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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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ON the night of June 20, 18—, or rather, late in the afternoon of that day, a building which had long been known as the Kitchell place, was destroyed by fire.
The house was situated about two miles from the City of Springfield, Mass., and was fully five hundred feet back from the road.
It stood alone, there being no other building nearer to it than three-fourths of a mile.
Deserted for several years, because of a reputation it had for being "haunted," mischievous boys had flung stones through the windows and doors, until but little remained of them, and the weather had played sad havoc with all that was left of the house.
On the morning of the 26th, at about half-past ten, Judson Mayhew, a young jeweler of Springfield, was driving past the Kitchell place, when he saw the still smoking ruins.
Wishing to obtain a nearer view, he turned his horse into the willow-bordered land, and, having reached as near the ruins as was practicable, owing to the antics of his thoroughbred, he sat there, idly gazing at the scene of devastation.
Presently, without apparent cause, but obeying a sudden impulse, he leaped from the buggy, tied his horse to a tree, and drew nearer to the smouldering mass.
The front part of the main portion of the building had been built of stone as far as the beams, and it stood there, blackened and cracked by the heat, but otherwise intact.
Mayhew was earnestly regarding it, when he suddenly uttered an exclamation of horror.
The body of a man was lying half in and half out of the doorway, upon the stone step.
His head and shoulders were across the blackened threshold, and his legs were outside upon the step, but the flames had singed his clothing, and even his shoes, until they were wholly unrecognizable, while the upper portion of the body was badly burned, rendering identification an impossibility.
"Some poor devil of a tramp," muttered Mayhew, "who has doubtless set fire to the building, and perished in the flames."
He was about to turn away when his eye caught an object which caused him to pause.
Then he leaned forward, and stooping, picked up a mis-shapen scarf-pin, half concealed by the body of the dead man.
The pin was of curious design, being a monogram of the letters "G.Y.," set with diamonds and emeralds.
That Mayhew instantly recognized the pin was evident from his exclamation, and the eagerness with which he again stepped forward for the purpose of making a closer examination of the corpse, seemingly forgetful of the horror of it all.
The left arm of the body was thrown outward, and the hand had somehow miraculously escaped the ravages of the fire.
Upon the third finger was a ring, also a monogram of "G.Y.," and set with the same kind of precious stones.
Mayhew removed it, and then, rendered faint by the new horror that was upon him, turned away.
Presently he recovered sufficiently to return to the scene and resumed his investigation.
Underneath the body on the right side he found a tiny, gold-mounted revolver of 22 calibre.
One of the cartridges had been exploded; the others remained intact, for the weapon had not been subjected to a heat sufficiently intense to explode them.
"Heavens!" he exclaimed when he found the revolver; "this is awful! horrible! frightful!"
Then he glanced quickly around him, like one who is guilty of a crime and seeks to avoid discovery.
There was no one in sight. He was entirely alone. No witnesses viewed his actions.
Like a guilty person, he wrapped the pin, the ring, and the revolver, securely in his handkerchief, and concealed them in one of his pockets.
Then, horrifying as the act was, he turned the body over until he could see the blackened and disfigured face.
It was burnt utterly beyond recognition, and yet he could plainly see where a bullet had bored a hole in the skull in the very center of the man's forehead.
Again he was obliged to turn away in order to recover his strength, and again he returned to the scene of crime.
In turning the body, his eye had caught one other object; a scrap of paper, half-burned and partly intact.
He picked it up and read these words; they being the last lines only of a note, written in a lady's hand:
"—doubt if it will be possible for you to explain your strange conduct. However I will meet you, as you request, at the Kitchell place, and at the hour named. V.G.
Judson Mayhew groaned aloud when he read those words.
To him they were damning proofs of all that he had before feared, for he knew the handwriting as well as he knew his own, and also knew for whom the initial V. stood.
Again he glanced apprehensively around him.
Then he folded the bit of paper, and put it in his pocket-book.
His face was ghastly white, but his lips were set tightly together, and his eyes sparkled with a strange determination.
Having completed the examination of the corpse, he next took a careful though general survey of the entire scene.
"There is nothing now by which to identify him," he muttered. "It will be decided as I first thought, that this is the body of a helpless tramp who has fallen a victim to one of his companions. It is better so—far better. If Gerald knew, he would wish me to act as I do."
Again he carefully surveyed the body.
"Recognition is impossible," he murmured. "Identification is out of the question. I hope that I have done my duty, and I believe I have."
Then he went to his horse, untied him from the tree, leaped into the buggy, and drove away.
Mayhew did not return at once to Springfield, but continued his drive, reaching the city an hour later.
There, he went at once to the proper officer and reported the fact that the Kitchell place had been destroyed by fire, and that the body of a man, burned beyond recognition, was upon the doorstep.
"It was evidently a tramp, who in someway set fire to the building, and perished there," said Mayhew in conclusion.
Then having done all that was considered to be his duty, he went to his store and attended to business with his customary regularity and directness.
That night, when business for the day was done, and he was alone in the store, he opened a little private safe, and deposited the handkerchief with its contents, and the bit of a letter securely sealed in an envelope, in an inner compartment. Several days passed and nobody was reported missing.
The dead body passed through the usual routine, was buried and forgotten.
A paragraph or two in the papers seemed to be all the notice taken of the incident. But there was one who did not forget it—who brooded constantly over his knowledge of the affair, and who did not wait "several days" before taking measures to carry out his own ideas of the matter, and that one was Judson Mayhew.
IN the evening of the day when Judson Mayhew made the remarkable discovery at the Kitchell place, and after he had deposited the pin, the ring, and the revolver in his private safe, he called at a residence in the most fashionable quarter of Springfield.
"I wish to see Mrs. Glenn," he said, to the servant who admitted him.
He was shown into the parlor, and presently Mrs. Glenn entered.
"Why Judson," she said, brightly, "this is a pleasant surprise. You have kept yourself so invisible for the past year that I thought you had dropped us altogether."
"No, indeed," he replied. "The fact is Mrs. Glenn, I thought it best for me to remain away. How is Vera?"
"Very well indeed. She said she saw you yesterday on the street."
Mayhew started perceptibly.
"Indeed!" he murmured. "Where! I did not see her."
"You were driving, I think, she said. "But would you not like to see her?"
"Very much."
"I will send her to you if I may be excused for a few moments. I was in the midst of some household affairs when you called."
"Certainly."
Mrs. Glenn went out and five minutes later Vera Glenn entered.
She was a beautiful girl, with an unusually proud and haughty manner.
Her father, who had been dead several years, had left all of his immense fortune to his only daughter, and only an annuity to his wife, to enjoy while she lived, when that also reverted to Vera.
Judson was several years older than Vera, and they had been companions and friends since infancy.
Several years before the incidents related here, Judson Mayhew had asked Vera Glenn to be his wife, and had been emphatically rejected, with the assurance that she thought far too much of him to take him for a husband.
That he loved her still there was no denying, but he had never again mentioned the subject to her, and when, one year before, she had became engaged to Gerald Yates, Judson had been the first to offer congratulations.
Between Judson Mayhew and Gerald Yates there existed one of those strong friendships which young men often make in college, for they had met and chummed together at Harvard.
Shortly after they graduated, both young men had lost their fathers. Judson found that his parent's wealth was consumed by his debts, there was nothing left for the son but to work for his living, so he became a jeweler, and succeeded.
On the other hand Gerald Yates inherited an immense fortune, which he put to use by buying a partnership in a banking and broking business in Boston, where he resided. Two years later he bought out his partner, and his windows thereafter bore the inscription:
GERALD YATES, BANKER and BROKER.
It was through Judson Mayhew that he had become acquainted with Vera Glenn, to whom he was subsequently engaged, without the knowledge however, that his friend was a rejected suitor.
When Vera Glenn entered the room where Judson was awaiting her, it was with a merry laugh which somehow sounded forced and unnatural to her friend.
"How do you do, Judson?" she said. "I thought it must be a case of mistaken identity when mamma said that you were here."
"Yes. I just ran around for a moment. I am going to Boston in the morning, and I thought you might have some commissions."
"How exactly like old times! How many times have you been to Boston during the last year, Jud—"
She paused suddenly and a look of pain came into her eyes.
But only for an instant.
Then she laughed again, although Mayhew's face remained grave and cold.
He took up the sentence where she dropped it, waiting without comment.
"—without asking for your commissions?" he said. "Two or three times only, and generally in great haste. By the way, Vera, have you heard from Gerald lately?"
"No."
"Eh? No? Is he away?"
"I don't know."
"Ahem! That is strange. When did you see him last, Vera?"
"Why do you annoy me with such questions, Judson? Am I the custodian of Gerald Yates?"
"You certainly are, of his heart."
"On the contrary, that is an article with which I have nothing to do."
"Indeed. You surprise me, Vera."
"Judson, you may as well know the truth at once. The engagement between Gerald Yates and myself is broken."
"Since when, Vera?"
"Yest—since he wrote me a letter which he ought not to have written, a week ago or more ago."
"But you have seen him since?"
"Why do you persist in questioning me, Judson?"
"Because I want to know. Have you seen Gerald since he wrote the letter?"
A peculiar expression came into Vera's eyes, but whether produced by indignation or some other emotion could not be determined.
Her brows contracted, and she said very slowly and distinctly:
"No, I have not; and now you will oblige me by changing the subject."
Judson did so, and soon after he withdrew from the house.
On the following morning he took an early train for Boston, arriving there an hour before the rush of business for the day began.
He went at once to the office of Gerald Yates, and was startled when he reached it by finding a placard upon the door, on which, in large letters, appeared the word:
CLOSED.
There was some one inside, however, and Judson entered.
"Good-morning, Mr. Conover," he said, recognizing the book-keeper who had been Gerald Yates' confidential man. "Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Yates?"
"I wish I could, Mr. Mayhew."
"Why? Don't you know?"
"No; nor anybody else."
"What do you mean?"
"Mr. Yates has disappeared."
"Disappeared!"
"Yes, as effectually as though he were dead."
"I am afraid that I do not fully comprehend you, Conover. Will you explain? When did you see Mr. Yates last?"
"The day before yesterday—the 25th."
"And you have not seen him since?"
"No."
"What time of day did you see him?"
"When I came to the office in the morning, he was here, sitting at the desk in his private office, writing."
"Well?"
"At ten o'clock he left a large number of letters upon his desk to be mailed, and went out without saying a word to anybody. I have traced him from here to Young's Hotel, but no farther. It seems that he entered the barroom there, and took a drink—a thing that I never knew him to do before. Nobody saw him go out, and I have been able to get no trace of him from that time to this."
"What steps have you taken?"
"Very few."
"Why?"
"Among the letters that he wrote was one for me. Would you like to read it?"
"Yes."
"Here it is."
Judson took the letter and read:
"Conover:—I have worked here all night going over the accounts. I have left checks signed in blank for my creditors, which you will fill out and forward without delay. The accounts of" [here followed a list of names] "you will transfer to the different houses in the city who are my debtors, thus balancing with them. I inclose a filled-out check to your order for $1,000, which you will accept as a gift; also a bill of sale of furniture and effects in the office. There will be money enough in bank to meet the checks, for I have figured the totals. Why I do these things is nobody's business but my own. My last order to you is, make no effort to find me. I am nobody's debtor, and have committed no crime. It is my wish, as well as my right, to disappear. To inquirers and curious ones you will simply say that I am suddenly called away, and that you do not know when I will return. If you can make arrangements with my customers to assist you, you can continue the business in your own name. Mine must be dropped and forgotten. I expect obedience from you regarding my wishes here expressed, as in the past.
"Gerald Yates."
"This is most remarkable," murmured Mayhew, when he had finished reading the letter. "Can you understand it, Conover?"
"No, I cannot."
"Will you—"
"Excuse me, Mr. Mayhew, but I have no time to talk now. I have perhaps disobeyed his wishes in saying as much as I have, but I knew you to be his friend, and I thought perhaps one of the letters he wrote was to you.
"I will have finished with my books by evening, and if you will meet me at Young's at 8:30 to-night, we will talk the matter over."
A bright idea occurred to Judson Mayhew at that instant.
"Very well," he said, simply. "Between 8:30 and 9 at Young's."
Then he went out and hurried directly to the nearest telegraph office.
Presently a message was speeding over the wires, bound for New York.
It was addressed to Nicholas Carter, and read:
COME TO BOSTON IMMEDIATELY. IMPORTANT. YOU CAN REACH
HERE AT SIX. ASK FOR ME AT PARKER'S. JUDSON MAYHEW.
AT 6:30 the same evening, that is to say June 27th, a middle-aged gentleman walked into the Parker House and asked to see the register.
Presently he sent his card up to Judson Mayhew, and ten minutes later they were in conversation together in the latter's room.
"I am Nick Carter, Mr. Mayhew, and I have come in reply to your telegram of this morning," said the middle-aged gentleman. "I sail for Europe one week from to-morrow to keep an engagement made one year ago. Until a week from the present hour I am at your disposal. If that will suffice, command me."
"But suppose our case is not finished by that time?" asked Mayhew.
"Then I must abandon it or leave it in the hands of another. I can give you just one week—no more."
"Perhaps that will do. I will risk it, at all events."
"Very well."
"I know you by reputation, Mr. Carter, and if you will comply with a strange request I am about to make, I will pay you fifty dollars per day, and expenses."
"What is the request?"
"A friend of mine has mysteriously disappeared. I wish to find him. I have reason to believe that he was killed by a pistol-shot. I believe that I know whose hand held the pistol when it was fired. If I am right, I am positive that the killing was accidental."
"Humph!"
"Again, if I am right in my suspicions, I wish nobody to be informed of what we discover."
"You wish to shield the murderer. Is that what you mean?"
"If my suspicions are correct, yes."
"I cannot take your case, then."
"Why? You are a private detective, and I engage you in a private matter."
"With a murder at the other end. No, sir. I am not in it."
"What will you do?"
"If there is a murder, and I learn who committed it, I shall inform the proper authorities."
"Suppose such a case. What if I compel the party to make a full confession?"
"To the authorities?"
"Yes."
"I will be content, provided you promise that there shall be no unnecessary delay."
"Agreed."
"Very well. State your case."
Then Mayhew related in detail the history of his drive, and the discovery that he had made at the Kitchell place.
He told of the pin, the ring, and the revolver, also of the part of a letter that he had found.
Then of his journey to Boston, and his interview with Conover, the book-keeper.
Finally of his appointment to meet Conover at Young's that evening.
Nick listened attentively to every point.
"It seems like a strong case against Miss Glenn," he said, when Mayhew had finished; "and yet I am not half as confident as you are that she committed the crime. We will start out on the hypothesis that she is guilty, however, and endeavor to prove her innocent."
"You're a trump, Carter."
"Thanks. A strange thought occurs to me."
"What?"
"Are you aware that you are as open to suspicion as Miss Glenn?"
Mayhew started.
"How so?" he asked.
"For many reasons," replied Nick. "I will enumerate them."
"Please."
"First, you are in love with Vera Glenn. I know it by the manner in which you mention her name, and by your anxiety in her behalf."
"True; I am."
"Second; in all probability you have proposed to her in the past, and have been rejected. Am I right in that surmise, also?"
"Yes."
"Consequently there is an existing reason for hatred and revenge on your part sufficient to satisfy most juries."
"True."
"Third; Gerald Yates, your friend, whose every habit you know, was your successful rival.
"Fourth; you turned your horse without reason toward the smoking ruins of the Kitchell place. The prosecuting attorney would ask in a very pointed tone, 'Why did you do that, Judson Mayhew? Give us a reason?' Could you do so?"
"No."
"Fifth; you discovered the body. If you had no knowledge of whose body it was, your natural impulse would seem to be to turn away with infinite loathing, would it not?"
"It would. I seemed drawn by some unknown impulse—by some power I could not understand."
"To that the attorney and the jury, as well as the judge, and all practical minds, would say 'Bosh!' and they would prove that it was bosh, by my sixth count."
"What is that?"
"The body was smoking and loathsome. A stench more or less sickening hung around it sufficient to have driven most men away in disgust."
"It was frightful!"
"Exactly! Did you turn away? No. What did you do? Why, you began poking about that horrifying mass in search of something. A most unusual, unnatural, unexpected, and objectionable undertaking, which you would find it difficult to make a jury believe that you did without good reason."
"I had one; I caught sight of the pin."
"Surely. That brings me to the seventh count. When you murdered your friend and set fire to the building you forgot that he could be identified by the jewelry he wore and which you perhaps gave him, being a jeweler."
"Yes. I gave him both pieces."
"Later you remembered the fact, and returned for the articles.
"But the last counts are more convincing than any others; they are:
"Eighth; you took great care to destroy or hide every and any means of identifying the body.
"Ninth; you returned to Springfield and reported the fire and the presence of the corpse, saying nothing of what you had found there. Was that the act of an innocent man who really knew as much as you did? the attorney would ask, and the jury would answer, no.
"Tenth; you allowed your friend to be called a tramp, and to be buried as such in the Potter's field. His grave is unmarked, and his body is protected only by the rough pine box which the town provides."
"Only for the time being."
"Who would believe that? the jury? No. The judge? No. Who? Nobody."
"My God, Mr. Carter, this is awful!"
"Yes, it is awful; but wait! there is something more awful coming.
"Eleventh; what did you do then, after you had returned to the body of your victim, of your friend who had trusted you, and believed in you, and whom you had easily lured to his death? What did you do then? What was the next dastardly act that you committed?"
"Stop! I can't stand this! enough; you have—"
"Wait. I am nearly through. I come now to the prosecuting attorney's strong point with the jury. To the point that he would make in order to dispel any sympathy which your own lawyer might have engendered in their minds for you. Don't you see it?"
"No."
"He would say to the jury: 'What did this man, this false friend, this murderer, do next? Can you see him, gentlemen, as he slunk back to the city, and searched among the letters which Vera Glenn had written him in the past, until he had found him one that suited his purpose? There is nothing on this scrap of paper to tell to whom it was addressed, therefore, why not to him? The language in it is such that she might have used it in reply to his importunities when he was maddened by the rejection of his suit. Can you not see him select this letter from among others, and then, with Satan gloating over the act, touch a blazing match to the paper and watch it burn until just the right point was reached, and then extinguish the flame?"
Mayhew groaned.
"But you ask for the motive. Did he intend to accuse Vera Glenn of the crime that he had committed? No. But he did intend, and it is plainly evident to you all, to frighten her into becoming his wife by holding over her the threat of betrayal, and by convincing her that nothing could save her from conviction.
"See the craft in all his acts. He murders his friend, and her lover, after, by some underhand means, creating a quarrel between them.
"Later, he meant to go to her, and tell her how he found the body, and recognized it; how he destroyed every link of identity because he was convinced that she had killed him; how he would devote his life to save her from the consequences of her act. Her indignation would have given place to horror, and horror to dismay and fright. He would have pictured her as being dragged through the streets a felon; he would have told her what the newspapers would say, and that he and he alone could save her from the scaffold. Terrified, she would doubtless have accepted him.
"There is the motive. The fact that the revolver is the property of Miss Glenn is nothing except to strengthen his argument against her, to compel her to his will.
"There are a hundred ways in which he might have possessed himself of it. By his own confession it was originally a present from him to her several years ago. He knew that she had it; he probably knew where she kept it.
"The whole story is plain. No competent jury in the world could face these propositions and dare to say that Judson Mayhew was not the greatest criminal, and the most contemptible scoundrel unhung!"
Nick Carter paused and suddenly leaped to his feet.
He pointed his finger at the young jeweler and shook it angrily in his pale and startled face.
"And you, Judson Mayhew!" he cried, excitedly; "murderer and scoundrel that you are! dare you face this jury and this innocent girl whom you have so foully wronged, and deny your guilt?"
For a full minute there was silence in the room—neither man spoke a word.
Tears coursed down Judson Mayhew's cheeks; his lips trembled and his fingers twitched nervously, yet he was a man of extraordinary strength of character.
Presently he rose and paced several times back and forth across the room, while Nick Carter remained where he was, narrowly watching every move that the young jeweler made, and every line of expression that appeared upon his face.
Suddenly Mayhew turned and faced him.
"Mr. Carter," he said, slowly. "If I had a double, and that double were sitting in the jury box, I should vote guilty against my other self upon your arraignment of my acts. Your words would even compel a weak mind to confess to his crime although in reality innocent. Listening to you, I could almost believe myself guilty, and yet, I swear—"
"You need not swear," said Nick, sinking back into his chair. "I have been trying you. When I began, I believed that you might be guilty, and in satisfying myself that you are not, I have also convinced you that Vera Glenn may be innocent.
"I doubted you, Judson Mayhew, but I now know you to be as guiltless as I."
"MANY an innocent man is convicted on circumstantial evidence," continued Nick Carter, "and thus many a guilty man escapes the penalty of his crime."
"But you think Vera innocent?" asked Mayhew, eagerly.
"No—but neither do I yet believe her guilty. Time will develop that."
"But if guilty—"
"She must suffer for her crime."
Mayhew shuddered.
"There are several points to this case which suggest the interference of a third party, Mr. Mayhew. Let me ask a few questions which you cannot and therefore need not try to answer:
"Why did Yates close out his business in that way?
"Why did he wish to disappear, if indeed there is not a mistake in relation to that?
"Why did he write to Vera Glenn to meet him at the Kitchell place, as the scrap of paper found by you presupposes?
"Why did he quarrel with her?
"Why did he never say anything to you, his intimate friend, of his troubles and intentions?
"Why should he go to Springfield secretly?
"Those are a few of the questions which we must answer; but there is another more important than any, and that is, what right have we to decide that the body found by you was really that of Gerald Yates?
"The scarf-pin and the ring might easily have been transferred to the person of another. The scrap of paper may have been dropped there days or weeks before; also the revolver; or, there may be two alike.
"We must go slowly, Mr. Mayhew. And now it is 8:40. Let us go and see Conover. Introduce me as your uncle, who thought a great deal of your missing friend. Then leave the rest to me."
"Good; I will do so."
They went together to Young's, and found Conover awaiting them.
The introduction was made, and Judson opened the conversation by asking a few questions of a trivial character.
Suddenly Nick took up the thread in an easy, natural way, so that Conover did not notice the change of base.
"Have you finished with your books, Mr. Conover?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Do you find them all right?"
"Perfectly."
"Mr. Yates left everything in good shape, did he?"
"Yes."
"Was there money enough in the bank to meet his obligations?"
"To a cent."
"He went away the morning of the 25th, you say?"
"Yes."
"How many bank accounts did he keep?"
"Two."
"How much money was there to his credit on the 24th?"
"Both accounts?"
"Yes."
"$1,354,219.73."
"Cash?"
"Yes."
"Did he carry many securities?"
"Formerly, yes."
"When he went away?"
"No; he had converted nearly all of them into cash."
"As though preparing to leave as he did?"
"Yes."
"How long ago did he begin to unload?"
"A week or ten days."
"You say the sum left in the bank was just sufficient to meet his liabilities?"
"Yes."
"To what amount was that?"
"Five hundred and forty-six thousand dollars, in round numbers."
"So that he had something like $800,000 surplus?"
"Yes."
"Did he draw that in person?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"The afternoon of the 24th."
"Did you know of the fact at the time?"
"No."
"When did you learn of it?"
"After reading the letter he left for me. I went to the banks to know what balance was there to check against."
"Did you question the paying-tellers?"
"Yes."
"Tell me what they said?"
"In substance, that Mr. Yates drew the large sums about two o'clock in the afternoon of the 24th."
"Did he make any remarks when he presented the checks?"
"None."
"Simply received the money and departed."
"Exactly."
"The paying-tellers knew him well, of course?"
"Perfectly."
"Did Mr. Yates use a private mark on his checks?"
"Not that I know of."
"Have you noticed anything strange in his manner lately."
"He was always a quiet man, and said but little. Lately, I have thought that he said less than ever."
"Did you suspect that he was in trouble of any kind?"
"No."
"You knew that he was about to be married?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever see Miss Glenn—his fiancee?"
"Twice."
"Where?"
Once at the office, when she came there in company with Mr. Mayhew, and once when I went to Springfield on an errand to her for Mr. Yates."
"When was that?"
"About two months ago."
"Did you know that they had broken the engagement?"
"No; I did not."
"Had Mr. Yates any intimate friend who was in the habit of coming to his office?"
"Yes, two."
"Who were they?"
"Clarence Clarke-Jerome and Maurice Baltimore."
"Do you know anything about them?"
"I know Mr. Clarke-Jerome."
"Who is he?"
"A broker and a member of an old Boston family."
"What of Baltimore?"
"I have seen him only during the past year or eighteen months. He was one of our best customers, and one of the checks left by Mr. Yates for me to fill out was for him."
"Indeed! for what amount?"
"Thirty thousand dollars."
"Was he a speculator?"
"Yes; what we call a plunger."
"Have you seen him since Mr. Yates disappeared?"
"No. He sent me a note asking me to call upon him at his rooms, but I have not yet been able to spare the time."
"You sent him the check?"
"Certainly."
"Is he a rich man?"
"I have heard Mr. Yates say that he was very wealthy."
"Do you know whether Mr. Yates had any entanglements of the nature of love affairs?"
"I do not."
"Did ladies ever call at his office?"
"Never."
"Have you formed any opinion regarding this strange matter, Mr. Conover?"
"No, sir. I have tried, but have miserably failed."
"Do you think that Mr. Yates was demented?"
"But for his care in leaving everything straight, I should think so."
"As it is?"
"I do not."
"Where did he live?"
"In apartments on Commonwealth avenue."
"Have you been there since he left?"
"No."
"My nephew has told me the contents of the letter Mr. Yates left for you. Shall you make an effort to continue the business?"
"I have thought that I would apply to a few of our best customers, and if I could get sufficient backing, do so."
"A good idea; I hope you will succeed."
"Thank you."
"About the safes in the office—do you know all the combinations?"
"Yes."
"Have you examined the safes since Mr. Yates' departure?"
"I have."
"What of his private correspondence?"
"He destroyed it all."
Nick did not ask any more questions, and presently he and Mayhew took their departure.
"What do you think of it now, Mr. Carter?" asked Mayhew as they were walking through the street on their way to Parker's.
"Nothing yet!" replied Nick.
Suddenly he turned to Mayhew.
"Do you know where Yates lived?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Take me there."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"It is ten o'clock."
"No matter. Yonder is a cab. Call it."
The cab was called, and they were presently on their way to the Back Bay.
"Do you know Clarke-Jerome?" asked Nick.
"Yes."
"And Baltimore?"
"I have met him."
"Were they intimate friends of Yates?"
"I think so."
"Hunt up Baltimore some time to-morrow, and introduce me. I would like to question him a little."
"Very well."
"Introduce me as Mr. Smith, or use the first name that comes in handy. The cab is stopping; have we arrived?"
"Yes. What shall I do now?"
"Ring for the janitor and then let me talk."
The janitor presently made his appearance.
"Good-evening," said Nick. "Did Mr. Yates leave a package of papers with you for J. H. Fenton?"
"No, sir."
"That is strange. He agreed to do so. Perhaps he left them in his rooms. They are important—er—by the way—when did you see Mr. Yates last?"
"Early this morning, sir."
Mayhew started and was about to speak, but Nick did not give him a chance.
"Ah!" he said; "then he has not been here to leave the papers; you have not seen him this evening?"
"No, sir."
"But he might go to his rooms without your seeing him, of course?"
"Certainly."
"What time this morning did you see him?"
"About seven o'clock."
"Ah! Have you a match for my cigar? Thanks. Won't you smoke? Did Mr. Yates seem to be going away out of town when you saw him?"
"Yes, sir; he had a bag."
"Probably he has gone to New York on this very business, and will perhaps return to-morrow."
"No!" said the janitor. "He intimated to me that he was going to Washington, and said distinctly that he would not return for several weeks."
"He was at home yesterday?"
"Yes; nearly all day. I was on the front steps when he went to business in the morning, and happened to be there again when he returned."
"What time was that?"
"About one o'clock. I had just had my dinner."
"Was he alone?"
"Yes."
"This is a beautiful evening, isn't it?"
"Very fine, sir."
"Looks like rain in a day or two; I always think so when I see clouds like those yonder. By the way, Mayhew, was it yesterday—no it was the day before, wasn't it, that we were to meet some of Yates' friends here? He had a party, didn't he, janitor?"
"I think not."
"Well, several gentlemen called on him, eh?"
"No; I only remember two."
"Only two! Why, there were a dozen coming. I wonder who the two were. Did you know them, janitor?"
"One was a very tall man with a sandy beard."
"Did he wear glasses?"
"Yes, sir."
"And stoop just a little in the shoulders?"
"A trifle—yes, sir."
"Good; I know him. Now who was the other?"
"I didn't know him."
"Too bad; I'd like to know who they were. What sort of looking man was he?"
"Tall and dark. Rather distinguished looking. I did not see him when he came."
"Ah!"
"I saw him go away."
"He and the other one left together, eh?"
"No, sir; he left after the other one did."
"Indeed!"
"The last one limped a little, did he not?" asked Mayhew, suddenly.
"Hardly enough to be noticed."
"Exactly. It was Mr. Baltimore."
"We are much obliged to you," said Nick. "What a fine building this is."
"Yes, sir."
"Good-night. When Mr. Yates returns, just say that we called—Fenton and Mayhew—will you?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Thanks,"
As soon as they were again in the cab, Nick said:
"Well, Mayhew, what do you make of all that?"
"I scarcely know."
"Shall I tell you?"
"I wish you would."
"I will."
"YOUR friend's book-keeper, Conover, is, unless I am greatly mistaken, a precious rascal," was the detective's rather startling remark. "It was he who called here, whom the janitor described as wearing a sandy beard and eye-glasses."
"Yes, I recognized the description."
"What was he here for, at that time?"
"I don't know."
"But we must know. Why was Baltimore here? Who went away this morning with a grip-sack?"
"The janitor was positive that it was Gerald."
"And I begin to—never mind. If he left here this morning, he was not dead then, was he?"
"Certainly not."
Nick glanced at his watch.
It showed just half an hour before midnight.
"Do you know anything about Baltimore's habits?" he asked suddenly.
"Very little."
"Still you must have heard Yates speak of him."
"Frequently."
"What impression regarding him, did you gather from the remarks made by your friend?"
"Simply that he was the sort of person who is generally described as 'rather fast.'"
"Exactly. A club man?"
"Yes."
"One who gambles?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"Oh, yes. I was once at his rooms with Gerald."
"Where are they?"
"In Fremont street. He took his meals at Young's."
"Ah! Do you know any of the clerks at Young's?"
"Yes, one."
"Who?"
"Tyrrill, one of the night clerks."
"Good. We will talk to Mr. Tyrrill when we reach Young's. And now, Mr. Mayhew, will you let me know why you have not told me of your call at the home of the Glenn's since you discovered the crime?"
"Eh? What? Why do you think that I have called there?"
"I know it."
"How?"
"For one reason, because it would be your natural impulse, and for another, because you have made remarks which were evidently the result of that call."
"You are wonderfully shrewd, Mr. Carter."
"That is my business. I can, perhaps, surprise you still more."
"Do so."
"Very well. You are concealing something from me in relation to your suspicions of Vera Glenn."
"You are a devil."
"No. I am a detective. You did call there, did you not?"
"Yes."
"And saw Miss Glenn?"
"Yes."
"Prior to that time, when had you last seen her?"
"Why?"
"Did you not see her the day of the fire?"
"Yes."
"Near the Kitchell place?"
"No."
"On the road to it, then?"
"Yes."
"She was going that way?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"No."
"Who was with her?"
"A stranger."
"Indeed! A man?"
"Yes."
"Did you never see him before?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Did you speak to her?"
"No. I was driving; she was walking."
"Did she see you?"
"I did not think so at the time. I have since learned that she did."
"From her?"
"No; her mother told me."
"What time of day was it when you saw her?"
"About five o'clock in the afternoon."
"Was she dressed as usual, or did she wear a veil and otherwise seem to wish to avoid observation?"
"She wore a veil."
"Did you notice where she went?"
"No."
"Describe the man who was with her."
"Tall and dark."
"It was not Baltimore?"
"No. He wears no beard. This person wore a mustache and side whiskers."
"Did he otherwise resemble Baltimore?"
"Yes—except—"
"What?"
"Baltimore limps a little. This person did not."
"Humph! Here we are at Young's. Leave me in the carriage while you go in and talk to Tyrrill. I will follow you presently, but the only way in which you will know me will be when I slap you on the back. Then introduce me to the clerk by any name you choose, and follow whatever cue I give you."
Mayhew descended from the carriage and at once entered the hotel.
It was just midnight, and Mr. Tyrrill was in the act of leaving the office.
Judson greeted him warmly, and at once began a general conversation.
Five minutes later a young man who looked like a veritable dude struck him a resounding slap upon the shoulders.
"Hello. Mayhew!" he exclaimed; "it's good for sore eyes to see you here. How are all the folks in Springfield?"
Judson was astonished, but retained his presence of mind.
He saw not the slightest resemblance to the man with whom he had passed the evening, but he knew that there could be no doubt that it was the same, and therefore he instantly recovered himself, and replied, with some show of enthusiasm.
"Very well, thanks. How are you?"
"Bang up, dontcherknow! I say, Mayhew, where's Yates? I've been looking everywhere for him."
"Don't know. I'm sure. Let me introduce you to Mr. Tyrrill; Mr. Douglass."
"Ah, Mr. Tyrrill," said Nick, at the same time lighting a cigarette, "you know Yates, don't you?"
"Very well, by sight."
"Seen him to-night?"
"No; not for several days."
"Funny, you know, eh? Seen Clarke-Jerome, or Baltimore?"
"Neither."
"Odd, eh? B. stops here, don't he?"
"Who?"
"Baltimore."
"No. He dines here usually. Ah! talking of angels, here he comes now."
Mayhew did not relish the contretemps, but it just suited Nick.
A gentleman walked hurriedly past them.
He was tall and dark, with a smooth face, piercing eyes, and a countenance that betokened remarkable determination and shrewdness.
"Mr. Baltimore!" said Tyrrill, as he passed them. Baltimore paused, raised his eyebrows a little and said:
"Well?"
"Here is a gentleman who was just inquiring for you."
"Indeed! He has the advantage of me."
"How are you, Baltimore?" said Judson. "Let me make you acquainted with Mr. Douglass."
The two shook hands.
"Were you asking for me?" said Baltimore.
"Yes. I have been looking everywhere for Yates, and I thought perhaps you could tell me where he is."
"Gerald Yates has mysteriously disappeared."
"Eh? What? What the devil do you mean, dontcherknow?"
"Just what I say. By the way, how did you know me?"
"By hearing Gerald speak of you so often."
"Ah. You were quite intimate with him, were you?"
"Yaas, in college. Mayhew, Yates and I were in the same class; chums, dontcherknow."
"I see. Sorry I can't give you any information. I would willingly give five thousand dollars to know where he is."
Then followed a long conversation, during which Nick asked many questions to which he already knew the answers, while Mayhew showed a becoming amount of astonishment and pain over the news.
"Tell you what I'll do, Baltimore," said Nick, suddenly.
"Well, what?"
"We both want to find Yates, don't we?"
"Certainly."
"And if he's been killed or anything has happened to him, we want to know it?"
"Yes, by all means!"
"Let's turn detective."
"It will be easier to hire one, I think."
"No; let's do the act ourselves. We'll work together, dontcherknow. You can hire a detective if you want to, but let's work this thing up on our own hook, detective or no detective. I'll put up a thousand dollars with Mayhew, or Tyrrill, against a like sum from you, that I find him before you do."
"Suppose neither of us succeed?"
"Then the bet is off at the end of thirty days. What do you say?"
"I'll think about it."
"Pshaw! think about spending a thousand dollars in a friend's service? I say, we'll agree to help each other all the way through, and to exchange points as we proceed. By Jove, it's a great scheme. Come, is it a bargain?"
"Yes."
"Good. We will begin at once."
"Not so fast, Mr. Douglass. If I go into this thing it will be with the determination of winning your thousand dollars. I won't be ready to begin before to-morrow night."
Nick put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a roll of bills.
From it he extracted several of a large denomination and passed them to Mayhew.
"Here's my thousand," he said. "Will you cover it, Mr. Baltimore?"
"Certainly. I will draw my check for the amount."
"As you please."
At that instant, Nick sneezed four times, very distinctly, after which he extended his hand to Baltimore, and bade him good-night.
"J.C. Douglass is my full name," he said, "and I am stopping at the Parker House. Will you call there for me to-morrow?"
"Yes."
"At what time?"
"About dark. We will dine together at my club and then begin operations."
"Agreed."
Then Nick, still accompanied by Mayhew, left the hotel and went around to Parker's.
"Now, Mayhew," he said, "I will register as J. C. Douglass and go to bed. You had better retire also, and you may rest secure in the thought that although I am sleeping, your friend Baltimore is shadowed by my four sneezes."
"By four sneezes!"
"Yes."
"I don't understand."
"It is a way that I have of conjuring up a shadow. In the morning at ten o'clock, come to my room and I will tell you everything that Baltimore does from this moment until he sleeps; who he talks with, where he goes, what he drinks, and how much—in short, everything. My four sneezes will do it. Those are wonderful sneezes, eh?"
"Rather!"
"Exactly. I found them in Nevada some time ago, when I was only one against twenty-one,* and I have kept them with me ever since. Good-night, Mr. Mayhew."
* See "One Against Twenty-One; or, The Ranch Robbery" (N.C. Series No. 4).
AT seven o'clock the next morning, a card was brought to Nick Carter's room, and soon thereafter a young gentleman made his appearance.
"Well, Chick," said the detective, as soon as they were alone. "You heard me sneeze, did you?"
"Sure."
"Where did Baltimore go when he left the hotel?"
"Way out on Columbus avenue."
"You went also?"
"Sure. I went with him, in the same carriage, and we talked and smoked together all the way out."
"Indeed! how did you manage that?"
"Very simply. As you left the hotel I pulled a cigar from my pocket and asked Baltimore for a light. I said something about politics and he replied, and so we got to talking. Presently I asked him to have a drink with me, and we had several; then we got to talking of cards and gambling, etc., and the upshot of it all was that he took me to the most select gambling house in Boston."
"Good. Did he play?"
"Yes, heavily."
"Lose or win."
"Lose."
"And you?"
"I won."
"Did you make a night of it?"
"I just left there. That is, Baltimore and I left together. He went to his rooms and I came here."
"What do you think of him, Chick?"
"I think he's sharper than chain-lightning."
"Do, eh?"
"Remember that I know nothing of your reasons for having him shadowed last night. I haven't heard any of the story of this affair, but I'll stake my reputation on one point."
"What?"
"If a piece of villainy is afoot, and that fellow's concerned in it, you have tackled one of the cleverest men in your experience."
"Why do you think so?"
"He never forgets himself for an instant. He sees everything that's going on, without appearing to notice anything. He—"
There was a sudden tap at the door.
Nick looked rather astonished for an instant; then, supposing it was some one connected with the hotel, he called:
"Come in!"
The door opened and admitted the person of Maurice Baltimore.
In an instant Chick leaped to his feet.
"Hello, Baltimore!" he cried. "You found me pretty quick, didn't you?"
"Yes. Good-morning, Mr. Douglass. I beg your pardon for disturbing you so early, but I had to find Mr. Swinton here, and so came right up when I learned where he was.
"You see, Swinton," he continued, returning to Chick, "you dropped this out of your pocket just at my door. The servant brought it to me two or three minutes after you left, and I at once hurried out to return it. I saw you enter the Parker house, and would have caught you at once, but met a person who detained me. I supposed, of course, that I would find your name on the register, but I did not; an inquiry of the clerk elicited the fact that you had called upon Douglass at this ungodly hour."
As he spoke, he handed a small paper package to Chick, who accepted it gratefully.
It contained the wig which he used for his bootblack make-up, and he did not for a moment believe that he had lost it out of his pocket.
"Have you discovered what the package contains?" he asked of Baltimore.
"Oh, no. I did not look inside."
"That's a lie," thought Chick, but he said:
"You would have been edified if you had; see!" and he undid the package and held up the wig.
Then he returned it quietly to his pocket without offering any explanation whatever.
Baltimore shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment.
"Won't you breakfast with me, gentlemen?" he asked.
"Thanks, but I'm going to bed," replied Chick.
"Very well. I will say good-morning. Mr. Douglass, we will meet as per arrangement for our detective work."
"All right," replied Nick. "I'm ready at any time."
Then Baltimore went out.
"Nick," said Chick, as soon as they were alone, "What do you think of it?"
"He took the wig from your pocket."
"Certainly."
"He saw what it was, and followed you."
"Sure."
"You came straight here and the chances are that he knows you to be a detective, and believes me to be one also."
"No doubt of it."
"Do you think that he suspected it before you started for the gambling-house?"
"No."
"Good. Now you leave me to manage Baltimore, and devote your energies entirely to the work of knowing everything that Conover does and says."
"Who is Conover?"
Nick explained in a few words, and Chick presently withdrew.
Then the detective went at once to the room of Judson Mayhew.
"Mayhew," he said, "have you a good full-length picture of your friend, Gerald Yates?"
"No—but Vera has one."
"Can you get it?"
"I don't know."
"Steal it, I mean."
"I could, but—"
"You must. Take the first train for Springfield. Secure possession of that picture, and bring it to me at once."
"But—"
"There are no buts," and Nick turned and left the room before Mayhew could speak again.
Soon after, he was again in a cab and driven rapidly toward the apartments of Gerald Yates on Commonwealth avenue.
Arrived there, he speedily found the janitor, and with a great show of mystery, pretended he must have a few moments private conversation with him at once.
The janitor conducted the detective to a little room back of the elevator, which he used for an office, and closed the door.
He turned to ask Nick the nature of his business, but suddenly found himself seized in an iron grasp, and hurled to the floor.
He tried to cry out, but Nick's hand was upon his throat. "If you utter a sound it will be your last!" said the detective, and the janitor, thoroughly frightened, whispered that he would do exactly as he was told.
"If you obey me," said Nick, fiercely, "I will not hurt you. If you refuse, I won't answer for the consequences. Do you remember that two men came here and inquired for Mr. Yates last evening?"
"Yes."
"Have you seen Yates since?"
"No, sir."
"Has anybody been here to ask for him?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"The sandy complexioned man."
"When?"
"An hour ago."
"Where is he now?"
"Up stairs."
"In Yates' rooms?"
"Yes."
"Why did you permit him to go to the rooms in Mr. Yates' absence?"
"Orders."
"Eh?"
"Mr Yates told me once that he was a particular friend, and I was never to stop him."
"When was that?"
"Only a few days ago."
"Can you tell me the date?"
"Yes—the 26th."
"How do you remember the date?"
"Because I make up my accounts on the 26th of each month. I was working on them when Mr. Yates called me out."
"The fire was on the 25th," thought Nick.
"Where are your keys?" he asked.
"In my pocket."
Nick secured them.
"Which one opens Mr. Yates' door?" was the next question.
The janitor pointed it out.
"Now where is the door?"
"Up one flight on the right-hand side in front."
"Good. I am going up there and I am going to fasten you first."
"Are you a burglar, sir?"
"No. I am not going to steal anything; neither am I going to hurt you if you obey me."
Nick placed the iron bracelets on the janitor's wrists and ankles, and then put an improved gag over instead of in the man's mouth.
"There," he said, "I will leave you here for the present. By and by I will come and release you. Do not attempt to escape or to make a noise, if you value your life."
Nick went out, locking the door after him, and hurried up the stairs.
The time was mid-day, and he knew that he must be very cautious if he gained admittance to Yates' apartments without betraying his presence to Conover.
Reaching the door, he turned the knob softly and found that it was unlocked.
Gently he pushed it open, and found that he was admitted to an ante-room from which several doors opened.
He closed the door and cautiously glided forward; but suddenly paused again when he heard the murmur of voices from one of the rooms.
"Without making a sound he drew nearer, and at length, by stretching at full length upon the floor, and placing his ear close to the threshold, he could plainly hear all that was said, and it proved to be an exceedingly interesting conversation.
A voice which he did not recognize was speaking when he first caught the words, and it was the smooth and even tone of Conover, the book-keeper that replied.
"—wig. Mayhew is bound to find out all that he can, and he will leave no stone unturned to do so."
"A fig for Mayhew!"
"That is well enough, but the same remark will not apply to Douglass and his friend Swinton."
"I don't think we need fear them in the least."
"No—not now."
"Now, or ever."
"Don't be too sure of that. They must either be thrown entirely off the scent or we must get rid of them in a very effective way."
"No more killing. I don't like that."
"Neither do I, still—" and there followed a significant pause.
"Have you seen Vera, lately?" asked Conover.
"No—not since the 25th."
"Perhaps she could suggest something."
"She will be here to-morrow."
"Here?"
"No, dotard, not here—but where she always comes when me have to meet."
"I see."
"That reminds me, Conover, you had better close out affairs in the Yates business at once. We must not meet here any more. When you want to see me, come to the old place. That is safer, and better. Now do we understand each other?"
"Yes, thoroughly."
"There is no occasion then, for any more meetings between us, I think."
"None whatever."
"Good. I will live my old life for a while and then, when I have worked the balance of my little scheme, I will bid Boston a fond adieu forever."
"There is only one thing which may compel us to see each other again."
"What is that?"
"These detectives. If they hound us too closely—"
"Leave them to me—and Vera. They have no suspicion of you, and to night I—as they have known me—will disappear forever. Leave them to me, Con., and don't give yourself any uneasiness."
"Good."
"Well, I'm going now," continued the unknown voice.
Nick did not wait for more.
To remain where he was meant to be discovered, and he hastily withdrew, passing down the stairs rapidly, and out upon the street, where, in the doorway of an apartment house opposite, he concealed himself and waited for the owner of the unknown voice to make his appearance.
By and by, after a long wait, Conover came out.
Nick recognized him at once, and let him go.
Five minutes later a woman, closely veiled, issued from the building, and walked rapidly down the avenue.
In front of the adjoining building a cab was standing, and the woman entered it, seemingly without a word to the driver, and was driven rapidly away.
FOR Nick to follow the cab was utterly out of the question.
There was not another vehicle in sight that he could hire for the purpose, and for him, in the disguise he then wore, to rush through the avenue like a madman in pursuit of a rapidly moving cab, would be the acme of folly.
Very thoughtfully he returned to the house and liberated the janitor.
"Now, my friend," he said, "I have not stolen anything, and whether the others did or not, I can't say, but I have a bit of wholesome advice to give you. That is, say absolutely nothing of what has happened to-day, to anybody, if you wish to keep your place here."
"I will never speak of it, sir. You are a detective, I suppose."
"No matter who or what I am. I mean what I say. Now tell me why you think I am a detective."
"Because you went to Mr. Yates' rooms."
"Why should that influence you?"
"Because about an hour before you came here, to-day, I was told that a detective would come."
"Indeed! Who told you?"
"A lady."
"Humph! Tell me all about it."
"She came here and asked for the janitor, and I went into the hallway to see her."
"Yes."
"She asked me if I would take a letter and give it to Mr. Yates as soon as he returned. I said yes—"
"Did she give you the letter?"
"Yes."
"Have you got it now?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Go on with your story."
"She said it was important, and that I must deliver it into his hands only. I agreed to do so, and she gave me a five-dollar bill."
"Well?"
"Then she turned to go, hesitated, and finally told me that a detective might call for Mr. Yates, or try to get into his rooms before very long.
"What for?" said I.
"Mr. Yates has gone away without attending to some matters that he ought to have seen to, and his friends are looking for him. If the detective comes, you are to say nothing of my having been here."
"Ah! and that is the very reason why you have told me, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought so; and it is exactly what she expected you to do."
"Eh?"
"She meant you to tell me. Now, did you see her face?"
"Plainly."
"Describe her."
"Tall, fair, and very beautiful."
"Had you ever seen her before?"
"Once."
"When?"
"Two or three months ago."
"Where?"
"At the theater—the museum. I was in the parquet, and she was in a box with several others. I noticed her because I saw Mr. Yates go into the box during the evening."
"Did he remain?"
"Yes, until the play was over."
"Who else was in the box?"
"Another lady and the same gentleman that I have seen with Mr. Yates so often."
"The one who limps?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you hear this lady's name?"
"No."
"And have never seen her since, until to-day?"
"Never."
"What did you do with the letter that she gave you?"
"It is in my pocket."
"Let me look at it."
"But—"
"Let me have it, I say."
The janitor drew forth the letter and handed it to Nick.
The detective took it and deliberately broke the seal, much to the horror of the janitor, who protested with all his might.
The envelope contained only a short note which read as follows:
" Gerald:—
I must see you again, My pride is crushed. If you will return, all will be forgiven and we will forget the past. I do not know when you will receive this, for I believe that you have made good your threat and gone away. However, I dare not seek for information where I know that I could get it. I will await you, and expect you until you come.
"As ever, Vera."
"I will keep this letter, janitor," said Nick. "It happens to be just what I want."
"But, sir, I was paid to—"
"You may keep the money."
"But suppose that the lady should change her mind and call for it?"
"Tell her that you have delivered it to Mr. Yates."
"Suppose that Mr. Yates should come?"
"When he comes here he will probably have received it, for I shall see him before you can."
"And will you give it to him?"
"Yes."
Nick then returned to the Parker House, and went to his room.
At three o'clock a messenger-boy brought him a letter.
It was from Baltimore, and regretted that the receipt of a telegram had forced him to postpone his engagement with Mr. Douglass for twenty-four hours, and stated that he would then enter the lists with him in the search for their mutual friend, Gerald Yates.
Nick had scarcely finished reading the note from Baltimore, when another was brought to him.
Breaking the seal of that one, he read:
"Trains leave at 8 P.M., B. & A. depot. Can't wait; must go; three in the party, including self. News from mines say no rich ore yet struck, but think 'pay-dirt' in sight. Lead undoubtedly right one, Ore very hard; difficult to crush. Access by no means easy. C."
Nick smiled as he read.
The note was from Chick, and being translated from its ambiguity, it read:
"Baltimore and a companion leave at 8 P.M. via Boston & Albany Railroad. Haven't discovered anything of value yet, but think I will. Baltimore is the right one to watch, but he is very smart and keen, and hard to shadow."
The detective lighted a cigar and smoked for a long time in silence.
At seven o'clock he carefully closed the shutter and began a rapid change in his disguise, and as soon as it was accomplished, he set out for the Boston and Albany depot.
He had been very particular in assuming his disguise for the occasion, for he realized that the sharp eyes and quick perception of Maurice Baltimore would detect him unless he so thoroughly transformed himself that even Chick would be puzzled.
He reasoned that the 8 o'clock train from the Boston and Albany depot could mean but one destination for Baltimore and his companion, and that was Springfield, the home of Vera Glenn.
As he passed out through the passenger-gates, he saw a young man engaged in conversation with the conductor of the train, and although at first he did not recognize him, a second glance revealed the fact that it was Chick.
"Good," he thought. "My friends are on the train."
Sauntering slowly forward, he approached Chick, and the conductor.
"Is this the train for Springfield?" he asked, addressing the latter.
"Yes, sir."
As the conductor spoke, he turned away and left the two detectives together.
"All O.K., Chick?" asked Nick Carter.
"Yes."
"Are they on the train?"
"Yes."
"Disguised?"
"No."
"Who is with Baltimore?"
"A lady."
"Beautiful?"
"Yes."
"Blonde?"
"Yes."
"Good. Return and keep your eyes on Conover. I'll go to Springfield."
Chick walked away without another word, while the detective boarded the train, which a moment or two later pulled out of the depot.
Nick had purposely boarded the car next to the forward part of the train, and as soon as they were well in motion, he started back in his search for the two people he was pursuing.
In the third car he found them.
Baltimore had attempted no disguise whatever, and Nick had not a doubt that the lady was the same who had called at the apartment house and left the note for Gerald Yates.
Was it Vera Glenn?
He could not say, but, judging from the general description given him by Judson Mayhew, he believed that it was she.
NICK took a seat directly behind the two, where he could overhear much that was said between them, but their conversation was entirely of a general nature, and he heard nothing which could give him any hint regarding the case in hand.
Springfield was finally reached, and all three left the train.
There a carriage was in waiting at the depot, which Baltimore and his companion at once entered and were driven rapidly away.
But Nick went also.
Not as a passenger of the same carriage, however, but riding upon the box with the driver of another that was near at hand at the right moment.
A crisp new bill satisfied the driver, and Nick himself handled the reins.
He noticed that the carriage he was following made many turns, and came to the conclusion that it was a ruse of Maurice Baltimore's in order to discover if he was being followed.
Suddenly the leading carriage turned a corner where trees were thick, and where the darkness was more dense by comparison, than elsewhere in the street.
Nick passed the reins to the driver.
"Don't stop," he said. " Drive right on past the corner, and then go where you please."
With a swinging leap he cleared the wheel and alighted upon the ground.
Two bounds carried him beneath the trees into the shadow, and then he hurried toward the corner, while the hack that he had just left continued with unabated speed on its way.
As Nick expected, when he reached the corner, he plainly saw the carriage that he had been following, drawn up against the curbstone.
He smiled, well pleased.
"You came near spotting me that time, Mr. Baltimore," he muttered, "but I tumbled just a little too quick. My conveyance has gone, and now you can take your time."
He waited, but the carriage he was watching did not move.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed; a half-hour, and still the carriage stood there, the horses champing their bits impatiently, and the driver sitting as motionless as a cigar sign upon his box.
"By Jove, I believe that he has fooled me after all," thought Nick.
Suddenly, he decided upon a move which few detectives would have undertaken.
Rapidly and silently he drew near the carriage, feigning intoxication as soon as he was close enough to be observed by the driver.
"Hel—hic—lo, senator!" he said. "I'll give—hic—you two—hic—doll's 'f take me—hic—t' 'otel—hic."
"No such hotel in Springfield," said the driver, with a grin.
"Eh?"
"Hotel Hick? never heard of it."
"I—hic—mean Hotel War—hic—wick. I shay, will y' take me?"
"No."
"Well, I'm goin', hic, anyhow, hic, see?"
Nick pulled the carriage door open and quickly entered, closing it behind him.
"Git out o' there," yelled the driver with an oath.
A loud snore was his reply.
Then another volley of oaths from the Jehu, and more snores.
Suddenly the exasperated driver leaped to the ground, and opened the door with a bang.
"Git out o' there," he cried, "or I'll break your face for you, see?"
"Oh, dry up," drawled Nick; "you make me tired!"
"I do, do I?"
"You, hic, give me a pain. hic—wick." Go to h—hic—'otel War—hic—wick."
The driver, now thoroughly enraged, thrust his head and shoulders inside the carriage, and sought to seize the intruder.
That was exactly what the detective wanted.
Instead of being seized, he grasped the driver as in a vice, and hauled him bodily into the carriage.
"If you utter a cry, I'll cut your throat!" he muttered in the man's ear. "I've got you where I want you now, and you have just five minutes to live, so say your prayers."
"Mercy!" groaned the man, who instantly thought himself in the grasp of a giant or a madman. "Let me get out and I'll take you to your hotel."
"Listen," said Nick, "in my right hand I've got a knife, and if you make any effort to escape, and do not do exactly as I tell you, I'll use it. I'll prove it to you."
At the same instant Nick thrust the point of a pin into the driver's leg.
He uttered a sharp cry which he, however, quickly smothered.
"Now answer my questions," said Nick.
"Yes, sir."
"Is this a private carriage?"
"Yes."
"To whom does it belong?"
"Miss Vera Glenn."
"Indeed! Why are you standing here at this hour?"
"Orders."
"From whom?"
"My mistress."
"Are you waiting for her?"
"No."
"For whom, then?"
"Nobody."
"How long were you to stand here?"
"One hour."
"And then—"
"I was to go to the stable."
"Is the stable near here?"
"Next street."
"Was Miss Glenn in the carriage when you stopped here?"
"Yes."
"Who was with her?"
"Mr. Ryerson."
"Ryerson, eh? Why did they leave the carriage here, instead of being taken to the door?"
"Don't know. Mr. Ryerson told me to stop here, and when I drew up, he and Miss Glenn got down. She told me to stay here one hour and then to go to the stable."
"How long have you been employed by the Glenns?"
"Only since yesterday."
"Did Mr. Ryerson engage you?"
"Yes. I came from Boston, but I used to live here when I was a boy."
"How long have you known Ryerson?"
"Only since he engaged me."
"Did you ever see Ryerson before?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"In Boston."
"Did you ever hear that he bore another name?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Baltimore."
"Does he know that you know that?"
"No. Its none o' my biz, if he wants to wear two names, so long as he don't ask me to do any crooked work."
"Right. Where do you sleep?"
"In the stable."
"How many servants are there in the Glenn household?"
"Five, counting me."
"All have been there a long time, I suppose."
"No. None of 'em more'n two weeks."
"Indeed. What is your name?"
"Thomas Downs."
"When are Mr. Ryerson and Miss Glenn to be married?"
"They've been married a good while."
"How do you know that?"
"Mr. Ryerson told me."
"What did he say?"
"That Miss Glenn was really Mrs. Ryerson, but they did not want it to be known at present."
"Why did he tell you that."
"'Cause a circumstance happened which obliged him to do so.'
"Does anybody stay in the stable with you?"
"No."
"Well, I am going there with you now."
"What for?"
"That is my business. We will get upon the box together and drive to the stable. If you attempt any funny business, I'll keep my word and run this knife into you, if a thousand people are looking on, so be careful."
They got upon the box together, Nick having in the meantime drawn his knife so that the driver could see it.
Five minutes later they reached the stable, where Nick closed and locked the door as soon as they were inside.
"Now take good care of your horses, Thomas, and then we'll get down to business."
It was evident that the coachman believed himself in the power of a madman, and thought that his only salvation was in humoring his every whim.
Nick realized that, and made the most of it.
The horses were quickly cared for, and then Nick said to the astonished coachman:
"Now take off that rig, for I want to borrow it for a while."
"What for?"
"Do as I tell you, and don't ask questions."
"But—"
Nick flourished the knife significantly, and Thomas, now thoroughly convinced that his companion was crazy, lost no time in doing as he was told.
The change was soon made, and then Nick proceeded to make himself up by first studying the coachman's face, and then working upon his own.
The process was rapid and soon there were two faces exactly alike in the stable.
Then the detective made Thomas put on the clothes that he had discarded, and presently their personalities were transformed so that Nick was the coachman, and the coachman was the character which Nick had represented at their first introduction.
At that instant an electric bell over their heads rang out sharply.
"What does that mean?" asked Nick.
"There's a speaking-tube under the bell. Let me answer."
"No; I'll answer for you."
Nick went to the tube and said:
"Well?"
"Thomas?"
"Yes. ma'am."
"Who was the man who came in with you?"
"A friend of mine."
"Where did you pick him up?"
"On 'the corner where you left me with the horses."
"You must send him away at once."
"He's drunk, ma'am, an' can't walk."
"Nonsense; send him away at once, or I'll discharge you in the morning," and the other end of the speaking tube closed with a snap.
FIVE minutes later the electric bell rang out again.
Nick went to the tube.
"Thomas?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Has your friend gone?"
"No, ma'am, I can't budge him."
Again the tube closed at the other end.
"Something is up," thought Nick, "and unless I am greatly mistaken, the owner of that voice is coming out to the stable."
He drew a vial from his pocket and emptied the contents over a small sponge.
Then, leaping upon the unsuspecting coachman, he held him as in a vise, and pressed the sponge closely over his mouth and nostrils.
The chloroform did its work quickly, and Thomas was soon unconscious.
Then Nick laid him upon some blankets on the floor and awaited developments.
They were soon forthcoming.
He heard a key fitted into the lock of a little side door, and a moment later Vera Glenn entered the stable.
"Chloroform!" she exclaimed, as soon as she was inside.
"Yes, ma'am," said Nick. "At least that is what I suppose it is. He took it himself an' seemed to like it, an' I couldn't do nothin' with him."
She stepped forward, and bidding Nick hold the light nearer, carefully examined the face of the unconscious man.
"It is the same," she muttered.
"What, ma'am?" asked Nick.
"Nothing. Did you ever see this man before to-night, Thomas."
"Oh, yes'm; often."
"Where?"
"In Boston."
"Who is he? I mean what is his business?"
"He used to be a cop an' now he's a detective."
"Ah!"
She mused a moment, and then said, suddenly:
"Well, he can remain here until he recovers. I will have him cared for in the morning. And now, Thomas, I want you to do an important errand for me."
"Yes'm."
"You have just time to catch the 3:40 A. M. train for Boston. Mr. Ryerson went back immediately, but he forgot a very important package. He may have lost his train, and if so you will find him at the depot. If not, you must go to Boston, and deliver the package to him at once. After that you can spend the forenoon there among your friends, if you wish, but return in the afternoon."
"Yes'm—an' this feller here—?"
"I will take care of him. Get ready, now, and I will bring the package to you."
She hurried out, and Nick was left alone with the unconscious coachman.
He was in a dilemma.
He read Vera Glenn's purpose as plainly as though she had related it in words.
"Supposing me to be Thomas, she sends me to Boston on a fool's errand to get me out of the way, while she murders Thomas, supposing him to be me," he muttered. "Then, when I return, she will tell me that my friend has recovered and gone. Query: how am I to save Thomas from being murdered without betraying myself?"
There was no time to plan, for Vera Glenn quickly reappeared with a package in her hand which Nick knew to be a book which she had hastily wrapped in paper.
"There, Thomas," she said, "you have no time to lose, if you catch that train. Hurry!"
Nick hesitated, without permitting his hesitation to appear.
Then, suddenly deciding, he took the package from her hand and hurried out of the stable.
He saw her peeping from the door after him as he went, and consequently he continued on, rapidly until he knew he was out of her sight.
Then, pausing, he as rapidly retraced his steps.
Passing along the driveway, he continued in the shadow until he reached the little side-door by which she had entered the stable.
It was partly ajar.
Peering through, Nick saw her bending over the unconscious form of the coachman.
There was a small, gleaming dagger in her hand, and she held it poised above him as if about to strike.
Her beautiful face was pale and set, and her eyes flashed ominously.
Nick was on the point of leaping forward to prevent the crime which seemed almost inevitable when she saved him the necessity by suddenly lowering her hand.
"No—no!" he heard her murmur. "This will not do. Blood would flow, and there would be stains. Ah! I have it. There is chloroform in my room. I will bring that, and he shall die an easy death. Fool, to try to shadow us! Twice a fool to place himself in my power so."
She departed, to get her chloroform.
Then was Nick's time to act.
Never did he work so rapidly.
With a bound he reached the place where Thomas lay, and seizing him, he bore him quickly to the harness-room.
Then he fairly tore the costume from him.
Seconds flew, and Nick worked as he had never worked before.
But he was successful.
In an incredibly short time he resumed his former habit, and returning to the stable, stretched himself where Thomas had been, assuming exactly the same position.
Not an instant too soon, for he had scarcely composed himself, when Vera reappeared, bottle in hand.
Saturating a handkerchief, she laid it over his face and held it there.
From time to time she put more chloroform upon it, never once removing the cambric, and giving the detective absolutely no chance to breathe.
In spite of all that Nick could do, he inhaled more or less of the drug, but by holding his breath most of the time he managed to retain his consciousness.
At last she removed the handkerchief and gazed intently at her supposed victim.
"He does not breathe," she murmured.
Then she placed her hand over his heart.
It was beating so faintly, owing to the detectives' having held his breath so long, that she did not perceive it at all.
"Dead, quite dead," she murmured. "This was the best way, after all. Better than the other. Bah! I don't like pistols and daggers-but then, chloroform could not have been used then, and besides, the fire—yes, he is dead."
Then she looked around her for a place in which to conceal the body.
"The harness-room won't do," he heard her mutter. "He is too heavy for me to carry. Ah! the old carriage. It is covered with a sheet. We never use it. Nobody looks inside. He can stay there till Maurice comes."
Grasping Nick by his feet, she dragged him across the floor to the carriage.
By dint of great exertion she managed, after a while to get him into the vehicle, after which she rearranged the sheet which covered it, and drew back with a sigh of relief.
VERA GLENN turned and left the stable stealthily and quickly.
As soon as she was gone, Nick leaped from the carriage, and hurrying to the light, examined the package which she had given him to deliver to Maurice Baltimore.
He saw only a small volume of the New Testament, and smiled grimly as he thought to what use it had been put.
"One thing is certain," he mused, "and that is that, not-withstanding the faith which Judson Mayhew puts in this young woman, she is the murderess he seeks, and she must suffer the consequences."
Nick's first care was to replace the coachman's costume upon Thomas.
Then, after administering powerful restoratives, he finally succeeded in bringing him back to consciousness.
"Now, Thomas," he said, when the man had recovered sufficiently to hear and understand him, "there have been great changes here since you went to sleep, and the outcome is that you must disappear.
"Here are fifty dollars. Take the money and go to Boston. Get your old job back again, and if you see Mr. Ryerson on the street, avoid him."
It needed but little argument to thoroughly frighten the coachman, and he soon departed.
Then Nick went at once to the residence of Judson Mayhew.
The hour was early, but he was soon admitted.
"Have you got the picture?" was Nick's first question.
"Yes."
"Let me see it."
A glance satisfied Nick that the faces were the same.
"Good," he said; "I will keep this for a while. Now, Mayhew, I have bad news for you."
"What?"
"Vera Glenn is guilty."
"No-no-no!"
"But I say yes. Not only is she guilty of that crime, but she believes that she has also murdered me."
The jeweller was thoroughly crushed.
Nick then, in as few words as possible, related all that had occurred, until Mayhew was almost prostrated with horror.
"If she is such a devil as you describe" he said, "I will show her no mercy. But I will first force her to confess to me."
"Very good; do so; but when?"
"Now."
"At this hour. No; wait; I have an idea."
Nick seated himself and rapidly wrote as follows:
Miss Glenn:—
You sent Me With A Package. I forgot suthin I Wanted. I Went Back and saW you. When you left I Got my friend and took him aWay With me. I Won't tell anybody but I will never come back,
Thomas.
He rubbed his hands over the paper to muss it, placed it in an envelope, which he also crumpled, and gave it to Mayhew.
"Give that to her," he said. "Tell her that Thomas came and woke you this morning, and asked you to give it to her. As soon as you have had your breakfast send for her to come to your store. When she gets there, follow your own bent, only I must be concealed where I can hear."
At eight o'clock they went to the store together, and Nick was astonished to see Chick standing near the window waiting for him.
"Something's up!" he thought. "While you are writing your letter to Vera, I'll get some cigars," he said to Mayhew. The latter nodded.
Then motioning to Chick to follow, Nick entered a convenient cigar store.
"Well?" he said to Chick, as soon as they could speak.
"Conover's dead."
"Whew!" whistled Nick. "When and how?"
"Found on the street with a knife in his back stone dead, about the time I left you."
"Where?"
"In front of his own house."
"Any clew?"
"None."
"Did you leave Baltimore at all yesterday?"
"No."
"Did he have a chance to do that without being seen by you?"
"No."
"Did the woman?"
"Yes. They were in the neighborhood where he was found just before going to the train. They parted on a corner, and met at the depot."
"Good. She did it, Chick. Now listen. Watch the jewelry store. She will go in. When she comes out, follow. Don't lose sight of her once."
"O.K."
Nick returned to Mayhew.
The messenger had been dispatched for Vera.
Nick concealed himself in a closet in the back room and waited.
By and by she came.
Mayhew told the story that Nick had suggested and handed her the letter, the seal of which had not been broken.
She read it.
Nick saw her change color, and then say, lightly:
"An odd way that my coachman took of resigning. Is this why you sent for me?"
"Yes. He told me all."
She started.
"All!" she exclaimed.
"Yes. But, Vera, I knew too much before!"
"What do you mean, Judson?"
"Look at these!"
With a quick motion he extended his hand, containing the things that he had found after the murder at the Kitchell place.
With a startled gasp, and turning as pale as death itself, she leaped forward and tore them from his grasp.
"You have never shown them?" she cried, frantically.
"No," he said, coldly. "I never have."
"You will not betray me! Oh, Judson, promise that you will not!" and she fell upon her knees before him.
"Do you confess to this awful crime?" he groaned.
"And do you still believe me innocent?"
"My God, Vera, I can hardly believe that this is yourself!"
"Spare me, Judson; by your love for me, spare me!"
"Vera, it is too horrible!! I cannot spare you. I could not if I would. I am not the only one who knows of your crimes. There are others and they will not spare you even if I should consent—and I—I—cannot."
She rose slowly to her feet.
"You will not spare me! You will not defend me!" she said, slowly.
Mayhew shook his head.
"Vera," he said, and his voice was full of sadness. "I believe that you have been transformed into a fiend."
"Perhaps I have, Judson," she said, softly, and moving a step nearer to him. "Sometimes I think so, too. Judson, Judson, you once loved me. Must I be arrested? Must I go to prison? to the scaffold?"
He bowed his head and did not reply.
"Give me until evening—until four o'clock this afternoon. Then come for me and bring your officers. You will not refuse me the chance to prepare my mother for this shock?"
"No—no."
"I will not run away; I will not even kill myself. I will be at home when you come at four, to take me to prison. Will you do as I ask?"
"Yes."
"I have until four?"
"Yes"
"Thank you, Judson."
Then, without another word she hastily left the store.
"Did I do right, Carter?" asked Mayhew, when Nick came from the closet.
"Perfectly."
"Do you think that she will try to escape?"
"Yes."
"Then—"
"She will not succeed."
"Why?"
"I sneezed four times when I went for these cigars. Those sneezes are after her. Will you smoke? No? At four o'clock we will go to the house together. Until then, we have nothing to do."
"Mr. Carter, you are accustomed to crime; I am not. Can you tell me what has changed an angel into a fiend?"
"No, I cannot. But I can tell you that there is another mystery here which will be solved in less than twenty-four hours."
AT noon a boy entered the jewelry store and asked for Mr. Mayhew.
When satisfied, he said:
"'Ere's a note wot goes to yer friend, an' the feller wot sent it said I was ter git a dollar, see?"
Nick took the note, read it, placed it in his pocket, smiled rather brightly, and gave the boy two dollars instead of one.
"It's worth it," he said.
Mayhew looked inquiringly at Nick, but the detective vouchsafed no explanation.
"Is there a train for Boston about five?" he asked.
"Yes; 5:02."
"Thanks."
At four o'clock they were both at the door of the Glenn mansion.
Mayhew rang the bell.
"Is Miss Glenn at home?" he asked of the servant.
"Yes, sir; but she is very ill; her mother is with her."
"Go and say that Mr. Mayhew is here with a friend," broke in Nick. "I think Mrs. Glenn would like to see him."
"Why did you do that?" asked Mayhew when the servant had gone. "If she is ill, we must wait."
"Not at all. Ah!"
"Judson, I am so glad you have come!" exclaimed Mrs. Glenn, coming rapidly into the room. "I am greatly frightened about Vera; she is so strange."
"What has happened?"
"I do not know. She speaks of things which happened two weeks ago as though they were but yesterday, and she remembers nothing that has occurred during that time."
"Will you let us see her, madam? I believe that I can both cure her and explain her strange malady."
Mrs. Glenn looked inquiringly at Judson.
He nodded his head, and she turned and led them to the room where Vera was stretched upon a couch, looking like the ghost of the brilliant woman whom they had seen that morning.
What a change!
Mayhew was horrified, but Nick only smiled.
One glance at the younger woman was enough, and he turned to her mother, drawing her aside.
He talked rapidly and in a low tone to her for several moments, and while he was speaking, her face expressed all of the emotions to which human nerves are heir, until a smile at last lit up her features.
Then he drew Mayhew aside.
"We have just time to catch that train," he said to him. "Come!"
Mayhew, dazed and dumfounded, followed blindly, and they left the house and hurried to the depot.
Neither spoke until they were seated in the train.
"Did you ever see such a change in so short a time?" Mayhew asked at last.
"Never."
"She swears that she has not been inside my store in a year."
"Doubtless."
"It is hard to believe her to be Vera."
"I found it very easy."
"Humph!"
Boston was reached in due time, and they drove at once to the Parker House.
"Anything for me?" asked Nick, who had assumed the character of Douglass.
A letter was handed to him.
He broke the seal, read, and then said:
"Come."
Again they drove rapidly.
"Where are you going?" asked Mayhew.
"After my four sneezes."
"D— your four sneezes!"
"Bless them, rather."
At length the carriage stopped, and Nick and Mayhew got down.
Instantly a form came toward them in the darkness, and silently pointed at a house on the corner.
"Both there?" asked Nick.
"Yes."
"Come with me then," and he went on toward the house.
When the door was opened in answer to his ring, he seized the servant and dragged him out upon the steps before he had a chance to cry out.
"Quick, now!" he whispered, "if you wish to live. In which room is your mistress?"
"Back parlor."
"Good. Now skip down the avenue and tell the police that she is being murdered. Fly!"
He flew.
Then Nick entered the house, followed by the others.
"Who rang, Ernest?" asked a voice that made Mayhew start.
Nick pushed the young jeweler through the curtains, roughly, but effectually.
"I!" he said, as he did so.
There was an exclamation of wonder, a scream of terror, and an oath of genuine rage, all at the same instant. Nick peeped through the curtains. Mayhew was in the center of the room, an expression of wondering horror upon his face. Vera Glenn (or her exact counterpart) was half crouched near the center-table, and Maurice Baltimore was near one of the windows, half bent forward as though he could devour the man before him.
"Vera Glenn!" gasped the young jeweler.
"Judson Mayhew!" shrieked the woman.
Suddenly she leaped forward, and before it could be prevented, plunged a small dagger into Mayhew's breast.
The young man sank back with a loud groan just as Nick and Chick leaped into the room.
Chick seized the woman, and before she could struggle even, he had placed the handcuffs upon her wrists.
Baltimore made a fight for it.
He drew his revolver and attempted to fire, but a kick from Nick's foot sent it flying across the room.
Then Baltimore sprang forward and grappled with Nick, but the next instant he found himself lifted high in the air, and then dashed to the floor like a bag of grain, stunned and insensible.
Nick turned and bowed mockingly to the handcuffed woman.
"Madam," he said. "I have the honor of arresting you for three murders. That of Gerald Yates, with a pistol; that of Conover, with a knife, and that of a detective with chloroform."
Baltimore and his beautiful accomplice were soon securely locked in cells where there was no hope of escape, and thus Nick Carter had accomplished the work in considerably less than the week allotted.
In clearing up the scattered threads of the case and preparing for trial, it was found that Maurice Baltimore, alias Ryerson, alias Gibson, and alias a dozen other names, was a most accomplished penman.
He had begun by forging papers bearing the name of Gerald Yates, and when on the brink of discovery he had escaped by murdering the man who had befriended him.
It was by chance that he discovered the strong likeness between Vera Glenn and his wife, and a few touches had rendered it perfect.
She was the greater villain of the two, and having gained admission to the Glenn mansion in the character of a dress maker, she had drugged Vera and hidden her in a closet. The only reason that she did not murder her was because there was no way to dispose of the body, and for two weeks she had been kept unconscious with drugs.
Then began the break with Gerald, who was finally enticed to the old Kitchell place, and murdered, after which the house was fired in order to destroy all traces of the crime.
The jewelry and revolver were forgotten, but they believed the fire would serve their purpose.
Expert in disguises, Baltimore got himself up so like Yates that he readily passed for him.
Conover, however, detected the fraud, but was won over by the immense sum which Baltimore offered for his assistance.
Later, they killed him, because they feared him.
The letter which was left with the janitor by the pseudo Vera, was simply a clever ruse to avert suspicion from her, should it be directed that way.
She liked the character of Vera and meant to play it to the end, thus securing the immense fortune which went with it, while Baltimore had already possessed himself of Gerald Yates' wealth.
The wound which Mayhew received proved to be slight, and he soon recovered, while the clever forger and his fiendish wife paid the penalty of their numerous crimes.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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