowd of confessed
sight-seers made convenient errands which took them through Beechwood
Street at the time appointed for the “show.” The only drawback to the
anticipated enjoyment was the fear that, after all, the suitors might at
the last moment fail to appear.

But no such catastrophe occurred. It is true that as the hour drew near
in which they were to stand confessed as members of Miss Eleanor’s “army
of martyrs” several of the intended claimants had found themselves
weakening in their resolve. Those, for instance, who had justified their
claim solely on the ground of an admiration felt but never expressed,
felt their courage oozing as the ordeal approached. Others, who were
burning incense at new shrines, seriously considered renouncing a claim
that would decidedly complicate their present prospects. Still others,
who were now happily married, hesitated at opening the old wound and
endangering their domestic bliss, even for twenty-five thousand dollars;
while hardly one but felt some qualms at the thought of openly profiting
by an experience that most men hide in the deepest recesses of the heart.

It was a question whether pride or profit would win the day. In the end,
however, the almighty dollar had proved its right to that title.

When Mr. Pratt entered the library of Miss Stevens’ late residence, at
ten o’clock on this eventful morning, he found the room crowded with a
body of men clad in mourning garb and solemnly waiting in various stages
of uneasiness for the approach of the long-expected moment.

As the lawyer silently took his seat behind a baize-covered table, the
troubled faces grew visibly more troubled; and as he produced sundry
important-looking documents and laid them on the table, each countenance
was stamped with mingled emotions, eager expectancy in many cases being
linked with shame and avarice.

“Gentlemen,” began the old lawyer, “I must trouble each of you to give
me in writing a concise statement of the time, place, and circumstances
attending your several offers and rejections, in order that I may have
documentary proof that you are entitled to the legacies left you by the
terms of Miss Stevens’ will.

“Documentary proof!” At those unexpected words the emotion that marked
the faces of the strange assembly changed to unmistakable concern. Was
this some disagreeable joke? No, the old lawyer waited with unmoved face
for the fulfilment of his demand. There was a momentary hesitation. Then,
filing up in due order, the applicants, one by one, seated themselves at
the table before the old attorney and wrote the account demanded.

As the last statement was signed, the portières of the library were
suddenly drawn back, and a tall, heavily veiled figure advanced slowly
into the middle of the room. Then, as she raised her hand and drew back
the thick gauze that masked her face, a cry of terror echoed through the
house.

The woman was Eleanor Stevens!

“Wait,” she commanded. “Don’t be alarmed; I am no ghost. The Miss Stevens
who died a year ago in the Black Forest was not the Miss Stevens whose
loss you are so deeply mourning.

“By a stupid blunder of the peasants with whom I was staying, an
exchange of names occurred between myself and an invalid girl whom I had
befriended; so that when she died, her death certificate was issued under
the name of Eleanor Stevens.

“Some weeks earlier I had been influenced by daily contact with one whose
life was fading rapidly away to draw up my will in legal form and to send
it home to my lawyer.

“When I left so suddenly for Europe a year and a half ago it was because
of a conversation overheard between several of my seeming admirers which
changed all my ideas of manly chivalry in affairs of the heart, and which
drove me abroad, as I supposed, forever.

“It was that blundering exchange of names that has given me the
opportunity of meeting you under these interesting circumstances.

“Now, gentlemen, my will, in which you have shown so deep an interest,
stipulates that each of my rejected suitors shall receive twenty-five
thousand dollars after my death. That bequest will be carried out to the
letter when I am really dead.

“In the meantime I would gladly read your documentary proofs; but, as I
have never in all my life rejected but two suitors, and as one of these
died six months ago and the other is not here to-day, I shall be obliged
to refer you to my lawyer.”

And with a sweeping courtesy Miss Stevens withdrew from the room.




“To Let.”

BY ALICE TURNER CURTIS.


On one of the streets leading from the park in the center of a town near
Boston is a very attractive modern house with a history. It was built for
the occupancy of a Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, whose mysterious deaths mark the
beginning of this story.

The facts here recorded are just as I heard them. Indeed I was a resident
of the town during the period in which these strange occurrences took
place, and had a personal acquaintance with the people mentioned.

The Leslies had been married a year, were apparently happy, and were well
and favorably known in the town. One morning a neighbor noticed that
lights were burning in the Leslie house. He ran up the steps and rang the
bell. There was no response, and after a few hours the neighbors decided
that something was wrong inside, and that an entrance must be made at
once. The front door was accordingly forced open, and as the men went
in they could see into the room beyond the hall, the sitting-room. Mr.
Leslie was sitting with a paper across his knees, apparently asleep, and
on a couch near by lay his wife.

It took but a few moments to ascertain that both had been dead for some
hours. Their faces were peaceful and composed; there were no signs of
disturbance in the house.

Every possible inquiry was made. No trace of poison or of foul play
could be found. Numberless theories were advanced, and the wonder and
excitement over the tragic death of the young couple grew daily.

After some months their relatives removed the furnishings, and “To Let”
appeared in the cottage windows. The house was immediately taken by a man
from Boston, whose family consisted, beside himself, of his wife and two
little girls. None of this family had heard the story of the Leslies,
nor did they hear it until they had been in the cottage for some weeks.

One night, after they had occupied the dwelling for over a week, the man
of the family was awakened by a sudden scream. His wife awoke at the same
moment, and exclaimed: “One of the children must have the nightmare,” but
just then the two little girls rushed into the room, exclaiming, “What’s
the matter, mother? What are you screaming about?” Almost before they had
finished speaking two more screams in quick succession rang through the
house. The place was carefully searched, but no cause for the disturbance
could be found.

The next night at about the same hour like sounds were heard. After
that Mr. Weston made inquiries of the neighbors. None of them had been
disturbed. One suggested that possibly a cat was shut up somewhere in
the house and had made the noises heard, but a careful search of the
entire premises failed to discover any such commonplace solution of the
mysterious sounds.

A week passed without any recurrence of the midnight sounds, when one
night Mrs. Weston awoke from a most terrible dream. She dreamed that she
was lying upon the couch in the sitting-room. In front of her stood a
young man who held a pillow in his hands. “I shall stifle you,” he said
clearly; “it’s no use to struggle.” Mrs. Weston dreamed that she tried
to scream; that once, twice, three times she endeavored to rise from the
couch to push away the pillow, but could not.

From this dream she awoke suddenly, and, as she lay endeavoring to
overcome its impression, a gasping shriek, quickly followed by two more,
awakened her husband, and again sent the little girls flying in terror to
their mother’s room.

This time Mrs. Weston held herself responsible for the terrible screams.
“I’ve had a dreadful dream, and I suppose I screamed without knowing it,”
she said. She had hardly finished this explanation when again came the
screams, the last dying away in a stifled moan.

The family was by this time thoroughly terrified. They had heard the
story of the Leslies, and without waiting for further experiences in the
house they moved at once.

Their story got about the town, with the result that the house was
vacant for a year. Then a family, consisting of an elderly couple, Mr.
and Mrs. Walters, and their son, a young man about twenty-five, moved in.
The remainder of the story was told me by this son, and I will give it in
his own words as nearly as possible:

“I wasn’t afraid of any haunted house. My father was deaf, so it
would take a reasonably loud scream to wake him, and my mother was a
sensible woman. The house just suited us. We got nicely settled in a few
weeks, and my elder brother and his wife came out from Boston to make
us a visit. The first night they were there I stayed in town for the
theater. The train I came out in left a few minutes after eleven, and I
reached the house at about a quarter before twelve. I was nearly ready
for bed when a shriek like that of a person struggling for his life
sounded through the house. I hurried into the hall, and as I did so my
brother opened his door. Before either of us could speak a second and
a third scream followed. By this time even father’s deaf ears had been
penetrated, and we all sat up talking the matter over far into the night
before we felt like sleep.

“In the end we decided not to mention the occurrence. We thought of
several possible explanations of the noise. The next morning we made a
careful examination of the house and surroundings. We made inquiries as
to late trains, thinking we might have mistaken the shriek of an engine
for a human voice; but all our conjectures led to nothing. We could find
no satisfactory reason for the disturbance.

“I made inquiries about the Leslies, and found that many people believed
that Leslie had stifled his wife, and then taken some subtle poison which
left no trace; but there was no evidence to support this theory; no sign
of poison had been found, no cause could be given for such an act, and
nothing could explain the midnight screams. A week passed quietly, when
one night my brother awakened our mother, telling her that his wife was
ill. She had awakened from a bad dream almost suffocated, and my mother
worked over her for some time before she was restored. She refused to
tell her dream, but we were well assured that it was a repetition of Mrs.
Weston’s. The next morning my brother and his wife went to their home.

“I had one more experience in that house which I shall never forget. My
father was to be out one night until midnight at the meeting of a society
of which he was a member, and my mother and I decided to wait up for him.

“About eleven o’clock mother lay down on the couch and went to sleep. The
room was brightly lighted, and I sat near the couch reading.

“Just as I heard my father come in I was startled by a sudden moan from
my mother. I turned quickly toward the couch, and as I did so I saw
plainly that the sofa pillow lay upon her face. I snatched it away, and
awakened her with some little difficulty.

“Meantime my father had come into the room, and as he entered a scream,
terrible in its nearness and intensity, rang out, thrilling us all with a
sickening shock. We left the next day.”

This finished his story. No explanation of these happenings has ever been
given. The Leslies’ death remains a mystery, and to explain the Presence
that occupied this cottage after their death would be to account for a
side of life which we barely touch and cannot comprehend.

The house is still to let.

[Illustration]




Of Course—Of Course Not.

BY HARRY M. PECK.


They sat, side by side, on a big hearth-rug, gazing into the glowing
coals. The one was a young man, of perhaps twenty-eight, and the other
an old dog, of perhaps ten. That’s not a criticism on the poverty of the
English language. It simply shows how much more a dog can “get out,” or
perhaps “put into,” ten years than a man.

They sat there, anyway. Young or old. Young and old. And they gazed into
the coals. And the young one blew great clouds of smoke out of a fragrant
briarwood at the old one. But the old one did not mind. He was acclimated.

It was in the cozy bachelor apartments of Neil Richards. Neil was a
fellow who had succeeded, by dint of presumable study, money, and late
nights, in getting through college in a commendable manner, seven years
before. Since that time he had been engaged in the financial business.
Not exactly as a legitimate broker; nor as a negotiator of loans; nor
again as a pawnbroker; but in that pleasanter line which on a business
letter-head—if he had owned such a thing—would have been expressed
something like this: “Neil Richards, Income Spender, Pleasant Street,
Easyville.” Anyway, he had been traveling, intermittently, to improve
himself, as the phrase goes, since the day he calmly, and with the most
approved senioric gravity, tucked a sheepskin under his arm and discarded
his cap and gown.

But, after his latest peripatetic streak, he was back again, at last, in
New York, in his old rooms, in his favorite seat on the hearth-rug, with
his dog beside him, and—in love. The fellows at the club had said for
several weeks past, as Richards would excuse himself, get up, and go out
about nine o’clock evenings: “Funny about Neil, isn’t it? He leaves us
every night at nine o’clock, and goes home, and they say he sits down and
talks to that old dog, General, of his till midnight. Guess he must be
in love.”

And the fellows were right. Neil was hopelessly, fearfully, and miserably
in love. Her name was Dorcas—Dorcas Howland; not a particularly pretty
name, nor a particularly pretty girl; but a girl with such a wealth of
sweetness, tact, common sense, and intelligence that more would have made
her a curiosity. Neil had seen her at what is known as a large affair one
evening, two months ago; was presented, murmured his platitudes, had a
waltz, and immediately put her on a pedestal. He had seen her a few times
since, once driving, when he received a bow that kept him absent-minded
for a week; and on a few other occasions at the house of a friend, where
he had passed some of the shortest quarter hours of his existence—talking
to her. And that was as far as he had gone. It isn’t exactly strange,
then, is it, that when a man almost deifies a girl he has known only two
months he should like to sit down on a hearth-rug and talk to an old dog
he has known for ten years? A club, and cocktails, and gossip, and late
hours are no solace at all, under such circumstances.

But we left them on the hearth-rug, gazing into the coals. “You see,
General, it’s like this: I’m in love—desperately in love—and Miss Howland
doesn’t care a rap for me. Probably thinks I am just like all the rest
of them, looking for her money, when I’m really not. You understand,
General, that I’m not.”

The General blinked sympathetically, and looked hard at the coals. Neil
threw an arm affectionately around the dog. “You see, I like to tell
you these things, old boy, because you never say anything about them.”
There was silence for a few moments, while Richards meditatively pulled
away at his pipe and the dog pensively thought of his puppyhood and its
loves. “She’s so sweet and dainty,” at last continued Neil. “How she
would brighten up a home for us, wouldn’t she, General?” The dog turned
his head, and, looking at his master, reached one great paw over and laid
it on Richards’s knee. “Shake, is it, old man? Well, here goes. I thought
you felt as I did. Now, General, you and I must scheme how to get her.”
The dog thumped his tail appreciatively on the rug, and they both went to
work staring at the coals again.

And so they sat on,—Neil solemnly meditative, the General silently
sympathetic. It was a good hour later, when Neil’s pipe had burned
out, and the dog’s head had drowsily fallen against his shoulder, that
Richards heard the elevator bell ring, and a moment after the upward
rush of the car. Then, as the elevator stopped at his landing, he heard
the voice of old Barker, the janitor, saying, “Yes, sir; Mr. Richards is
always in nights now, sir. I am sure you will find him still up. Door
to the right, sir; and do be careful, sir, not to go to the left, as
them’s Miss Stevens’s apartments, sir, and no one is allowed to disturb
her, sir, till I takes her up her cup of tea, and the saucer of milk for
the gray cat, sir, at half after—” but the remainder of the old man’s
loquacity was muffled by the sound of voices.

“Some of the boys, come to drag me out on one of their infernal midnight
romps, I suppose,” said Richards to himself, with a discontented sigh.
“They did that only three nights ago. Why can’t they let a poor devil
smoke his pipe in peace?” Then, as footsteps approached the door, he
arose and surveyed himself in a long mirror at the end of the room. He
did not look very presentable, he admitted. His hair was mussed, his
clothes were full of tobacco ashes, and he hadn’t, when he sat down,
even taken the trouble to don a lounging jacket; hence was in his
shirt-sleeves. “But who cares?” remarked Richards to himself. “If these
stupid night hawks will come here at such an hour, they will have to take
things as they find them. Suppose they will have something to drink,
however.” As he turned to the cabinet set in the side of the room, with
his back to the door, and reached for decanters and glasses, a knock
sounded, and a cheery voice shouted, “O Neil, I say, Neil, I’m coming in.”

“Come in, you infernal rounder, if you must,” was the reply. “Bring them
all in; you are never alone. You and your gang are, without exception,
the most unexcelled set of thoughtless, reveling peace-disturbers I know
of. You fellows have been at this thing for ten years,” continued Neil;
“you know you have, Bob” (still busy with the decanters). “Don’t you
ever intend letting up? Why don’t you fellows say something? This is no
monologue.”

By this time Richards had succeeded in extricating the troublesome
decanters from the mass of bottles and glasses, and, turning around,
faced the door. To his amazement, instead of the crowd of merry faces he
had expected to see peering in at him, he saw only two. One was that of
Bob Cutting, his chum, and the other—was that—of Miss Dorcas Howland!
The door was wide open. She stood a little in front. Cutting was in the
doorway. The gleam from the dying coals and the ruddy reflection from a
lamp with a big red shade over in the corner brought out every detail of
her face and figure.

And Neil stood, with a decanter in each hand, coatless, and mussed, and
speechless. The silence did not last long, however. Miss Howland smiled,
bowed sweetly to Neil, and stepped into the room. “Good-evening, Mr.
Richards,” she said, and held out her hand. Neil managed, in a dazed sort
of a way, to set down the decanter that was in his right hand without
breaking it, and accepted the proffered hand. Bob Cutting looked on and
smiled. “Too astounded to speak, Mr. Richards,” remarked the young woman.
“Well, an explanation certainly is due you. Then you may not think me so
utterly indiscreet as appearances would seem to warrant. Mr. Cutting,
will you kindly try to put matters straight, and, at the same time,
assure Mr. Richards that we are his guests? His accent, as I recollect
it, is a pleasing one. For ‘this is no monologue,’ you know,” and she
smiled pleasantly at Neil.

“Yes,” broke in Cutting, as Miss Howland paused, “you see, Neil, it’s
like this. It does look funny, I admit; but I was walking home with
Dorcas—er—Miss Howland, from some working girls’ club she engineers, and
we were chatting about picturesque bachelor apartments, or, rather, I was
describing some of them to her that I know the best, and I struck yours.
I think I must have grown very eloquent in my description, for Miss
Howland insisted that she must see these famous apartments, of which,
by the way, all the girls have heard. Knowing it would be all right, as
far as you were concerned, I proposed we come over to-night and make you
a call, though”—as he looked ruefully around the room—“I really didn’t
think she’d come.”

Neil, during the recital, had quite recovered himself, and privately
decided that if a man and a girl were willing to take the social risk
he surely could meet them half way. So he calmly placed the other
decanter on a table, and, turning to them, remarked, “I am very glad to
see you. This is a little bit out of the ordinary, but the unexpected
is quite often the pleasantest. Won’t you sit down, Miss Howland? I am
extremely sorry that your visit to my den couldn’t have been made under
more favorable circumstances; at one of my little teas, for instance.
Under other than the present circumstances I should feel that an apology
was due you for my personal appearance. I am quite aware that I have no
coat on, that my hair is mussed, and that I have a general and virulent
attack of the malady bachelor-at-homeness. However, I shan’t apologize.”
And then the democratic Neil pulled up two big armchairs, and, having
seen his guests cosily seated before the replenished fire, calmly and
coatlessly resumed his place on the hearth-rug beside the General. Miss
Howland looked surprised, but said nothing. Then she reached over and
patted the silky head of the dog. He took the caress in a dignified sort
of way, but nestled closer, if possible, to Richards. “What a handsome
fellow,” she softly said; “and how much he thinks of his master,” she
added to herself.

The three chatted away together about bachelor dens, people, and other
generalities for some time, when suddenly Miss Howland rose and, turning
to Cutting, said: “I wonder if you’d mind granting me one more favor. I
wish to have a little talk with Mr. Richards—alone.” She paused a moment.
“I know it’s unconventional, but the rest of this is, also, and I know
you won’t take it amiss, will you?”

“Not at all,” Cutting answered. “Suppose I manipulate the ivories while
you have your talk. Don’t feel that it must be abbreviated on my account;
but when you get through, why, do as they do in the plays, ring for me,
and, like the footman, I’ll appear. Is it feasible?”

“Quite so, thank you,” answered the girl; “it’s so good of you.” And,
with a pipe in one hand and a tobacco jar in the other, Bob vanished
through the portières; and a moment later the click of billiard balls
announced that he had found occupation.

The girl turned to Richards. He had risen with Cutting and had now
donned a Japanese smoking-jacket, in which, somehow, he felt better
equipped for his strange tête-à-tête. As his eyes sought hers she looked
him frankly in the face, and simply asked: “Mr. Richards, what do you
think of me?” Richards was silent for a moment, and then, with his eyes
on the dog at his feet, said: “Shall I tell you frankly?”

“Yes, please do,” answered the girl.

He looked up. “I think you have lots of courage, are a bit injudicious,
and, of course, did not come here without reasons.”

She smiled. “You are frank, but don’t you think it rude to assume the
role of inquisitor in your first remark?”

“But you asked me, didn’t you?” he gently replied.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.

She stood absently looking down at shaggy General sleeping peacefully
on the hearth-rug. Richards watched her a minute, and then, stepping
forward, said softly, “Please sit down, Miss Howland, and then you can
tell me as much as you wish.”

A grateful look flashed into her face, as she took the big chair he
offered her, and sank into it a little wearily. Leaning back, she
scrutinized the well-cut, thoughtful face of the man. He had taken his
place beside the dog again, and as he sat staring at the coals in the
flickering firelight he seemed even handsomer than ever.

She looked at him a moment, and, without moving, said: “Mr. Richards,
I’ve come here to-night on a queer mission. I wish advice. I wish to
tell you something about myself, and then I want you to advise me as to
what you think I ought to do. I have come to you under circumstances
peculiar, to say the least, for these reasons: First, because what I have
seen of you has led me to think you honest, frank, and sincere; second,
because your friends assure me I am right. This has led me to believe
you will be willing to overlook what might be construed as unwomanly,
and, in addition, will be willing to help me in trouble. Am I right?” she
hesitatingly asked.

“Yes, Miss Howland, you are,” he replied; “people who know anything about
you could not misinterpret your actions. Don’t think circumstances affect
me; but just tell me plainly what I can do for you.”

“I thought you would take it so,” she said in a tone of relief. “And
now I’ll tell you what I wish to, and pray don’t regard it as a girl’s
whim,—as a peculiar girl’s whim,—but simply try to assume the role of a
willing listener and an impartial adviser. You see,” she continued, “I
have no one to go to. I am alone in the world. My parents are both dead,
and I live with an elderly aunt, who is as good to me as any one could
be, but with whom I have absolutely nothing in common.”

The girl smiled thoughtfully. “She likes her tea and cat, her Goldsmith
and Thackeray, early hours, and to be left alone. I am different. She is
sixty-eight, and that’s the reason, I presume. Besides, she was never
married. And now, Mr. Richards, I have come to the place where I hardly
know what to say. It’s about my marrying. A funny thing to consult you
about, isn’t it? You see, ever since I was a child it has been taken
for granted that when I grew up I should marry a certain individual. My
parents both seemed to consider it a settled matter, my aunt the same;
and I suppose, as a child, I followed the general example. That man was
Bob Cutting. We played together as children, living in adjacent houses,
and virtually grew up together. I remember we used to have mock marriage
ceremonies, at which he and I always figured as the principals, with some
other youngster as the clergyman, and we always looked forward to the
time when as ‘grown ups’ our marriage might be made ‘real.’ So matters
drifted along. The children’s play stopped a good many years ago; but Bob
has kept coming to see me just the same.

“And now—well, he wishes to carry out in earnest what was begun in play.
A few nights ago he asked me to be his wife.”

The girl leaned forward, and absently smoothed the General’s head, as he
lay there watching the coals. Presently she said:—

“Mr. Richards, then, and not till then, did I find I did not love him.
But,” she added, “I did not tell him so. I said only: ‘We’ve been friends
since we were children. Come to me next Sunday night, and I will give you
my answer.’”

For a moment she sat without speaking; then she concluded: “Mr. Richards,
you are Bob Cutting’s dearest friend. He hasn’t but one friend like you.
No man has; no man can have; no man wishes more. I come to you and ask
you, who know him so well, what shall I do? Shall I tell him Sunday night
that I’ll marry him, or shall I say ‘no’? Is it selfish in a girl placed
as I am to think of her own future, or ought I to give it up to him? He
has been good to me; so good to me; I like him, but I do not love him.”

And then she leaned wearily back in her chair, and fixed her eyes on
Richards. He did not look up. He did not seem to realize her presence.
She watched him, and he watched the red embers glow, crumble, and fade
into ashes. The dog whined in his sleep. Then, finally, Richards raised
his head, and quietly said:—

“Miss Howland, I think it would be very wrong for you to marry Bob. As
you say, I know him well. He is a fellow with such a wealth of love
for those he cares for that if he finds it is not reciprocated he is
miserable. Think what a lifetime of it would mean to him. And now, you
see, in what I’ve said so far I’ve considered only Bob. I think you also
ought to consider yourself. Two lives are involved; and why should they
both be ruined? You are both young. If I were you I should tell Bob,
in the kindest possible way, that I did not love him. He will grieve
at first, but I think when he finds out you were not for him he will
see that it’s for the best, and afterward will thank you. And, as for
yourself, Miss Howland, when you’ve done this, you can say, ‘I’ve done
my duty; I’ve done right.’ And some day”—the man hesitated—“and some day
perhaps some other good man will come along, and ask you to marry him,
and perhaps you’ll find you care a great deal for him; and the past, with
its Bob, and its trouble,” and again he hesitated, “and its visit to
Richards and the General will be a ghostly vision, which happiness and
sunshine will soon wipe away.”

At this point he was interrupted suddenly by the General, who, as though
scenting some vague trouble, started up with a sleepy “Wuff!”

The sound relieved the tension of the situation. Both laughed, and Miss
Howland, rising, reached out her hand to Richards, who now stood facing
her. “Thank you,” she said cordially. “You’ve been very good. You’ll
return my visit some time, won’t you? And now, suppose we ‘ring the
bell’ for Bob,” nodding towards an Oriental gong that hung suspended near
the mantel.

Richards took her hand and, holding it a moment, said quietly: “I
thank you; I will come. But, before you go, I want to ask you just one
question. Don’t answer it unless you wish to. You told me that you don’t
love Bob; is it—is it because there’s some one else?”

They say that a man’s life, and hopes, and ambitions can be snuffed out
by a woman’s reply. And they also say that a man’s future can be made all
sunshine and promise if hope can only enter in. And that sometimes comes
from a woman’s reply, also.

She waited a moment, and then replied firmly:

“No; there’s no one else.”

A moment later Cutting joined them in response to Richards’ summons.
As he stood before the fire, pulling on his gloves, he looked at each
good-humoredly, and said: “I’m awfully glad that you have become
better acquainted; but I hope you haven’t been engaged in the pleasing
occupation of damning a mutual friend. I see you’ve made friends with
General, also, Miss Howland,” he concluded. For the dog stood beside the
girl, watching and waiting for a caress.

“Yes,” she replied; “General and I are the best of friends,” and she
leaned over and softly patted the handsome head. “And General’s master
and I are going to be, too, are we not, Mr. Richards?”

“Yes, we are going to be—that is, I hope so,” Richards said slowly.

The next moment the door closed, and she was gone. And Richards picked up
a pipe, and lit it, and, turning to the dog, thoughtfully remarked:

“And so endeth the first lesson.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course it’s obvious. Love does not need to be diagramed. And, of
course, a year later, when the big brownstone had its awning, and its
carpeted steps, and its music, and its flowers, all was quite as it
should be. And of course their friends heard the Mendelssohn march, and
threw rice, and wished them joy. And Bob Cutting was best man? Of course
not. And did the Mother Grundies shrug their white shoulders, and say:
“What a beautiful bride! but I wonder how she could have done it; they
say she was engaged to another?” Of course they did. And that is love,
and about the way it generally turns out. Of course.

[Illustration]




The Marchburn Mystery.

BY A. MAURICE LOW.


As Walter Brixton, chief of United States secret service agents in New
York City, stepped off the Washington Limited in the Jersey City depot,
the newsboys were calling, “Extra, extra, all about the murder; extra!”
Brixton bought a paper. As he settled himself in the “L” car he read,
under flaming head-lines, the following account, written in the short,
paragraphic style which usually denotes that “copy” has been prepared in
a newspaper office in a rush:

“Shortly after six o’clock this evening, Bridget Martin, one of the
cleaners employed in the Empire Building, discovered the dead body of
Lawrence Marchburn in his private office.

“The screams of the frightened woman brought to her assistance the
janitor and some of the tenants, although nearly all of them had left the
building for the day.

“A hasty examination showed that Mr. Marchburn had been shot.

“When found he was sitting at his desk, his head dropped forward and
resting on his left arm, his hand clutching the receiver of the telephone
with the death grip. This would seem to indicate that Mr. Marchburn had
been shot in the very act of using the telephone, which was affixed to
his desk. The body was still warm, but life was quite extinct.

“The murder must have been committed within an hour of the time of
discovery.

“A small wound just above the heart indicated that death had probably
been instantaneous.

“The police were immediately notified, and an officer appeared upon the
scene. He questioned the janitor and his assistants, but learned nothing
additional to the above facts. A search was made for the pistol, but it
could not be found, which proves conclusively that it is a case of murder
and not suicide.

“None of the persons had heard the sound of a pistol shot, but the woman,
Martin, said she heard shortly after five o’clock what sounded like the
violent slamming of a door. At that time she was on the seventh floor,
and paid no attention to the noise. Mr. Marchburn’s office was on the
eleventh floor.

“At this time the police have not the slightest clue on which to proceed.
At the central telephone station no one remembers having been asked to
connect 1611 Courtland, which was Marchburn’s number. As no record is
kept of the thousands of daily calls, the telephone office can throw
no light on the murder. There is no known motive for the crime, as Mr.
Marchburn was not supposed to have an enemy, and was highly respected in
business and social circles. The inquest to-morrow is expected to throw
some light upon the awful crime.

“Mr. Marchburn was president of the International Bank Note and Engraving
Company, whose offices are on the eleventh story of the Empire Building,
their factory being in New Jersey.

“He came to New York about five years ago from the West, and started the
Bank Note Company, which has been remarkably successful. He was a member
of the Central League, the Cosmopolitan, and the Hudson Bay Clubs.

“Deceased was a director in the Seventeenth National Bank and other
financial institutions, and was a member of the Jackson Avenue
Presbyterian Church. He leaves a daughter, his only child, and, his wife
having died several years ago, the sole heir to his vast wealth, which is
estimated at millions.”

Like all detectives, Brixton was interested in any story of crime; but
just now a case of his own engrossed the larger part of his attention.
For some months past the country had been flooded with counterfeit notes,
and, although the entire secret service force and the police of all the
leading cities had been hunting the counterfeiters, they had made little
progress. The bills were so nearly perfect, they so closely copied the
genuine article, both as to the work of the engraver and the paper upon
which they were printed, that only an expert was able to discriminate
between them. People began to be thoroughly alarmed. Many got rid of
their paper money as quickly as possible, and exchanged it for gold and
silver so as to avoid risk. The newspapers denounced the Secretary of the
Treasury for not being able to capture the criminals.

The newspapers next morning contained long accounts of the murder of Mr.
Marchburn; but they were able to add little to the reports printed in the
extras of the evening before. The murder of a wealthy business man in
practically broad daylight, in a building on one of the most frequented
streets of the city, caused a tremendous sensation, and in business
circles the tragedy was more eagerly discussed than the course of the
market. The coroner’s inquest brought out these facts:

Mr. Marchburn had spent the day at the factory, and returned to his
office about five o’clock. The clerks had not expected him back that
evening, and some of them had left. To his chief clerk he said he had
stopped in on his way up town to fetch some papers which he wanted to
look over at his house, and that while in the office he would write some
personal letters. No one need wait for him, as he would latch the outer
door after him. Then Mr. Marchburn threw open his desk, the chief clerk
wished him good-evening, and in a few minutes, except for the president,
the offices appeared to be vacant.

It was explained to the jury that the company occupied five rooms, all of
which opened into the main corridor. Mr. Marchburn’s private room was at
the extreme end of the suite. The company employed seven clerks, two of
them girls. One of the girls and Mr. Marchburn’s private secretary had
left before the return of that gentleman, and the other clerks testified
that no stranger was in any of the rooms when they left. The last persons
to leave were John Rogers, the chief clerk, and the cashier, William
Harding. Rogers swore that while he was waiting for Harding to close the
safe Mr. Marchburn came into the general office from his room, and asked
if a certain account had been paid. Both men were positive that nobody
could have been secreted in the rooms at that time, and at the close
of the short conversation Mr. Marchburn again said “Good-night,” and
returned to his room. Rogers put down the spring latch and tried the door
from the outside. It was safely locked. They walked across the hall to
the elevator, and while waiting for the car met the janitor, who inquired
if the offices were empty. Rogers told him that Mr. Marchburn was in his
room and would be busy for a short time.

The janitor told a straight enough story. After leaving Rogers and
Harding he had worked on the other side of the building, and then went
to the first floor. He was on the third story at the time when Bridget
Martin’s screams alarmed him, and he hastily ran to the elevator and
told the conductor to take him upstairs. At that time he did not know
whence the outcry proceeded, but as the elevator went rushing up some one
shouted that Mr. Marchburn had been hurt. When he reached the eleventh
story and entered the company’s rooms he found the Martin woman and
three or four other persons, tenants of the building. His evidence as to
the finding of the body was merely corroborative of that of the other
witnesses.

There are four elevators in the Empire Building. The conductor of No. 4
elevator, Richard Wright, testified as follows: “I have been employed
only two days at the Empire Building. It is the rule to close down two
of the elevators at half past five; at six o’clock the third is closed,
and the other half an hour later. I am ‘late man’ this week. Just as six
o’clock was striking and elevator No. 3 was making its last downward
trip, the annunciator in my car dropped for the tenth story. I ran my car
up and took in a young man. I do not remember to have seen him before. He
stepped into the car, and as I pulled the rope to go down I noticed that
he had a handkerchief wrapped round his right hand and he was holding it
with his left, as though it hurt him. I said to him: ‘Have you hurt your
hand?’ He replied: ‘Yes, I squeezed it in the door.’

“I looked at his hand again and noticed that there was blood upon the
handkerchief, and I said: ‘It’s bleeding.’ The young fellow looked
dreadfully scared, and I thought he was going to drop, but he said
something I couldn’t hear, and as soon as the car stopped he walked away
quickly.”

This testimony produced a profound sensation, and every eye was turned
upon Wright.

“Why did you not mention this circumstance to the police last night?”
asked the coroner.

Wright shifted about uneasily and said: “When I heard the screams
upstairs and was told that Mr. Marchburn had been murdered I was scared
half out of my life and clean forgot all about it until I got home. It
was then too late to tell any one, and I thought I would wait until I
came here.”

“Can you describe this man?” asked a juror.

“He was a young fellow; I should think about twenty-four. I didn’t notice
his face particularly, except when I told him his hand was bloody, and
then I saw how white he looked. I never should have thought much of it if
it hadn’t been for the murder.”

“How was he dressed?”

“He had on a brown overcoat; but I don’t remember anything else.”

That was all the light Wright could throw upon the affair. Coroner and
jurymen plied him with questions; but he could tell them nothing. He did
not know the color of the man’s eyes, whether he wore a beard, what kind
of hat he wore; in fact, he could furnish nothing which would serve as an
identification. He thought he might know the man if he were to see him
again; but he was not absolutely sure as to that. There was no reason to
think that Wright was not telling the truth, and it was almost impossible
that he could have committed the murder, but the jury, in rendering their
verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown, censured
Wright for having remained silent for more than twelve hours, and the
coroner privately suggested to the police that they keep an eye upon
Wright.

As soon as the verdict had been rendered, Detective Sergeants Johnson
and Richardson, who had been detailed by Superintendent of Police Walton
to attend the inquest, reported to him for further instructions. They
briefly repeated the testimony and especially the startling evidence of
Wright. When they had finished the chief said:

“What do you make of it?”

“The man in the brown overcoat is the murderer,” said Johnson.

“The man in the brown overcoat had nothing to do with it; but Wright
knows a great deal more than he has told,” was Richardson’s analysis.

Walton looked out of the window a couple of minutes without speaking.
“The person who committed the murder,” he said, as if he were talking to
himself more than to his listeners, and without looking at either, “was
expected to call at the office that evening by Marchburn, who came back
about the time the clerks were preparing to leave, on purpose to keep his
appointment. All the doors were locked. Either the visitor must have had
a duplicate key, or else Marchburn left one of the doors open, or they
had a private signal. Any one of a dozen persons might have been able to
open the door with a duplicate key; but I don’t see anything to point in
that direction. Marchburn would hardly be likely to leave the door open
for his expected visitor, so it is evident the doors were kept locked,
and when the prearranged signal was given Marchburn opened the door to
his murderer. Who was the murderer and what was the motive? It was not
money, because no valuables were taken, and the clerks say that neither
papers nor anything else were disturbed. The murder was either the result
of a sudden burst of passion, or else it was premeditated, and something
forced the murderer to do then what had long been contemplated. There was
a very strong motive. Find the motive and you find the—”

“The murderer,” interrupted Richardson.

“The murderess,” continued the chief as calmly as if he had not heard the
interruption.

“A woman?” cried his listeners simultaneously.

“Certainly, a woman; it is a woman’s crime. From the time when Rogers
and Harding left until the discovery of the body was a scant hour. To
avoid all possible risks of interruption, Marchburn did not arrange the
interview until after five, so that between that hour and six he was
shot. At six he was dead, and the doctor testified he must have been
dead between fifteen and thirty minutes when he was called in. So that
fixes the time of the shooting between half past five and six. Marchburn
expected a woman to call upon him that night, because he would not have
made such careful preparations for secrecy if his visitor had been a
man. He did not want his clerks to see his caller. The time between her
calling and the shooting was too short for them to have quarreled; but it
was long enough for her to have made her demand and to have been refused
by Marchburn. Then she shot him.”

“But the young man in the brown overcoat?” asked Johnson.

“If the coroner had the slightest sense,” sneered the chief, “he would
have asked Wright if the ‘young man’ looked as if ‘he’ were disguised,
and Wright’s answer would have shown whether he is merely a thick-skulled
idiot or whether he has a hand in this affair. But I’m glad the question
was not asked, as the woman will think her disguise has shielded her. But
Wright has given himself away by his answers. He says ‘the young man’ had
a handkerchief wrapped around his right hand, and was holding it with his
left, as if it hurt him. Isn’t that a woman’s attitude? A man would have
shoved his hand in his pocket and held it there—at any rate, until he was
in the street, where no one would have noticed it or paid any attention
to him. But the woman doesn’t know how to use her pockets; her hand hurts
her, and she holds it out in full view, instead of hiding it, as a man
would have done. I’ll stake my reputation that the young man in the brown
overcoat is a woman, and that the woman is the murderer of Mr. Marchburn.”

The superintendent rapidly outlined his plans. “I want you,” he said
to Richardson, “to look up Marchburn’s past record in the West. Look
for the woman there, or for the chapter in his life in which the woman
figures. It’s there, although it may be difficult to find. Johnson, you
look up his record from the time he came to New York to the day of his
death. See if there is any woman entanglement here. Keep your eye upon
Wright. I can’t quite size that man up. Look for the brown overcoat. Now,
Richardson, you’d better start right in, and wire me just as soon as you
strike anything.”

In a few moments Johnson went back. “There is one thing I don’t
understand,” he said. “Why did the woman get in the elevator at the tenth
instead of the eleventh story?”

“Easy enough to explain, and another indication that we are dealing with
a woman and not a man. When she left the office her natural impulse was
to walk down the stairs, to avoid meeting any one, instead of courting
observation, as a man would have done under the circumstances. She
walked down one flight; she heard the cleaners moving about and dreaded
meeting them, and rang for the elevator as being less dangerous. Remember
we are dealing with a woman of no ordinary caliber,—one who is not a
seasoned criminal, and who thinks quickly.”

From Johnson’s report next morning the superintendent learned that
Marchburn had moved to New York from the West five years before his
murder; that his only child, Lucille, was twenty years old; that father
and daughter were very much attached to one another. Marchburn’s tastes
were all domestic; he seldom stayed out late at night, unless in company
with his daughter; he was a regular church attendant, and contributed
liberally to its support and to charities. His business was extremely
profitable, his fortune being considered very large.

Walton read the report through and felt annoyed. It was not what he
wanted. He felt that he was right in charging a woman with the crime; but
how was he to find a woman who left no traces behind her? Besides, the
papers were growing impatient, clamoring for an arrest, and indulging
in satirical flings at the impotence of the police. Suddenly an idea
occurred to him. “I ought to have thought of that before,” he said to
himself. “Rogers or Harding might know,” and the superintendent, once
more the cold, impassive man of affairs, walked quietly out of his office.

Superintendent Walton went briskly down town, thinking deeply as he
walked, and yet noticing everything that went on around him. As he turned
the corner of Silver Lane his eye fell upon a portly, well-groomed man
who was walking in front of him. Walton was noted for never forgetting a
man or woman he had once known, and there was something about this man
which seemed familiar. Quickening his pace a little, the detective pushed
ahead until he came opposite a money-changer’s window, and appeared to be
intently gazing at the piles of gold and silver; but out of the corner of
one of his eyes he was carefully watching for the man whom he hoped would
soon pass. The superintendent looked up and saw a well-preserved man of
about sixty, with florid complexion and carefully trimmed whiskers. He
looked like any one of hundreds of prosperous business men. Still trying
to fit the face to a name, Walton followed the man into Wall Street,
and as he passed the sub-treasury he saw Brixton coming down the steps.
The sight of the government agent was like a flash in the dark, and the
object he was groping for was instantly made plain. The superintendent
determined to take desperate chances. “By gad,” he muttered, “I’ll risk
it. If he’s the man his voice will give him away.” Quickening his walk,
he stepped up to the man, and, tapping him on the shoulder, said very
quietly:

“I want you, John Marsh.”

With perfect composure he began, “Excuse me, sir, I do not know you—” but
in the first three words his deep voice broke into a theatrical falsetto.

Walton smiled triumphantly. “Perhaps not; but I know you, Marsh,” he
said, with his hand still on the man’s arm.

“This is the second time you have called me by that name. My name is not
Marsh. Pardon me if I say good-morning,” said the other in perfectly
modulated tones, and made a movement as if to continue on his way.

But Walton was not to be shaken off so lightly. “Wait a minute,” he said,
and his voice was as pleasant and his manner as polite as that of the man
whom he was addressing. “Perhaps when I tell you that I am Superintendent
of Police Walton, who was chief of the detective bureau when we last met,
you may remember me.”

“My dear sir, this is incomprehensible. I never had the pleasure of
meeting you before, and, as I have to attend a very important meeting of
the directors of my bank I must beg to be excused. If you really are the
chief of police, I think, instead of wasting your time with reputable
business men, you could better afford to devote a little of your leisure
to finding the murderer of my dear old friend, Lawrence Marchburn.”

“You were acquainted with Mr. Marchburn?”

“Sir, I decline to submit to this impertinence any longer. If you attempt
to stop me further I shall call an officer.”

“I think not,” said Walton, with a smile. “You are going with me to
headquarters, or I will accompany you to your bank; which do you prefer?”

“In two minutes I could show you what a fool you are making of yourself;
but I prefer to teach you a lesson. I submit to this indignity in the
interest of good government.”

“All right, Marsh; I see you are the same old Chesterfield,—just as
smooth as ever. You’ve no objection if we ride, I suppose?” and Walton
hailed a passing cab. As they jogged up town both men remained silent.
Turning a corner, the cab gave a sudden lurch, the superintendent’s hand
in some mysterious manner caught in his prisoner’s whiskers, and they
came away from his face. The two men looked one another squarely in the
eye. Marsh was the first to speak. “You’re a nervy one, superintendent,”
he said. “What do you want me for? I’m living straight.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but I want to have a quiet little talk with you;
besides, I heard you were dead.”

Marsh smiled. The loss of his whiskers showed him to be a man of about
forty, with a firm jaw, a keen blue eye, and a high forehead. “I wish
to God I was dead,” he said. “When a man tries to live straight he gets
snagged and is disgraced.”

The cab drew up at the big building on Mulberry Street, and the
superintendent, pushing his prisoner before him, led the way to his
private room. “Now, Marsh, you say you have been living straight. Prove
it and I’ll release you.”

The man eyed his captor sullenly. “Not till I’ve seen a lawyer,” he said.

Walton touched an electric button. “Lock this man up,” he said to the
officer who appeared. As Marsh was led away the chief pushed another
button. “Bring me,” he said to the messenger, “Convictions, letter M,
’84.”

Hastily turning the pages, Walton read: “Marsh, John, alias Gentleman
John, generally known as Chesterfield, because of his manners and
politeness, born at Sodaville, Mich. All round crook; specialty,
counterfeiting United States notes. One of the most dangerous men in his
line. Convicted of counterfeiting and sentenced to Albany for five years
in 1870; sent to Jackson, Mich., for three years for forgery in 1878;
last conviction, Joliet, counterfeiting, 1884, five years. See page 756.”
Turning to the page indicated, Walton read: “Escaped from Joliet and
committed suicide.”

“So he didn’t commit suicide,” mused the chief. “Well, I always had my
doubts about it. I have an idea he had a hand in this counterfeiting
business, and if that’s so it’s a pretty good morning’s work—almost as
good as finding the Marchburn woman. I had better let Brixton know about
this; it may give him a pointer.”

A clerk brought in a telegram and handed it to the superintendent. Walton
read:

    “SODAVILLE, MICH., Jan. 24.—Can you mail me at once portrait of
    Chesterfield Marsh, escaped Joliet, and committed suicide about
    1884?

                                                       “RICHARDSON.”

“By Jove,” said the superintendent, “that’s curious. I wonder what he’s
struck now. Well, I guess I’ll hang onto Chesterfield for a few days,
anyway.” Then he telephoned to Brixton, who was now working night and day
on the counterfeit money case, which divided public attention with the
Marchburn mystery. To the police these cases had proved two of the most
remarkable criminal problems they had ever been called upon to solve.
Congress had added to the excitement by adopting the recommendation of
the Secretary of the Treasury and offering a reward of fifty thousand
dollars for the arrest and conviction of the counterfeiters.

Brixton came in dejectedly in answer to the summons. To Walton, who was
an old friend, he admitted that he was beaten.

“Brace up, old man,” said Walton; “I’ve got something good for you,” and
he at once told him of the arrest of Marsh and Richardson’s telegram.

A gleam of excitement blazed from the secret service man’s eyes. He
jumped from his chair and paced the room a couple of times before he
could control himself; then, leaning over his friend’s desk, he talked
rapidly. “By jove, Walton, you’ve got our man. There is only one man
in the country who could have done the job, and that’s Marsh. I have
thought about him a dozen times since I’ve been at work on the case, but
always supposed him to be dead. What a confounded idiot I am not to have
investigated that suicide story; yet I never had reason to doubt it.”

Both men felt certain that they were at last hot on the right trail, and
that Marsh was still engaged in his old business of counterfeiting. While
discussing the next move to be made Brixton suddenly said: “What does
Richardson’s telegram mean?”

The words produced a peculiar effect upon Walton, which was reflected in
Brixton’s face. Both men scrutinized each other for a brief space of time
without speaking. It was as if they were grappling with the same thought,
and yet both were afraid to frame in words what was passing through their
minds. It was Walton who at last broke the silence and in a nervous sort
of way said:—

“That is absurd.”

“What is?”

“What you are thinking about.”

It was curious that neither man had openly expressed his thoughts, and
yet each knew what was in the other’s mind just as well as if the words
had been uttered.

“I don’t know about that. Of course it looks ridiculous to commence with,
but not any more so than that West Virginia case.”

“I don’t remember that,” said Walton.

“It was one of my most interesting jobs. For months we had been trying
to break up a gang of counterfeiters working in West Virginia, and had
failed, just as in the present instance. The thing looked pretty bad,
and the merchants of the State were so worked up about the ‘queer’ that
a bill was introduced in the legislature authorizing the governor to
employ private detectives, as the government secret service men had shown
their incompetence. Before the bill was acted upon we arrested some of
the gang, and on the day when the bill came up for action we obtained
conclusive evidence that the member of the legislature who introduced
the bill was the brains of the gang. I went to the capitol and listened
to this man’s speech in support of his measure, and after the bill had
passed I arrested him and found in his pockets some of the money made by
his gang. I sent him over the road.”

“You think, then,” said Walton, “that Marchburn had some connection with
the counterfeiting gang.”

“I do.”

“Did Marsh murder Marchburn?”

“I don’t know about that. I rather think not, because Chesterfield, from
what we know about him, is a coward and not the man to kill; but he
probably knows who did. There’s a connection between the murder and the
counterfeiting, and when we pull the right string both knots will come
untied.”

Walton told his associate of his theory as to the murderer being a woman.

Brixton doubted it. “But it’s of no consequence,” he said. “Whoever fired
the shot was a member of the gang; Marchburn knew him and expected him to
call that evening. When we land our man we shall have the murderer and
the counterfeiter as well.”

How was Marsh to be made to confess? Numerous plans were discussed and
rejected. Finally Brixton made this suggestion: “Make Chesterfield
understand that he is suspected of the murder and that you have the dots
on him. You’ll have to sweat him and put him through the third degree.
Don’t say a word about the counterfeiting. When he’s charged with the
murder, and things begin to look black, he will squeal to save his neck.
He’ll give his pals away dead sure and tell all he knows about the
counterfeiting. I believe the scheme will work.”

Walton agreed with him and proceeded without delay in putting his
prisoner through the sweating process. Early in the morning he had read
the papers in his cell, and a detective who secretly watched him noticed
that he devoured every line printed about the Marchburn murder. Later,
the superintendent had him brought to his office and there subjected
him to a rigorous cross-examination, and no man knew better than he how
to worm the truth out of a criminal. But in Marsh he found more than a
match. He either dodged every question or else declined to answer, and
neither threats nor promises elicited anything of importance. For more
than an hour the man submitted to being worried by his inquisitor, when
at last he said:

“Chief, what are you trying to make against me?”

Walton had not taxed him with the murder, as he hoped his prisoner would
make some incautious admission which would tell him what he wanted to
find out. But Marsh’s question seemed to have made the time ripe for the
great stroke. Looking him steadily in the eye, the chief said: “For the
murder of Lawrence Marchburn.”

The prisoner gave a short, nervous laugh. “You’re clean off,” he said. “I
didn’t murder him and I had nothing to do with it; but I know the man who
did.”

Walton had counted upon his declaration producing a confession, or at
least some signs of weakness, but this answer astounded him.

The man never flinched. “It’s God’s truth. I can tell you who committed
the murder,” he repeated.

“Very well; who did it?”

But Marsh was too old a bird to be caught with chaff. “What do I get if I
tell?” he asked.

“I think they would like to have you back in Joliet,” the chief answered,
“and that means five years to commence with. If you give me the name of
the man, and it is proven that you had nothing to do with the murder, I
will see that you are not troubled.”

Marsh appeared to be thinking deeply. “Shall I have to appear as a
witness?” he asked.

“Not unless it is necessary; I won’t put you on the stand if I can make
the case without you.”

“Will you release me as soon as you are satisfied you have the right man?”

“Yes.”

“Then arrest Frank Richald, who was Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer. He’s
your man.”

“How do you know?”

“I won’t tell; but see if I am not right.”

Walton ordered Marsh back to his cell, somewhat puzzled by the result of
the interview. He did not believe all that Marsh had told him; but the
mention of Richald’s name indicated that he was getting down to the man’s
confederates. There was only one thing to do. The superintendent ordered
Johnson to arrest Richald. He took his arrest quietly. Brought before
Walton, he said, without waiting to be questioned: “I am innocent; but
circumstances are against me.”

With a quick, sudden movement, Walton seized hold of the corner of the
skirt of Richald’s brown overcoat and intently examined a dark spot on
the front. “Marchburn’s blood,” he said tersely.

“I know it,” was all the prisoner said.

“Why did you murder him?” asked Walton.

“I did not murder him,” he said firmly. “When I reached the office on
the night of the murder Mr. Marchburn was lying dead on his desk. I was
stunned and horrified. I know now I should have given the alarm; but
there were so many strange things in connection with my being there at
that hour that I foolishly imagined my safety lay in flight. Some of Mr.
Marchburn’s blood was on my hand, and I bound my handkerchief around it
to escape observation. To avoid meeting any one I started to walk down
the stairs; then I was afraid the janitor might see me and think it
strange I was walking, so I called the elevator on the floor below our
office and rode down.”

“What brought you back to the office that evening?” Walton asked.

“That I cannot tell you.”

Walton ordered the young man to a cell.

Next day the papers told of the arrest. They also added something about
the man who stood charged with the crime. Richald was the son of a once
former wealthy New York merchant, whom every one respected. At his death
it was found that his estate was badly involved, and all that was left
to his widow and his two children was a small estate. On the interest of
this Mrs. Richald lived, her son contributing generously of his wages to
her support. Two years before the murder Frank had secured a position
with the Bank Note Company as Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer.

Walton now bent all his energies to securing a fuller confession from
his prisoner, to ascertaining what had become of the pistol, and the
motive for the crime. His best men were set to work raking over nearly
every hour of Richald’s past life. Meanwhile, at the earnest request
of Brixton, Walton had decided to hold onto Marsh. Walton was pretty
well convinced that, while Marsh did not commit the murder, he had some
connection with it, and was not going to let that elusive individual get
out of his clutches so long as there was a possibility of proving it.
Brixton, on his side, was certain that Marsh was in some way implicated
in the counterfeiting, and proposed to keep his eye upon him until he
could charge him with the crime or bring it home to some one else. The
capture of Marsh seemed like a lucky find.

On the morning of the second day after Richald’s appearance in court
a carriage drew up in front of the police headquarters, from which a
stately looking elderly gentleman and a tall young woman alighted. The
gentleman asked to see the superintendent. Walton did not need to look at
the card to know his caller, Phineas Yarrow, one of the noted lawyers of
the city.

The woman was dressed all in black, and was so slight that she seemed
unusually tall when standing alone. She remained closely veiled.

“This young lady is a friend of Mr. Richald’s,” said the lawyer. “She is
very anxious to speak with the prisoner. I am willing to vouch for all
she says or does.”

Walton shot a keen glance at the girl. “This is rather unusual,” he said;
“but I will accede to your request, provided, of course, the interview
takes place in my presence.”

Shortly afterward Richald entered the room, and as he caught sight of the
girl he trembled and appeared dazed. For a moment she hesitated, then,
with a cry which touched the hearts of the older men, she rapidly crossed
the room, threw her arms about the young man’s neck, and kissed him
passionately.

Whether they were sweetheart and lover, husband and wife, or brother and
sister, Walton had no means for knowing; but that the girl played an
important part in the case he felt certain. Hurriedly writing a line, he
handed it to an officer, and from that time Frank Richald’s visitor was
under the shadow of the law.

For several minutes the prisoner and his visitor conversed in anxious
whispers; then, going to the lawyer, the young woman said: “After you
have shown me to the carriage Mr. Richald has something important to say
to you. He will tell you everything.”

“Now tell me all,” said the lawyer, seating himself by the side of
Richald. In eager whispers he told his story. When he had finished the
old lawyer paced up and down the room, showing that he was laboring under
intense excitement. Stopping suddenly, he said: “You must repeat this to
the superintendent, here and now.”

Without hesitating, Richald in a firm voice commenced his recital—Yarrow
an excited listener, and the superintendent coolly indifferent; but
Richald had spoken for only a few moments when Walton’s studied
indifference gave way and he was soon closely following every word. When
the young man had finished the superintendent leaned across his desk,
and, clasping his hand, said, “I believe you.”

“But there is no time to be lost,” he continued. Pushing several of the
electric buttons on his desk, he gave his orders to the officers who
appeared. Then, turning, he said, “Mr. Yarrow, will you come back at six
o’clock this evening? And, Mr. Richald, I shall still have to subject you
to my hospitality.”

That evening the lawyer once more entered the superintendent’s room. He
found Walton and Richald busily engaged in conversation, and with them
was Brixton. “Now we will get to business,” said the superintendent,
seating himself at his desk.

Into this company Marsh was called. “In the first place,” said the
superintendent, “it may be well to explain that Lawrence Marchburn and
the prisoner were brothers.” Turning to Marsh, he said, “Now tell us your
story.”

“You know all about me, superintendent,” the man commenced, and his eyes
were fixed upon Walton, as if he alone were present, “and that I have
always been a counterfeiter and a crook. I went crooked very young. My
father was a man of considerable means, and my brother Lawrence, who
was always of a jealous and grasping disposition, worked upon him so
that he refused to have anything to do with me. When he died he left all
his money to Lawrence and cut me off without a penny. When I escaped
from Joliet I determined to make a last appeal to my brother for help.
I reached his house late one night and he received me in his library.
At first he told me never to enter his house again, but during our
conversation he changed his mind, and after he had given me food he said:

“‘Jack, they tell me you are one of the cleverest counterfeiters in the
country.’

“I answered that I believed I had that unenviable reputation.

“‘Then here’s a scheme. I’m in a pretty tight hole. I have lost a good
deal of money lately in speculation, and I have used some belonging to
an estate. I am going to start a factory to make counterfeits. I shall
have an office in New York and a factory in New Jersey, where we can work
undisturbed and everything will look straight. I have money enough to
start the factory and buy all the machinery. After a year we can retire
with two fortunes and become respectable. If you have any scruples of
conscience I’ll pay your fare back to Joliet.’

“Of course I consented. There was nothing else I could do.

“I fell in love with and married the daughter of my landlady, and when
the baby came she was the happiest woman in the world, and I—” Marsh
passed his hand across his face and there was a catch in his voice which
showed the struggle he was making to remain calm.

“Well, I was determined to quit the whole business and live straight. I
told this to Lawrence, and that I wanted my share of the money he was
keeping for me. We had a dispute, but settled it by my agreeing to remain
another six months.

“Just before the time was up he went to my wife and told her I was an
escaped convict, but that he was trying to get things fixed so I need
not fear arrest. He warned her not to allow me to go away, as that
would be dangerous. She told me all. Then I resolved to end the matter
at once. When he next came to the factory he told me that Richald, his
stenographer, had discovered what we were doing, and would give the snap
away. He said something must be done to close Richald’s mouth until he
could close up the factory and clear out. He pretended to be fully as
frightened as I was, and I was badly scared, for I did not at last want
to be lagged. So I agreed to do whatever he thought best.

“He sent for me to come to New York. It had been arranged that I should
go to his office, knock three times on the door, and if the clerks were
all gone my brother would open it. After he had done so, he said, in the
most cold-blooded way, that Richald would be there in a quarter of an
hour; that we must get him to go to the factory, and on the way there, in
a lonely spot, shoot him. He would make it appear that Richald had stolen
some bonds, and when his body was found it would look like suicide. I
told him that, whatever had been my past life, _I_ would not commit
murder. He cursed me for a coward, and said he would have me sent back to
jail. I defied and left him.”

“Now,” said the superintendent, turning to Richald, “will you tell your
story?”

“Two years ago,” began Richald, who was trembling with excitement, caused
by Marsh’s recital, “I was engaged as stenographer by Mr. Marchburn, and
shortly after became engaged to his daughter, the young lady who was
here to-day. A few months ago we were secretly married, and about that
time I accidentally overheard a conversation between Mr. Marchburn and
his brother, which put me in possession of the colossal plot to swindle
the government. I was in doubt as to my duty in the matter, but finally
concluded to tell Mr. Marchburn what I knew. He declared that Marsh was
the real head of the conspiracy, but, owing to circumstances, he had
been unable to extricate himself from his clutches; he would, however,
close up the factory as soon as possible. On the day of the murder Mr.
Marchburn made an appointment for me at his office. Before leaving
for New Jersey he handed me a package which he said contained several
thousand dollars in negotiable securities, which he intended to have
taken to his bank, but had forgotten to do so, and requested that I bring
it back to the office later.

“I was a few minutes late in keeping my appointment, and when I entered
Mr. Marchburn’s room I found him dead. It flashed across my mind that
I might be accused of the murder; that it would be difficult for me
to account for the securities, and in explaining my presence in the
office I should have to reveal the conspiracy, which, for the sake of
Mr. Marchburn’s daughter, I was reluctant to do. Yielding to a sudden
impulse, I left the office, without raising an alarm. And—”

Just then an electric bell rang and the superintendent put his ear to
a tube that hung above his chair. As he listened his face flushed. He
looked up and, with an accent of conviction that caused Marsh to move
uneasily in his chair, exclaimed: “Gentlemen, at last the missing link is
at hand!”

The next moment the door was thrown open and an officer ushered in
a middle-aged man with a traveling-bag in his hand. Stooping over
the superintendent’s chair, the officer engaged him in a whispered
conversation. As he proceeded, a look of triumph shone in the
superintendent’s eyes. Swinging around suddenly in his chair toward
Marsh, he asked abruptly: “Marsh, did you ever see this man before?” For
several moments the prisoner, with eager curiosity, eyed the new-comer
from head to foot. Then, turning to the superintendent, he said, with
attempted composure, but with that tell-tale falsetto break in his voice,
“No, I never saw him—”

“That’s the man!” cried the stranger, advancing and pointing excitedly to
the prisoner. “I could tell his voice among a million.” Then, turning to
Walton, he continued breathlessly, “Mr. Superintendent, on the evening
of the murder I was in my insurance office in Temple Court. I had just
been called to the bedside of my sick wife in Florida and rang up the
sleeping-car office in Jersey City to engage a berth. I couldn’t get
the connection, as the wires were crossed. I rang again and again, but,
instead of getting a reply from the central office, I heard a violent
quarrel going on between two men. One of them threatened to call the
police, and the other shouted, ‘If you do that I’ll shoot you.’ Indeed,
I did hear what sounded like the muffled report of a pistol. At that
moment I was connected by the central office, and thought no more of the
matter until I was seated in the cars an hour later. Then, in recalling
the affair, it occurred to me that possibly I had overheard a scrap of
a theatrical rehearsal, because the voice of the man who threatened to
shoot had a stagy sort of falsetto break in it. And it wasn’t until I was
overtaken three days ago by New York papers containing full accounts of
the Marchburn murder that I knew that I held the clue to the mystery. An
hour later I was on the way to New York and came directly here from the
train.

“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, pausing impressively and pointing to the
cowering figure of the prisoner, “that is the man whose voice I heard
over the telephone. I heard him speak. I heard him threaten. I heard him
rush across the floor. I heard him fire the fatal shot. It was he who
murdered Lawrence Marchburn!”

Four months later the jury gave the same verdict.

[Illustration]




Their Colonial Villa.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

The right to dramatize is reserved by the author.


“It is very inconvenient to be obliged to live in one place all the time.
If we had two houses, we could spend part of the time in one and part of
the time in the other.”

Young Mrs. Arburton was one of those fortunate brides who are able to set
up housekeeping immediately on the return from the wedding journey. Young
Mr. Arburton thought it best to build or buy a small house and to furnish
and occupy it as soon as possible.

“Of course, my love, I see how important it is that the house should be
close down by the river bank near your office, so that you can come home
to lunch, and I do so enjoy seeing the steamboats pass on the river.”

“Good idea. I must be handy to business.”

“And at the same time, you must see, John, that I’ve always lived at the
court end of the town, on the bluff overlooking the river and near the
shops and the homes of the best people. That’s why I think it would be so
nice if we could have two houses, one down by the river near your office,
and one in town, on the Heights and near the churches and all the nice
people. We could live every other week in each house.”

They were staying at her mother’s on the Heights, pending the purchase or
erection of the new house. Mrs. Arburton had advanced this happy thought
of having two homes at the breakfast table. The idea pleased her mother
greatly, and she remarked to her son-in-law that, in her opinion, it was
an excellent arrangement. She would gladly live in the uptown house and
take care of it while they were spending the week in the other house down
by the river.

“My love, we must do it. We never need move anything, for you could keep
a suit of clothes in each house. I’m sure I shall never be happy to live
down on the riverside. There’s really nobody living there, and still I
never, never can be happy if you are not able to come home to lunch.”

Young Mr. Arburton quite agreed with his wife and her mother. It would be
very desirable to live on the bluff, two hundred feet above the river,
and very desirable to live immediately below, down by the boat landing
and near the office. It would be very convenient to live in two places at
the same time. How to do it was the problem.

Immediately after breakfast young Mr. Arburton started off to business.
To reach the lower level of the city, where his office and his great
lumber yards stood close by the river, and almost immediately under the
lofty bluff on which the new or upper town was built, he was obliged to
take a trolley car that slid swiftly down a long iron viaduct or inclined
plane. There had been at one time, before the days of the trolley, a
more direct, but much slower method of reaching the lower town. This was
a sort of huge hoist or elevator, upon which the horse-cars were slowly
dragged up and down by means of a cable. At present, this route was
seldom used, as it was, in the opinion of the general public, altogether
too dilatory transit.

Business was quiet that day, and Mr. Arburton had ample opportunity to
consider the problem of keeping house in two places at the same time. He
felt sure he must gratify his wife’s natural desire to live in town, and
he was equally sure he must reside in the immediate neighborhood of his
yard and its great interests. It was very like the ancient question as to
what would happen if a body, moving with perfectly irresistible momentum,
were to meet a perfectly immovable body.

He returned home that night quite radiant. He had solved the question.

“It is all right, my love. It can be done.”

“Oh! I felt sure you would see that my idea was admirable. Which house
shall you build first—the one on the Heights or the house down by the
river?”

“Both can be built at the same time.”

“Well, dear, of course, you see the house up here in this fashionable
quarter must lie much larger and nicer than the house down by those
horrid lumber yards. I shan’t mind if the lower house is a plain little
box. No one will ever call there, and any simple, inexpensive, wooden
cottage will answer. Besides, while we are staying down there I shall not
receive at all, and I shall have my cards marked with our uptown address.”

“Very well,” remarked Mr. Arburton; “I’ll see the architect. I dare say
it can be fixed.”

Mrs. Arburton and her mother were delighted, and when Mr. Arburton
suggested that he wished the new house—

“You mean the new houses, dear.”

“We’ll waive that—it’s only a detail—our future domiciles are to be a
surprise.”

“How lovely in you, dear. You mean you intend to build and furnish them
complete without letting me see them?”

“That’s about the idea. Leave it all to me.”

“Then, my love, mother and I will visit Aunt Sarah in New York for a
month.”

Mr. Arburton was hardly prepared for this. To lose his young wife for two
months was not a wholly pleasant prospect. However, he expressed himself
as resigned; for he would be very busy building and furnishing the new
house.

“You mean our new houses, dear. I declare it is an inspiration. We can
spend every other week in society and have the other week to rest in
peace and be by ourselves, quite out of the world.”

The next day young Mrs. Arburton and her mother started for New York,
and young Mr. Arburton went to the office of the defunct horse railroad
company to see about a house lot, it being reported that they had real
estate to sell—cheap.

Thirty-two days later young Mrs. Arburton and her mother returned. It was
dark when they arrived, and of course they went at once to their former
home. Naturally the return of the young wife had a most happy effect upon
the young husband. He was lively, was merry, and seemed to be immensely
amused over the prospect of moving at once into the new house.

“Is it all done?” cried both ladies, “and so soon?”

“Oh, it don’t take long to knock up a house in these days. We can move in
to-night. Everything is ready for you.”

“Which house shall we live in first?”

“Take your choice.”

“Then I’ll spend the first week in the uptown house.”

“All right. I thought so. As soon as you have had supper we’ll go over
there.”

“Is it far from here?”

“No. Only a short walk. I thought you might like to be near your mother.”

“My love, you are an angel!”

This remark clearly indicated an unstable frame of mind, and further
reports of the conversation may be cheerfully omitted.

About nine o’clock the young couple started, satchels in hand, to take
possession of their new home on the Heights. Mrs. Arburton was charmed.
It was just what she wanted, a pretty two-story colonial villa at the end
of a broad avenue, and close to the edge of the bluff overlooking the
river. The parlor was small, but exquisite, the dining-room cozy, the
kitchen perfection.

“Oh, and the view from the chamber window! Isn’t it grand? Why, the
house must be on the very edge of the bluff. My love, you have made me
perfectly happy. It is such a pretty house, and right in the very best
neighborhood.”

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Arburton remarked that
he would come home to lunch.

“Oh, no, dear. I wouldn’t think of it. It’s too far to come way up here
just for lunch. I’ll put up a little basket for you.”

“It will not take me two minutes to run over here from the office. I’ll
come home at noon.”

This he said as they stood at the kitchen door.

“What on earth are you talking about—”

She would have said more, but just at that moment her husband opened
the back door and stepped out into the dusty road that led to his
lumber yard. Mrs. Arburton stood by the door, looking up and down the
commonplace road, at the towering piles of lumber across the way, at the
tall stacks of a passing steamboat, just visible over the lumber heaps.

She kissed her husband in a mechanical way, and then closed the door
and went to her chamber and sat down by the window. Clearly this was
the lower town. There had been some mistake. She finished her morning
household duties and dressed to go out. Leaving the house by the most
convenient way, she crossed the street, and, turning back, looked at
the house. It was a plain, three-story wooden house, and in every way
suitable for such a commonplace business neighborhood.

“I must have been dreaming about that colonial villa. I’ll go and call on
mother.”

She took the trolley car up the great incline to the upper town and went
to her mother’s house. The moment she arrived her mother began to ask
about the new house.

“Oh, it’s just a plain, three-story, wooden affair down by the lumber
yard.”

“I thought you were to occupy the uptown house first.”

“Yes, I thought so, too; but we stayed last night in the lower town.”

Promptly at noon, just as the big whistle roared its hoarse summons to
rest, Mrs. Arburton returned to her humble dwelling in the lower town.
Lunch was served at once, and then her husband returned to business,
leaving his wife alone in the new house. She explored it thoroughly,
and felt sure that the parlor and dining-room were the same as she had
dreamed about the night before. At six o’clock Mr. Arburton returned to
dinner, and after that he proposed that they make a few calls on friends
in the upper town.

“Oh, no, not to-night. It’s too far and we shall be so late getting back
again.”

“Nonsense, my dear. Put on your things and I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

Five minutes later young Mrs. Arburton appeared arrayed in her best.

“I suppose the nearest way is to go out the back door.”

“What’s the use of a front door if we do not use it?” said her husband.
So saying, he opened the front door and led her out into the brilliantly
lighted avenue in the upper town.

Mrs. Arburton was perplexed. She took her husband’s arm and walked on for
a few steps in silence. Then she stopped and looked back at the house. It
was the colonial villa of her dream. Was it a dream? She wanted to ask
questions, but wisely said nothing. The young couple spent the evening
in calling, and then returned to their home.

Early the next morning Mrs. Arburton drew up the curtains of her room and
looked out. There, far below, were the river and the lower town. It was
not a dream.

Then for a week nothing in particular happened. Mrs. Arburton was
entirely happy in her charming colonial villa. Her mother called and
admired everything.

“I suppose next week you will bury yourselves in the lower town. Of
course your other house cannot be equal to this lovely place.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Why, my child, you told me it was a plain three-story affair. You said
you stayed there that first night.”

“Did I? I must have been dreaming.”

The next morning young Mrs. Arburton began to wonder if her mind had
given way. She was awakened by the hoarse boom of the lumber yard
whistle. She drew up her curtain and pulled it down, again quickly. The
street was full of teams. She pinched her arm. She looked at the mantel
clock. No; she was awake. Being a wise woman, she said nothing, and after
breakfast she bade her husband good-by at the back door.

“I’ll run over to lunch, dear.”

“Very well, Mr. Arburton.”

He looked at her with a peculiar smile.

“What’s the matter, love? Are you offended?”

“Oh, dear, no! I’m a little—a little confused, that’s all. I’ll go and
call on mother. I’ll feel better—for a walk.”

“Yes, do. Take the trolley back to town.”

She did, and the moment she reached the broad avenues of the upper city
she left the car and stood irresolute on the sidewalk.

“I wish I had been more observing. Let me see. There was a row of trees
on each side, and the houses were all of Milwaukee brick.”

She wandered up and down several streets and avenues looking for the
colonial villa.

“It was so stupid in me not to know the street and number of our own
house. If I knew that I could ask a policeman. I declare, I was never so
turned round in my life. This looks like the neighborhood—and yet—”

She gave it up in despair and took the trolley back to her home in the
lower town. Then for several days nothing happened. Mrs. Arburton tried
to be happy and failed miserably. Her husband, of course, observed it,
and said at the dinner table:

“My love, I fear you do not enjoy being down here among these lumber
yards and shops. After dinner we’ll go up town.”

She was delighted. When she reached the Heights she would ask him to take
her to the other house. Immediately after dinner she went to her room to
put on her hat. When she came down again she found her husband calmly
reading in the drawing-room.

“I thought we were going to the Heights, dear.”

He looked up in some surprise, and, instead of replying, asked if she
wished to go out.

“Yes. I do. I—I want to go to mother’s.”

“Certainly, my love. I’ll go with you.”

A moment later he was ready, and calmly opened the front door and led her
out into the broad, familiar avenue in the upper town.

She stood bewildered on the stoop, and looked at the street, at the
lemon-colored houses opposite, and at the colonial villa behind her.

“What are you waiting for, dear?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering where we live.”

“Why, how absent you are, dear. This is our uptown house.”

It was all right. The other house was the dream. They spent a pleasant
evening with her mother, and then they returned home. It was indeed all
right, and just as it should be. She had certainly eaten something that
was not best for her, or she would not have dreamed three times about
the house by the river. Under the assurance of a stable residence in one
place Mrs. Arburton’s spirits rose, and her health visibly improved. She
resolved never to mention her absurd dream about the other house. She
felt sure that it had never been built—and yet! Oh! she would not think
about it any more. She would enjoy the happy present in her lovely
colonial villa in the fashionable quarter of the town.

Mr. Arburton never came home to lunch now. He started off very early
every morning, and was always late to dinner. It was not in young Mrs.
Arburton’s nature to ignore this long.

“My love,” she said one stormy night when he came home tired, cold, and
hungry, “My love, if the other house is finished we might go there and
stay till this stormy weather is over. I miss you dreadfully at lunch,
and it’s such a pity to let you travel so far in the rain.”

“All right, my dear. It would be better to go back again.”

“Back again!” Then it was not a dream.

The next morning young Mrs. Arburton was convinced that her mind was
entirely unhinged. She did not dare to mention it to her husband. She
went about her morning duties mechanically. They were in the lower town
house. She knew the smell of the lumber yards only too well.

The thing was unbearable. She would settle the matter or perish in the
attempt. The moment her husband had gone to his office she put on her
things, took the trolley, and went up to the Heights. She found the
avenue without the slightest difficulty. The colonial villa had totally
disappeared. She asked a policeman if he had seen a white villa in the
neighborhood. The man grinned broadly and said he guessed it was off duty.

She turned away indignant. What did the insolent creature mean? Nothing
was to be gained by waiting there, and she took the trolley back home. On
reaching the lower town she lost her way for the first time in her life.
She wandered past several lumber yards, looking for that three-story
house, and could not find it. Once she felt sure she had reached the
spot—the house was not there. Thoroughly alarmed at what she regarded as
her serious mental condition, she went at once to her husband’s office.

“Mr. Arburton is here?”

“No, ma’am. He started to go up to the Heights on business, and said he
should stay to lunch at his house.”

That explained everything. The house by the lumber yards was simply a
fancy of her disordered brain. She would go at once to their villa-home
on the Heights. On arriving there she was not able to find it. Now
thoroughly alarmed, she decided to go to her mother’s. Both her homes had
disappeared, perhaps forever. She put her hand to her fevered brow. It
was icy cold. She trembled as if chilled with terror.

“To think that beautiful home was all a wild fancy—to think I’ve lost
that dear, homely, lovely, hideous house by the lumber yards. I fairly
loved it. I’ll never stir out of it again—not even to find that colonial
villa. And my husband, too,—he may be a fancy—a mere phantom—”

She looked at her wedding ring.

“No. I suppose he is real—”

She stood silent and tearful, looking off over the vast prospect spread
out below her. The avenue ended at the very edge of the bluff and gave a
magnificent view over the river and valley below—the very view she had
dreamed she saw from that chamber window—

Suddenly a picturesque chimney appeared above the edge of the bluff.
Then two pretty finials of wrought iron. Then a red roof appeared. Was
she dreaming—or—? A number of people on the sidewalk stopped to view the
remarkable spectacle. She heard a policeman remark aloud:

“The quare house is going on duty agin.”

The colonial villa stood before her. The front door opened and her
husband appeared.

“Lunch is ready, love. Come in as soon as you can, as I want to move back
to the lower town.”

“My dear! Am I crazy—?”

“Guess not. Where have you been all this time?”

“But, love!” she cried, “is my mind unbalanced?”

“Guess not. You seem reasonable.”

“Is this our uptown house?”

“Certainly, dear. Do come in to lunch.”

“Then where is—the other house?”

“Right here. Do come into the house, dear. The elevator boy is in a hurry
to move her back again, as he can’t go to dinner till we are safe at the
bottom of the hill.”

Young Mrs. Arburton entered her uptown house and closed the door. When
in the privacy of her colonial dining-room she kissed her husband with
enthusiasm.

“My love! It is distinctly great. How does it work?”

“Touch the button in the kitchen once, and the elevator boy will move her
up. Touch twice and he will let her down again. You see, dear, I found it
was not convenient to live in two houses at the same time, so I bought
the old horse-car elevator and put a house in the car.”

“But, my love—the colonial villa and the cheap three-story frame house.”

“Oh! That’s all right. The front is early colonial, the back is recent
American, as befits the two landings on the elevator.”

“How perfectly lovely. When I don’t want to be at home to the people on
the Heights I live below, and when I’m tired of the lumber yard people
I’ll live at the top.”

“Yes. And when we don’t want to see anybody, we can stop her half way.
Come. Let’s have lunch while she slides down.”

[Illustration]




ADVERTISEMENTS


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       *       *       *       *       *

AYER’S

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The blemishes of beauty,—pimples, blotches, eruptions,—can be removed by
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       *       *       *       *       *

THE BOSTON HERALD.

New England’s Greatest Newspaper.

The New England advertising field is the best on this continent.

In this great field The Boston Herald stands supreme. Its circulation,
character, and influence make it the ideal newspaper.

Its Purchasing Power is Unequalled.

       *       *       *       *       *

10 times out of 10

The New York Journal recently offered ten bicycles to the ten winners in
a guessing contest, leaving the choice of machine to each.

ALL OF THEM CHOSE

Columbia Bicycles

_STANDARD OF THE WORLD_

Nine immediately, and one after he had looked at others. And the Journal
bought Ten Columbias. Paid $100 each for them.

On even terms a Columbia will be chosen TEN times out of TEN

                  POPE MANUFACTURING CO. HARTFORD, CONN.

1896 Art Catalogue free from the Columbia agent; by mail for two 2-cent
stamps.

       *       *       *       *       *

Consumption

AND ITS CURE

TO THE EDITOR:—I have an absolute remedy for Consumption. By its timely
use, thousands of hopeless cases have been already permanently cured.
So proof-positive am I of its power that I consider it my duty to _send
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postoffice address. Sincerely, T. A. SLOCUM, M. C., 183 Pearl St., New
York.

In writing please say you saw this in The Black Cat.

       *       *       *       *       *

IF YOU’RE A PIPE SMOKER

A TRIAL WILL CONVINCE THAT GOLDEN SCEPTRE IS PERFECTION

SEND 10cts FOR SAMPLE PACKAGE—PRICES 1lb 1.30; ¼lb 40cts. POSTAGE PAID,
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       *       *       *       *       *

The Imperial Hair Regenerator

NO MATTER HOW GRAY YOUR HAIR IS—OR BLEACHED—OR SPOILED BY DYES—MAKES IT
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PRICE, $1.50 and $3.00.

Send a sample of your hair, and we will restore its color free of charge.

                        IMPERIAL CHEMICAL MFG. CO.
                       292 Fifth Avenue, New York.
              Between 30th and 31st Streets. Take Elevator.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Guaranteed Circulation._

_On the proof-slip of every advertisement set in the Composing Room of
the_

Boston Post

_appears this_

GUARANTEE:

_This advertisement is accepted on the distinct guarantee that the
regular actual, bona fide sales of the Daily =Post= in Boston and
vicinity, =Each Morning=, are =greater= than those of the =Herald= and
=Globe combined=._

_FIRST IN MORNING SALES._

SLIP FROM THE

_Boston Post._

December Circulation.

    _Daily Average_         =86,753=
    _Sunday Average_        =96,160=

       *       *       *       *       *

Puritana

_It Cures from head to foot._

Trade-Mark.

_It makes the Weak Strong._

Nature’s Cure

Puritana cures disease by naturalizing and vitalizing the Power Producer
of the human system,—the stomach.

PRIZE FORMULA OF Prof. Dixi Crosby, M.D., LL.D. DARTMOUTH COLLEGE

It cures case after case, _from head to foot_, whether the suffering is
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If you are a sufferer get of your druggist this great disease-conquering
discovery, (the price is $1 for the complete treatment, consisting of
one bottle of Puritana, one bottle of Puritana Pills, and one bottle
of Puritana Tablets), all enclosed in one package, or write to the
undersigned, and you will bless the day when you heard of Puritana. The
Puritana Compound Co., Concord, N. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

RUB IT IN that....

The Orient

(Built like this.)

Is the FINEST Wheel of ’96.

Branches:

    Chicago
    Boston
    Brooklyn
    New York
    Detroit
    Omaha
    Waltham

Features:

    Big Balls
    Big Hubs
    Big Tubing
    Pneumatic Saddles
    Orient Fork
    Adjustable Pedals

                                   The
                             Waltham Mfg. Co.
                              241 Broadway,
                             New York, N. Y.

Write for Cat.

       *       *       *       *       *

IF YOU WANT THE BEST GARDEN

in your neighborhood this season

PLANT OUR FAMOUS

SEEDS AND PLANTS

all of which are described and illustrated in our beautiful and entirely
=New Catalogue for 1896=. A new feature this season is the =Free=
delivery of Seeds at Catalogue prices to any Post Office. This “=New
Catalogue=” we will mail on receipt of a 2-cent stamp, or to those who
will state where they saw this advertisement, the Catalogue will be
mailed =Free=!

                          PETER HENDERSON & CO.
                     35 & 37 Cortlandt St., New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

“My Boy—

LE PAGE’S LIQUID GLUE

will not mend broken bones but I don’t know anything else it won’t
mend—and mend it so that ’twill stay mended, too.”

       *       *       *       *       *

HAIR CLOTH

“Survival of the Fittest.”

_Send for Samples._

For Interlinings—Lasts Forever

                                 AMERICAN
                            HAIR CLOTH COMPANY
                             Pawtucket, R. I.

       *       *       *       *       *

American People Read Standard Newspapers

That’s why

The Boston Daily Standard

Has the LARGEST CIRCULATION of any REPUBLICAN NEWSPAPER in New England, a

Fact

THAT ANY NEWSDEALER WILL PROVE.

Its CONSTANTLY INCREASING advertising patronage shows for itself how

It Pays

To interest STANDARD readers. If you are not one, WHY NOT?

Send for sample copy.

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSEX

10c. Feeds 10 Plants 1 year. Ask your dealer for the _10c._ package.

If he does not keep it send us 16c. in stamps, and we will send it by
return mail.

Flower Food FOR House Plants AND Window Gardens

    Latest
    Cheapest
    Best

Produces Healthy growth and Generous flowering.

                            Russia Cement Co.
                            GLOUCESTER, MASS.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Waverley_ BICYCLES.

ARE THE CHOICE OF EXPERIENCED RIDERS,

Those who have learned to know the difference between a wheel that
actually is high grade, and one that is simply claimed to be. Others may
be good, but the Waverley is the =Highest of all High Grades=. =REWARD=
of a new Waverley Scorcher is offered to each person who recovers a
stolen ’96 Waverley during 1896, payable upon presentation to us of
satisfactory proof of the facts and the sentence of the thief. This
reward is open to every one excepting the owner of the stolen wheel, but
is not payable to more than one person in any case.

   ART CATALOGUE FREE BY MAIL. INDIANA BICYCLE CO., INDIANAPOLIS, IND.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Black Cat

FOR

April, 1896,

Will contain the following

Stories _THAT ARE_ Stories.

All original, all copyrighted, all complete, all “captivating tales
cleverly told,” and

ALL FOR 5 CENTS.

=The Mystery of the Thirty Millions.=—By T. F. ANDERSON and H. D.
UMBSTAETTER. A startling recital of the unparalleled adventures of the
ocean steamer, _Oklahoma_, whose disappearance with 643 human souls and
thirty millions of gold, threw two continents into a fever of excitement.

=The Man at Solitaria.=—By GEIK TURNER. A realistic account of how the
Man at Solitaria, single-handed and alone, ran the Great Western Railroad
System to suit himself.

=The Compass of Fortune.=—By EUGENE SHADE BISBEE. The weirdly impressive
tale of a man guided by sightless eyes to an independent fortune.

=A Surgical Love Cure.=—By JAMES BUCKHAM. An up-to-date remedy for the
love fever, and its unexpected results.

=The Williamson Safe Mystery.=—By COL. F. S. HESSELTINE. In this absorbing
tale is presented for the first time, the solution of one of the most
daring and inexplicable series of burglaries ever conceived.

=How Small the World.=—By E. H. MAYDE. A triangular love story in which,
by means of a common confidant, two young people who hate each other in
Massachusetts are brought to love each other in Colorado.

The Black Cat is sold by Newsdealers. If yours hasn’t it, and won’t get
it for you, _get another newsdealer_. If you haven’t a dealer, send
us fifty cents and we will mail you for a whole year, The Black Cat,
postpaid. The Shortstory Publishing Co., Boston, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE APEX OF Bicycle Perfection

is represented in the Monarch. All the bicycle goodness that the
best bicycle makers know is incorporated in this king of wheels. No
chronometer could be made with more care, or with greater accuracy.
Every part of the Monarch is in perfect harmony with all other parts.
So perfect is the distribution of weight, so accurate the adjustment of
gear, that the Monarch will outspeed, outlast, outrival, any wheel on the
market to-day.

Made in 4 models. =$80= and =$100=. For children and adults who want a
lower priced wheel the =Defiance= is made in 8 models, =$40=, =$50=,
=$60= and =$75=. Send for the Monarch book.

      MONARCH CYCLE MFG. CO., Lake, Halsted & Fulton Sts., CHICAGO.
                         83 Reade St., New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Roll of Braid

is a little thing, but there is a place in the world where they make a
good many million rolls every year. It’s a small place—its biggest boast
being two capitals and the greatest braid factory on the earth. In fact,
to say “Rhode Island,” is to think “Goff’s Braids.” No matter what part
of the land you visit, there you find =Goff’s Dress Braids=. Face your
dress skirts with =GOFF’S BRAID=, which is the best made. Sample roll,
any shade, for four 2-cent stamps.

D. GOFF & SONS, Pawtucket, R. I.

       *       *       *       *       *

RIDGE’S FOOD FOR INFANTS AND INVALIDS

THE MOST RELIABLE FOOD IN THE WORLD FOR INFANTS AND CHILDREN

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THE BEST DIET FOR INVALIDS AND OLD PEOPLE

FOUR SIZES .35 .65 1.25 1.75

_Woolrich & Co._ ON EVERY LABEL

       *       *       *       *       *

    Wheeling at night
    With the “Search Light”

    —IS A PLEASURE.

SEARCH LIGHT

for ’96.

The Flame Cannot Jar Out.—The new patent method of attaching the Lantern
to the wheel makes this an impossibility.

Burns either Kerosene or Benzine, and the packed reservoir prevents the
spilling of oil.

The Polished Reflectors are so protected that they cannot become
blackened or tarnished.

A Combination of Lenses makes most intense and penetrating light.

THE ONLY strictly First Class Bicycle Lantern on the market.

_WE LEAD_, all others follow; compare all other Bicycle Lanterns with the
“Search Light,” and you will agree that _They Are All Behind_.

Of all Cycle Dealers or delivered free for price, $5.00.

               Bridgeport Brass Company, BRIDGEPORT, CONN.,
                       or, 19 Murray Street, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Traveler

Is the Only Boston Member of the Associated Press....

It Publishes More News, More Pictures, More Stories, More Special
Features, More Advertisements, and has More Push, More Independence, and
More Growth than any other Boston One Cent Newspaper.

A Modern Newspaper At a Modern Price.

One Year’s Growth

    The Traveler’s Circulation Gain           139 Per Cent.
    The Traveler’s Advertising Gain           145 Per Cent.
    The Traveler’s Gain in Number of Advts.   363 Per Cent.

Are You Reading It?

Eight to Sixteen Pages. One Cent a Copy, Six Cents a Week, Twenty-five
Cents a Month, Three Dollars a Year.

       *       *       *       *       *

CLIMBING METEOR.

GREATEST OF ALL NEW ROSES.

=CLIMBING METEOR=, now offered for the first time, is really a =Perpetual
Blooming Climbing General Jacqueminot=. Though a sport from that finest
of all Hybrid Teas, Meteor, it is much larger and of a deeper, richer
color, equalled only by the peerless Jacqueminot, and will produce
twenty blossoms to Jacqueminot’s one. It is a Rose which will make 10 to
15 feet of growth in a season and show a profusion of bloom every day.
Foliage strong, healthy and luxuriant. Buds exquisite: flowers large,
beautifully shaped, and of that rich, dark, velvety crimson color seen
only in the Jacqueminot. We do not hesitate to pronounce it the finest
Rose in existence for summer blooming, as it will make a large growth and
is loaded with its glorious blossoms from May until November. For winter
blooming it has no equal in beauty or profusion. Just the Rose to train
up in a conservatory or bay-window, where its exquisite blossoms will
show to wonderful advantage every day, summer or winter. Quite hardy, and
will produce more flowers than a dozen ordinary Roses.

=PRICE=: Strong, well rooted, healthy plants, for abundant blooming at
once, =30c. each; four for $1.00; nine for $2.00.= By mail, postpaid,
guaranteed to arrive in good order.

6 EXQUISITE NOVELTIES for 20c., postpaid, as follows: Cupid Dwarf Sweet
Pea, Scarlet Pansies, Weeping Palm, Margaret Carnation, Giant White
Scented Verbena, and Dwarf Flowering Canna.

1 LITTLE GEM DWARF CALLA, grows only 8 inches high; perpetual bloomer;
most exquisite pot plant, postpaid, for 25c.; 3 for 50c.

12 LOVELY NAMED GLADIOLUS for only 25c. postpaid; each bulb correctly
labeled, fine colors, white, pink, yellow, scarlet, blush, blotched,
striped.

1 JAPANESE GOLDEN MAYBERRY, grows 6 to 8 feet high, hardy, branching
like a tree; bears great golden berries of luscious quality, which ripen
earlier than Strawberries. 25c.; 3 for 50c.; postpaid.

_Or everything above offered, including Rose, for 75c., postpaid. Order
Now._

=Our Great Catalogue= of Flower and Vegetable Seeds, Bulbs, Plants
and Rare New Fruits is the finest ever issued; 136 pages, profusely
illustrated with elegant cuts and colored plates. We offer the choicest
standard sorts and finest Novelties. We are headquarters for all that
is New, Rare and Beautiful. Do not miss Rudbeckia Golden Glow, Giant
Imperial Japanese Morning Glories, New Cannas, Chrysanthemums, Mayberry,
Tree Strawberry, and other great Novelties. Mailed for =10 Cents=, or
=FREE= if you order any of the above articles. Address _JOHN LEWIS
CHILDS, Floral Park, N. Y._

       *       *       *       *       *

For Flowers Indoors.

Bowker’s Flower Food.

A rich, concentrated fertilizer, odorless, made from chemicals; applied
in solution once or twice a month makes house plants grow vigorously and
blossom profusely.

    A small spoonful for a 2 inch pot.
    A larger spoonful for a 4 inch pot.
    Enough for 30 plants, 3 months, 25c.
    For a whole year, 50c.

We pay the postage and send a book on “Window Gardening” free with each
package.

                          BOWKER FERTILIZER CO.,
                       27 Beaver Street, New York.
                        43 Chatham Street, Boston.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stock Buyers and Bankers

Take care of money—subject to check—give interest on deposits.

Buy and sell for cash or margin ONLY the securities listed on New York
Stock Exchange

Investors of money

Givers of stock information, by mail or wire.

A member of our firm always on floor of Stock Exchange.

                           Wayland Trask & Co.,
                          18 Wall St., New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

Every reader of “The Black Cat” should read the very remarkable Novel,

A SINGULAR LIFE,

the Last and the Greatest Story by ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, author of
“The Gates Ajar,” “Jack the Fisherman,” etc.

Miss Lilian Whiting says: “No American novel since ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’
has approached ‘A Singular Life.’”

Price, $1.25. Sold by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, by

                         HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.,
                        4 Park St., Boston, Mass.

Send for a circular containing what the Press says about this wonderful
story.

       *       *       *       *       *

USED EVERY WEEK DAY

SAPOLIO

BRINGS REST ON SUNDAY.

Armstrong & Co. Boston, Mass.