Title: The Strange Schemes of Randolph Mason
Author: Post, Melville Davisson
Language: English
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THE STRANGE SCHEMES OF RANDOLPH MASON

By Melville Davisson Post

Author Of "The Clients Of Randolph Mason"

G. P. Putnam's Sons

New York and London

1896


TO

JOHN A. HOWARD

SKILFUL LAWYER, AND COURTEOUS GENTLEMAN



THE STRANGE SCHEMES OF RANDOLPH MASON.



INTRODUCTION.

THE teller of strange tales is not the least among benefactors of men.
His cup of Lethe is welcome at times even to the strongest, when the
_tædium vito_ of the commonplace is in its meridian. To the aching
victim of evil fortune, it is ofttimes the divine anaesthetic.

To-day a bitter critic calls down to the storyteller, bidding him turn
out with the hewers of wood and the drawers of water, for the reason
that there is no new thing, and the pieces with which he seeks to build
are ancient and well worn. "At best," he cries, "the great one among you
can produce but combinations of the old, some quaint, some monstrous,
and all weary." But the writer does not turn out, and the world swings
merrily on.

Perhaps the critic forgets that if things are old, men are new; that
while the grain field stands fast, the waves passing over it are not one
like the other. The new child is the best answer.

The reader is a clever tyrant. He demands something more than people
of mist. There must be tendons in the ghost hand, and hard bones in the
phantom, else he feels that he has been cheated.

Perhaps, of all things, the human mind loves best the problem. Not
the problem of the abacus, but the problem of the chess-board when the
pieces are living; the problem with passion and peril in it; with the
fresh air of the hills and the salt breath of the sea. It propounds this
riddle to the writer: Create mind-children, O Magician, with red blood
in their faces, who, by power inherited from you, are enabled to secure
the fruits of drudgery, without the drudgery. Nor must the genius of
Circumstance help. Make them do what we cannot do, good Magician, but
make them of clay as we are. We know all the old methods so well, and we
are weary of them. Give us new ones.

Exacting is this taskmaster. It demands that the problem builder
cunningly join together the Fancy and the Fact, and thereby enchant and
bewilder, but not deceive. It demands all the mighty motives of life in
the problem. Thus it happens that the toiler has tramped and retramped
the field of crime. Poe and the French writers constructed masterpieces
in the early day. Later came the flood of "Detective Stories" until
the stomach of the reader failed. Yesterday, Mr. Conan Doyle created
Sherlock Holmes, and the public pricked up its ears and listened with
interest.

It is significant that the general plan of this kind of tale has never
once been changed to any degree. The writers, one and all, have labored,
often with great genius, to construct problems in crime, where by acute
deduction the criminal and his methods were determined; or, reversing
it, they have sought to plan the crime so cunningly as to effectually
conceal the criminal and his methods. The intent has always been to
baffle the trailer, and when the identity of the criminal was finally
revealed, the story ended.

The high ground of the field of crime has not been explored; it has not
even been entered. The book-stalls have been filled to weariness with
tales based upon plans whereby the _detective_, or _ferreting_ power
of the State might be baffled. But, prodigious marvel! no writer has
attempted to construct tales based upon plans whereby the _punishing_
power of the State might be baffled.

The distinction, if one pauses for a moment to consider it, is striking.
It is possible, even easy, deliberately to plan crimes so that the
criminal agent and the criminal agency cannot be detected. Is it
possible to plan and execute wrongs in such a manner that they will have
all the effect and all the resulting profit of desperate crimes and yet
not be crimes before the law?

There is, perhaps, nothing of which the layman is so grossly ignorant
as of the law. He has grown to depend upon what he is pleased to call
common sense. Indeed his refrain, "The law is common sense," has at
times been echoed by the judiciary. There was never a graver error. The
common sense of the common man is at best a poor guide to the criminal
law. It is no guide at all to the civil law.

There is here no legal heresy. Lord Coke, in the seventeenth century,
declared that the law was not the natural reason of man, and that men
could not, out of their common reason, make such laws as the laws of
England were. The laws have not grown simpler, surely, and if they could
not be constructed by the common reason of men, they could certainly not
be determined by it. That men have but indistinct ideas of the law is to
be regretted and deplored. For their protection they should know it; and
there is need of this protection. The voices of all men were not joined
in the first great cry for law and order, nor are they all joined now.
The hands of a part of mankind have ever been set against their fellows;
for what great reason no man can tell. Maybe the Potter marred some, and
certainly evil Circumstance marred some. But, by good hap, industry has
always, and intelligence has usually, been on the law's side. Ofttimes,
however, the Ishmælites raise up a genius and he, spying deep, sees the
weak places in the law and the open holes in it, and forces through,
to the great hurt of his fellows. And men standing in the market-places
marvel.

We are prone to forget that the law is no perfect structure, that it
is simply the result of human labor and human genius, and that whatever
laws human ingenuity can create for the protection of men, those same
laws human ingenuity can evade. The Spirit of Evil is no dwarf; he has
developed equally with the Spirit of Good.

All wrongs are not crimes. Indeed only those wrongs are crimes in which
certain technical elements are present. The law provides a Procrustean
standard for all crimes. Thus a wrong, to become criminal, must fit
exactly into the measure laid down by the law, else it is no crime;
if it varies never so little from the legal measure, the law must, and
will, refuse to regard it as criminal, no matter how injurious a wrong
it may be. There is no measure of morality, or equity, or common right
that can be applied to the individual case. The gauge of the law is
iron-bound. The wrong measured by this gauge is either a crime or it is
not. There is no middle ground.

Hence is it, that if one knows well the technicalities of the law, one
may commit horrible wrongs that will yield all the gain and all the
resulting effect of the highest crimes, and yet the wrongs perpetrated
will constitute no one of the crimes described by the law. Thus the
highest crimes, even murder, may be committed in such manner that
although the criminal is known and the law holds him in custody, yet it
cannot punish him. So it happens that in this year of our Lord of the
nineteenth century, the skilful attorney marvels at the stupidity of the
rogue who, committing crimes by the ordinary methods, subjects himself
to unnecessary peril, when the result which he seeks can easily be
attained by other methods, equally expeditious and without danger of
liability in any criminal tribunal This is the field into which the
author has ventured, and he believes it to be new and full of interest.

In order to develop these legal problems the author appreciated the need
for a central figure. This central figure must of necessity be a lawyer
of shrewdness and ability. Here a grave difficulty presented itself.
No attorney, unless he were a superlative knave, could be presumed to
suggest the committing of wrongs entailing grievous injury upon innocent
men. On the other hand, no knave vicious enough to resort to such wrongs
could be presumed to have learning enough to plan them, else he would
not be driven to such straits. Hence the necessity for a character who
should be without moral sense and yet should possess all the requisite
legal acumen. Such a character is Randolph Mason, and while he may seem
strange he is not impossible.

That great shocks and dread maladies may lop off a limb of the human
mind and leave the other portions perfect, nay, may even wrench the
human soul into one narrow groove, is the common lesson of the clinic
and the mad-house. An intellect, keen, powerful, and yet devoid of any
sense of moral obligation, would be no passing wonder to the skilled
physician; for no one knows better than he that often in the house of
the soul there are great chambers locked and barred and whole passages
sealed up in the dark. Nor do men marvel that great minds concentrated
on some mighty labor grow utterly oblivious to human relations and see
and care for naught save the result which they are seeking. The chemist
forgets that the diamond is precious, and burns it; the surgeon forgets
that his patient is living and that the knife hurts as it cuts. Might
not the great lawyer, striving tirelessly with the problems of men, come
at last to see only the problem, with the people in it as pieces on a
chess-board?

It may be objected that the writer has prepared here a text-book for the
shrewd knave. To this it is answered that, if he instructs the enemies,
he also warns the friends of law and order; and that Evil has never yet
been stronger because the sun shone on it.

It should not be forgotten that this book deals with the law as it is
and with no fanciful interpretation of it. The colors are woven into a
gray warp of ancient and well settled legal principles, obtaining with
full virtue in almost every state. The formula for every wrong in this
book is as practical as the plan of an architect and may be played out
by any skilful villain. Nor should it be presumed that the instances
dealt with are exhaustive. The writer has presented but a few of the
simpler and more conspicuous; there is, in truth, many another. Indeed
the wonder grows upon him that the thief should stay up at night to
steal.

Wheeling, W. Va., June 1, 1896.



I--THE CORPUS DELICTI


_[See Lord Hale's Rule, Russell on Crimes. For the law in New York see
18th N. Y. Reports, 179; also N. Y. Reports, 49* page 137. The doctrine
there laid down obtains in almost every State, with the possible
exception of a few Western States, where the decisions are muddy.]_



I.

THAT man Mason," said Samuel Walcott, "is the mysterious member of this
club.

He is more than that; he is the mysterious man of New York."

"I was much surprised to see him," answered his companion, Marshall St.
Clair, of the great law firm of Seward, St. Clair, & De Muth. "I had
lost track of him since he went to Paris as counsel for the American
stockholders of the Canal Company. When did he come back to the States?"

"He turned up suddenly in his ancient haunts about four months ago,"
said Walcott, "as grand, gloomy, and peculiar as Napoleon ever was in
his palmiest days. The younger members of the club call him 'Zanona
Redivivus'. He wanders through the house usually late at night,
apparently without noticing anything or anybody. His mind seems to be
deeply and busily at work, leaving his bodily self to wander as it
may happen. Naturally, strange stories are told of him; indeed, his
individuality and his habit of doing some unexpected thing, and doing
it in such a marvellously original manner that men who are experts at it
look on in wonder, cannot fail to make him an object of interest. He has
never been known to play at any game whatever, and yet one night he sat
down to the chess table with old Admiral Du Brey. You know the Admiral
is the great champion since he beat the French and English officers in
the tournament last winter. Well, you also know that the conventional
openings at chess are scientifically and accurately determined. To
the utter disgust of Du Brey, Mason opened the game with an unheard of
attack from the extremes of the board. The old Admiral stopped and, in
a kindly patronizing way, pointed out the weak and absurd folly of his
move and asked him to begin again with some one of the safe openings.
Mason smiled and answered that if one had a head that he could trust he
should use it; if not, then it was the part of wisdom to follow blindly
the dead forms of some man who had a head. Du Brey was naturally angry
and set himself to demolish Mason as quickly as possible. The game was
rapid for a few moments. Mason lost piece after piece. His opening was
broken and destroyed and its utter folly apparent to the lookers-on. The
Admiral smiled and the game seemed all one-sided, when, suddenly, to
his utter horror, Du Brey found that his king was in a trap. The foolish
opening had been only a piece of shrewd strategy. The old Admiral fought
and cursed and sacrificed his pieces, but it was of no use. He was gone.
Mason checkmated him in two moves and arose wearily.

"'Where in Heaven's name, man,' said the old Admiral, thunderstruck,
'did you learn that masterpiece?'

"'Just here,' replied Mason. 'To play chess, one should know his
opponent. How could the dead masters lay down rules by which you could
be beaten, sir? They had never seen you'; and thereupon he turned and
left the room. Of course, St. Clair, such a strange man would soon
become an object of all kinds of mysterious rumors. Some are true and
some are not. At any rate, I know that Mason is an unusual man with a
gigantic intellect. Of late he seems to have taken a strange fancy to
me. In fact, I seem to be the only member of the club that he will
talk with, and I confess that he startles and fascinates me. He is an
original genius, St. Clair, of an unusual order."

"I recall vividly," said the younger man, "that before Mason went to
Paris he was considered one of the greatest lawyers of this city and he
was feared and hated by the bar at large. He came here, I believe, from
Virginia and began with the high-grade criminal practice. He soon became
famous for his powerful and ingenious defences. He found holes in the
law through which his clients escaped, holes that by the profession at
large were not suspected to exist, and that frequently astonished the
judges. His ability caught the attention of the great corporations. They
tested him and found in him learning and unlimited resources. He pointed
out methods by which they could evade obnoxious statutes, by which they
could comply with the apparent letter of the law and yet violate its
spirit, and advised them well in that most important of all things, just
how far they could bend the law without breaking it. At the time he left
for Paris he had a vast clientage and was in the midst of a brilliant
career. The day he took passage from New York, the bar lost sight of
him. No matter how great a man may be, the wave soon closes over him in
a city like this. In a few years Mason was forgotten. Now only the older
practitioners would recall him, and they would do so with hatred and
bitterness. He was a tireless, savage, uncompromising fighter, always a
recluse."

"Well," said Walcott, "he reminds me of a great world-weary cynic,
transplanted from some ancient mysterious empire. When I come into the
man's presence I feel instinctively the grip of his intellect. I tell
you, St. Clair, Randolph Mason is the mysterious man of New York."

At this moment a messenger boy came into the room and handed Mr. Walcott
a telegram. "St. Clair," said that gentleman, rising, "the directors of
the Elevated are in session, and we must hurry."

The two men put on their coats and left the house.

Samuel Walcott was not a club man after the manner of the Smart Set, and
yet he was in fact a club man. He was a bachelor in the latter thirties,
and resided in a great silent house on the avenue. On the street he was
a man of substance, shrewd and progressive, backed by great wealth. He
had various corporate interests in the larger syndicates, but the basis
and foundation of his fortune was real estate. His houses on the avenue
were the best possible property, and his elevator row in the importers'
quarter was indeed a literal gold mine. It was known that, many years
before, his grandfather had died and left him the property, which, at
that time, was of no great value. Young Walcott had gone out into
the gold-fields and had been lost sight of and forgotten. Ten years
afterward he had turned up suddenly in New York and taken possession
of his property, then vastly increased in value. His speculations were
almost phenomenally successful, and, backed by the now enormous value of
his real property, he was soon on a level with the merchant princes.
His judgment was considered sound, and he had the full confidence of
his business associates for safety and caution. Fortune heaped up riches
around him with a lavish hand. He was unmarried and the halo of his
wealth caught the keen eye of the matron with marriageable daughters.
He was invited out, caught by the whirl of society, and tossed into its
maelstrom. In a measure he reciprocated. He kept horses and a yacht. His
dinners at Delmonico's and the club were above reproach. But with all he
was a silent man with a shadow deep in his eyes, and seemed to court the
society of his fellows, not because he loved them, but because he either
hated or feared solitude. For years the strategy of the match-maker
had gone gracefully afield, but Fate is relentless. If she shields
the victim from the traps of men, it is not because she wishes him to
escape, but because she is pleased to reserve him for her own trap.
So it happened that, when Virginia St. Clair assisted Mrs. Miriam
Steuvisant at her midwinter reception, this same Samuel Walcott fell
deeply and hopelessly and utterly in love, and it was so apparent to the
beaten generals present, that Mrs. Miriam Steuvisant applauded
herself, so to speak, with encore after encore. It was good to see this
courteous, silent man literally at the feet of the young debutante. He
was there of right. Even the mothers of marriageable daughters admitted
that. The young girl was brown-haired, brown-eyed, and tall enough, said
the experts, and of the blue blood royal, with all the grace, courtesy,
and inbred genius of such princely heritage.

Perhaps it was objected by the censors of the Smart Set that Miss St.
Clair's frankness and honesty were a trifle old-fashioned, and that
she was a shadowy bit of a Puritan; and perhaps it was of these same
qualities that Samuel Walcott received his hurt. At any rate the hurt
was there and deep, and the new actor stepped up into the old time-worn,
semi-tragic drama, and began his rôle with a tireless, utter sincerity
that was deadly dangerous if he lost.



II


Perhaps a week after the conversation between St. Clair and Walcott,
Randolph Mason stood in the private writing-room of the club with his
hands behind his back.

He was a man apparently in the middle forties; tall and reasonably broad
across the shoulders; muscular without being either stout or lean. His
hair was thin and of a brown color, with erratic streaks of gray. His
forehead was broad and high and of a faint reddish color. His eyes were
restless inky black, and not over-large. The nose was big and muscular
and bowed. The eyebrows were black and heavy, almost bushy. There were
heavy furrows, running from the nose downward and outward to the corners
of the mouth. The mouth was straight and the jaw was heavy, and square.

Looking at the face of Randolph Mason from above, the expression in
repose was crafty and cynical; viewed from below upward, it was savage
and vindictive, almost brutal; while from the front, if looked squarely
in the face, the stranger was fascinated by the animation of the man and
at once concluded that his expression was fearless and sneering. He was
evidently of Southern extraction and a man of unusual power.

A fire smouldered on the hearth. It was a crisp evening in the early
fall, and with that far-off touch of melancholy which ever heralds the
coming winter, even in the midst of a city. The man's face looked tired
and ugly. His long white hands were clasped tight together. His entire
figure and face wore every mark of weakness and physical exhaustion; but
his eyes contradicted. They were red and restless.

In the private dining-room the dinner party was in the best of spirits.
Samuel Walcott was happy. Across the table from him was Miss Virginia
St. Clair, radiant, a tinge of color in her cheeks. On either side,
Mrs. Miriam Steuvisant and Marshall St. Clair were brilliant and
light-hearted. Walcott looked at the young girl and the measure of his
worship was full. He wondered for the thousandth time how she could
possibly love him and by what earthly miracle she had come to accept
him, and how it would be always to have her across the table from him,
his own table in his own house.

They were about to rise from the table when one of the waiters entered
the room and handed Walcott an envelope. He thrust it quickly into his
pocket In the confusion of rising the others did not notice him, but
his face was ash-white and his hands trembled violently as he placed the
wraps around the bewitching shoulders of Miss St. Clair.

"Marshall," he said, and despite the powerful effort his voice was
hollow, "you will see the ladies safely cared for, I am called to attend
a grave matter."

"All right, Walcott," answered the young man, with cheery good-nature,
"you are too serious, old man, trot along."

"The poor dear," murmured Mrs. Steuvisant, after Walcott had helped them
to the carriage and turned to go up the steps of the club,--"The poor
dear is hard hit, and men are such funny creatures when they are hard
hit."

Samuel Walcott, as his fate would, went direct to the private
writing-room and opened the door. The lights were not turned on and in
the dark he did not see Mason motionless by the mantel-shelf. He went
quickly across the room to the writing-table, turned on one of the
lights, and, taking the envelope from his pocket, tore it open. Then he
bent down by the light to read the contents. As his eyes ran over the
paper, his jaw fell. The skin drew away from his cheek-bones and his
face seemed literally to sink in. His knees gave way under him and he
would have gone down in a heap had it not been for Mason's long arms
that closed around him and held him up. The human economy is ever
mysterious. The moment the new danger threatened, the latent power
of the man as an animal, hidden away in the centres of intelligence,
asserted itself. His hand clutched the paper and, with a half slide, he
turned in Mason's arms. For a moment he stared up at the ugly man whose
thin arms felt like wire ropes.

"You are under the dead-fall, aye," said Mason. "The cunning of my enemy
is sublime."

"Your enemy?" gasped Walcott. "When did you come into it? How in God's
name did you know it? How your enemy?"

Mason looked down at the wide bulging eyes of the man.

"Who should know better than I?" he said. "Haven't I broken through all
the traps and plots that she could set?"

"She? She trap you?" The man's voice was full of horror.

"The old schemer," muttered Mason. "The cowardly old schemer, to strike
in the back; but we can beat her. She did not count on my helping
you--I, who know her so well."

Mason's face was red, and his eyes burned. In the midst of it all he
dropped his hands and went over to the fire. Samuel Walcott arose,
panting, and stood looking at Mason, with his hands behind him on the
table. The naturally strong nature and the rigid school in which the man
had been trained presently began to tell. His composure in part returned
and he thought rapidly. What did this strange man know? Was he simply
making shrewd guesses, or had he some mysterious knowledge of this
matter? Walcott could not know that Mason meant only Fate, that he
believed her to be his great enemy. Walcott had never before doubted his
own ability to meet any emergency. This mighty jerk had carried him off
his feet. He was unstrung and panic-stricken. At any rate this man had
promised help. He would take it. He put the paper and envelope carefully
into his pocket, smoothed out his rumpled coat, and going over to Mason
touched him on the shoulder.

"Come," he said, "if you are to help me we must go."

The man turned and followed him without a word. In the hall Mason put
on his hat and overcoat, and the two went out into the street. Walcott
hailed a cab, and the two were driven to his house on the avenue.
Walcott took out his latch-key, opened the door, and led the way into
the library. He turned on the light and motioned Mason to seat himself
at the table. Then he went into another room and presently returned with
a bundle of papers and a decanter of brandy. He poured out a glass of
the liquor and offered it to Mason. The man shook his head. Walcott
poured the contents of the glass down his own throat. Then he set the
decanter down and drew up a chair on the side of the table opposite
Mason.

"Sir," said Walcott, in a voice deliberate, indeed, but as hollow as a
sepulchre, "I am done for. God has finally gathered up the ends of the
net, and it is knotted tight."

"Am I not here to help you?" said Mason, turning savagely. "I can beat
Fate. Give me the details of her trap."

He bent forward and rested his arms on the table. His streaked gray hair
was rumpled and on end, and his face was ugly. For a moment Walcott did
not answer. He moved a little into the shadow; then he spread the bundle
of old yellow papers out before him.

"To begin with," he said, "I am a living lie, a gilded crime-made sham,
every bit of me. There is not an honest piece anywhere. It is all lie.
I am a liar and a thief before men. The property which I possess is not
mine, but stolen from a dead man. The very name which I bear is not my
own, but is the bastard child of a crime. I am more than all that--I am
a murderer; a murderer before the law; a murderer before God; and worse
than a murderer before the pure woman whom I love more than anything
that God could make."

He paused for a moment and wiped the perspiration from his face.

"Sir," said Mason, "this is all drivel, infantile drivel. What you are
is of no importance. How to get out is the problem, how to get out."

Samuel Walcott leaned forward, poured out a glass of brandy and
swallowed it.

"Well," he said, speaking slowly, "my right name is Richard Warren. In
the spring of 1879 I came to New York and fell in with the real Samuel
Walcott, a young man with a little money and some property which his
grandfather had left him. We became friends, and concluded to go to the
far west together. Accordingly we scraped together what money we could
lay our hands on, and landed in the gold-mining regions of California.
We were young and inexperienced, and our money went rapidly. One April
morning we drifted into a little shack camp, away up in the Sierra
Nevadas, called Hell's Elbow. Here we struggled and starved for perhaps
a year. Finally, in utter desperation, Walcott married the daughter of a
Mexican gambler, who ran an eating-house and a poker joint. With them we
lived from hand to mouth in a wild God-forsaken way for several years.
After a time the woman began to take a strange fancy to me. Walcott
finally noticed it, and grew jealous.

"One night, in a drunken brawl, we quarrelled, and I killed him. It was
late at night, and, beside the woman, there were four of us in the poker
room,--the Mexican gambler, a half-breed devil called Cherubim Pete,
Walcott, and myself. When Walcott fell, the half-breed whipped out his
weapon, and fired at me across the table; but the woman, Nina San Croix,
struck his arm, and, instead of killing me, as he intended, the bullet
mortally wounded her father, the Mexican gambler. I shot the half-breed
through the forehead, and turned round, expecting the woman to attack
me. On the contrary, she pointed to the window, and bade me wait for her
on the cross-trail below.

"It was fully three hours later before the woman joined me at the place
indicated. She had a bag of gold dust, a few jewels that belonged to her
father, and a package of papers. I asked her why she had stayed behind
so long, and she replied that the men were not killed outright, and that
she had brought a priest to them and waited until they had died.
This was the truth, but not all the truth. Moved by superstition or
foresight, the woman had induced the priest to take down the sworn
statements of the two dying men, seal it, and give it to her. This paper
she brought with her. All this I learned afterwards. At the time I knew
nothing of this damning evidence.

"We struck out together for the Pacific coast. The country was lawless.
The privations we endured were almost past belief. At times the woman
exhibited cunning and ability that were almost genius; and through
it all, often in the very fingers of death, her devotion to me never
wavered. It was dog-like, and seemed to be her only object on earth.
When we reached San Francisco, the woman put these papers into my
hands." Walcott took up the yellow package, and pushed it across the
table to Mason.

"She proposed that I assume Walcott's name, and that we come boldly to
New York and claim the property. I examined the papers, found a copy
of the will by which Walcott inherited the property, a bundle of
correspondence, and sufficient documentary evidence to establish his
identity beyond the shadow of a doubt. Desperate gambler as I now was,
I quailed before the daring plan of Nina San Croix. I urged that I,
Richard Warren, would be known, that the attempted fraud would be
detected and would result in investigation, and perhaps unearth the
whole horrible matter.

"The woman pointed out how much I resembled Walcott, what vast changes
ten years of such life as we had led would naturally be expected to make
in men, how utterly impossible it would be to trace back the fraud
to Walcott's murder at Hell's Elbow, in the wild passes of the
Sierra Nevadas. She bade me remember that we were both outcasts, both
crime-branded, both enemies of man's law and God's; that we had nothing
to lose; we were both sunk to the bottom. Then she laughed, and said
that she had not found me a coward until now, but that if I had turned
chicken-hearted, that was the end of it, of course. The result was, we
sold the gold dust and jewels in San Francisco, took on such evidences
of civilization as possible, and purchased passage to New York on the
best steamer we could find.

"I was growing to depend on the bold gambler spirit of this woman, Nina
San Croix; I felt the need of her strong, profligate nature. She was
of a queer breed and a queerer school. Her mother was the daughter of
a Spanish engineer, and had been stolen by the Mexican, her father.
She herself had been raised and educated as best might be in one of
the monasteries along the Rio Grande, and had there grown to womanhood
before her father, fleeing into the mountains of California, carried her
with him.

"When we landed in New York I offered to announce her as my wife, but
she refused, saying that her presence would excite comment and perhaps
attract the attention of Walcott's relatives. We therefore arranged that
I should go alone into the city, claim the property, and announce myself
as Samuel Walcott, and that she should remain under cover until such
time as we would feel the ground safe under us.

"Every detail of the plan was fatally successful. I established my
identity without difficulty and secured the property. It had increased
vastly in value, and I, as Samuel Walcott, soon found myself a rich man.
I went to Nina San Croix in hiding and gave her a large sum of money,
with which she purchased a residence in a retired part of the city, far
up in the northern suburb. Here she lived secluded and unknown while I
remained in the city, living here as a wealthy bachelor.

"I did not attempt to abandon the woman, but went to her from time to
time in disguise and under cover of the greatest secrecy. For a
time everything ran smooth, the woman was still devoted to me above
everything else, and thought always of my welfare first and seemed
content to wait so long as I thought best. My business expanded. I was
sought after and consulted and drawn into the higher life of New York,
and more and more felt that the woman was an albatross on my neck. I put
her off with one excuse after another. Finally she began to suspect
me and demanded that I should recognize her as my wife. I attempted to
point out the difficulties. She met them all by saying that we should
both go to Spain, there I could marry her and we could return to America
and drop into my place in society without causing more than a passing
comment.

"I concluded to meet the matter squarely once for all. I said that I
would convert half of the property into money and give it to her, but
that I would not marry her. She did not fly into a storming rage as I
had expected, but went quietly out of the room and presently returned
with two papers, which she read. One was the certificate of her marriage
to Walcott duly authenticated; the other was the dying statement of her
father, the Mexican gambler, and of Samuel Walcott, charging me with
murder. It was in proper form and certified by the Jesuit priest.

"Now," she said, sweetly, when she had finished, 'which do you prefer,
to recognize your wife, or to turn all the property over to Samuel
Walcott's widow and hang for his murder?'

"I was dumbfounded and horrified. I saw the trap that I was in and I
consented to do anything she should say if she would only destroy the
papers. This she refused to do. I pleaded with her and implored her to
destroy them. Finally she gave them to me with a great show of returning
confidence, and I tore them into bits and threw them into the fire.

"That was three months ago. We arranged to go to Spain and do as she
said. She was to sail this morning and I was to follow. Of course I
never intended to go. I congratulated myself on the fact that all trace
of evidence against me was destroyed and that her grip was now broken.
My plan was to induce her to sail, believing that I would follow. When
she was gone I would marry Miss St. Clair, and if Nina San Croix
should return I would defy her and lock her up as a lunatic. But I was
reckoning like an infernal ass, to imagine for a moment that I could
thus hoodwink such a woman as Nina San Croix.

"To-night I received this." Walcott took the envelope from his pocket
and gave it to Mason. "You saw the effect of it; read it and you will
understand why. I felt the death hand when I saw her writing on the
envelope."

Mason took the paper from the envelope. It was written in Spanish, and
ran:

"Greeting to Richard Warren.

"The great Senor does his little Nina injustice to think she would go
away to Spain and leave him to the beautiful American. She is not so
thoughtless. Before she goes, she shall be, Oh so very rich! and the
dear Senor shall be, Oh so very safe! The Archbishop and the kind Church
hate murderers.

"Nina San Croix.

"Of course, fool, the papers you destroyed were copies.

"N. San C."

To this was pinned a line in a delicate aristocratic hand, saying that
the Archbishop would willingly listen to Madam San Croix's statement if
she would come to him on Friday morning at eleven.

"You see," said Walcott, desperately, "there is no possible way out. I
know the woman--when she decides to do a thing that is the end of it.
She has decided to do this."

Mason turned around from the table, stretched out his long legs, and
thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Walcott sat with his head down,
watching Mason hopelessly, almost indifferently, his face blank and
sunken. The ticking of the bronze clock on the mantel-shelf was loud,
painfully loud. Suddenly Mason drew his knees in and bent over, put both
his bony hands on the table, and looked at Walcott.

"Sir," he said, "this matter is in such shape that there is only one
thing to do. This growth must be cut out at the roots, and cut out
quickly. This is the first fact to be determined, and a fool would know
it. The second fact is that you must do it yourself. Hired killers are
like the grave and the daughters of the horse-leech,--they cry always,
'Give, Give,' They are only palliatives, not cures. By using them you
swap perils. You simply take a stay of execution at best. The common
criminal would know this. These are the facts of your problem. The
master plotters of crime would see here but two difficulties to meet:

"A practical method for accomplishing the body of the crime.

"A cover for the criminal agent.

"They would see no farther, and attempt to guard no farther. After they
had provided a plan for the killing, and a means by which the killer
could cover his trail and escape from the theatre of the homicide, they
would believe all the requirements of the problems met, and would stop.
The greatest, the very giants among them, have stopped here and have
been in great error.

"In every crime, especially in the great ones, there exists a third
element, pre-eminently vital. This third element the master plotters
have either overlooked or else have not had the genius to construct.
They plan with rare cunning to baffle the victim. They plan with vast
wisdom, almost genius, to baffle the trailer. But they fail utterly
to provide any plan for baffling the punisher. Ergo, their plots are
fatally defective and often result in ruin. Hence the vital necessity
for providing the third element--the _escape ipso jure_."

Mason arose, walked around the table, and put his hand firmly on Samuel
Walcott's shoulder. "This must be done to-morrow night," he continued;
"you must arrange your business matters to-morrow and announce that you
are going on a yacht cruise, by order of your physician, and may
not return for some weeks. You must prepare your yacht for a voyage,
instruct your men to touch at a certain point on Staten Island, and wait
until six o'clock day after to-morrow morning. If you do not come aboard
by that time, they are to go to one of the South American ports
and remain until further orders. By this means your absence for an
indefinite period will be explained. You will go to Nina San Croix in
the disguise which you have always used, and from her to the yacht,
and by this means step out of your real status and back into it without
leaving traces. I will come here to-morrow evening and furnish you with
everything that you shall need and give you full and exact instructions
in every particular. These details you must execute with the greatest
care, as they will be vitally essential to the success of my plan."

Through it all Walcott had been silent and motionless. Now he arose, and
in his face there must have been some premonition of protest, for Mason
stepped back and put out his hand. "Sir," he said, with brutal emphasis,
"not a word. Remember that you are only the hand, and the hand does not
think." Then he turned around abruptly and went out of the house.



III.

The place which Samuel Walcott had selected for the residence of Nina
San Croix was far up in the northern suburb of New York. The place
was very old. The lawn was large and ill-kept; the house, a square
old-fashioned brick, was set far back from the street, and partly hidden
by trees. Around it all was a rusty iron fence. The place had the air of
genteel ruin, such as one finds in the Virginias.

On a Thursday of November, about three o'clock in the afternoon, a
little man, driving a dray, stopped in the alley at the rear of the
house. As he opened the back gate an old negro woman came down the steps
from the kitchen and demanded to know what he wanted. The drayman asked
if the lady of the house was in. The old negro answered that she was
asleep at this hour and could not be seen.

"That is good," said the little man, "now there won't be any row. I
brought up some cases of wine which she ordered from our house last week
and which the Boss told me to deliver at once, but I forgot it until
to-day. Just let me put it in the cellar now, Auntie, and don't say
a word to the lady about it and she won't ever know that it was not
brought up on time."

The drayman stopped, fished a silver dollar out of his pocket, and gave
it to the old negro. "There now, Auntie," he said, "my job depends upon
the lady not knowing about this wine; keep it mum."

"Dat's all right, honey," said the old servant, beaming like a May
morning. "De cellar door is open, carry it all in and put it in de back
part and nobody aint never going to know how long it has been in 'dar."

The old negro went back into the kitchen and the little man began to
unload the dray. He carried in five wine cases and stowed them away in
the back part of the cellar as the old woman had directed. Then, after
having satisfied himself that no one was watching, he took from the dray
two heavy paper sacks, presumably filled with flour, and a little bundle
wrapped in an old newspaper; these he carefully hid behind the wine
cases in the cellar. After a while he closed the door, climbed on his
dray, and drove off down the alley.

About eight o'clock in the evening of the same day, a Mexican sailor
dodged in the front gate and slipped down to the side of the house. He
stopped by the window and tapped on it with his finger. In a moment a
woman opened the door. She was tall, lithe, and splendidly proportioned,
with a dark Spanish face and straight hair. The man stepped inside. The
woman bolted the door and turned round.

"Ah," she said, smiling, "it is you, Senor? How good of you."

The man started. "Whom else did you expect?" he said quickly.

"Oh!" laughed the woman, "perhaps the Archbishop."

"Nina!" said the man, in a broken voice that expressed love, humility,
and reproach. His face was white under the black sunburn.

For a moment the woman wavered. A shadow flitted over her eyes, then she
stepped back. "No," she said, "not yet."

The man walked across to the fire, sank down in a chair, and covered
his face with his hands. The woman stepped up noiselessly behind him and
leaned over the chair. The man was either in great agony or else he was
a superb actor, for the muscles of his neck twitched violently and his
shoulders trembled.

"Oh," he muttered, as though echoing his thoughts, "I can't do it, I
can't!"

The woman caught the words and leaped up as though some one had struck
her in the face. She threw back her head. Her nostrils dilated and her
eyes flashed.

"You can't do it!" she cried. "Then you do love her! You shall do it!
Do you hear me? You shall do it! You killed him! You got rid of him!
but you shall not get rid of me. I have the evidence, all of it. The
Archbishop will have it to-morrow. They shall hang you! Do you hear me?
They shall hang you!"

The woman's voice rose, it was loud and shrill. The man turned slowly
round without looking up, and stretched out his arms toward the woman.
She stopped and looked down at him. The fire glittered for a moment
and then died out of her eyes, her bosom heaved and her lips began to
tremble. With a cry she flung herself into his arms, caught him around
the neck, and pressed his face up close against her cheek.

"Oh! Dick, Dick," she sobbed, "I do love you so! I can't live without
you! Not another hour Dick! I do want you so much, so much, Dick!" The
man shifted his right arm quickly, slipped a great Mexican knife out of
his sleeve, and passed his fingers slowly up the woman's side until he
felt the heart beat under his hand, then he raised the knife, gripped
the handle tight, and drove the keen blade into the woman's bosom. The
hot blood gushed out over his arm, and down on his leg. The body, warm
and limp, slipped down in his arms. The man got up, pulled out the
knife, and thrust it into a sheath at his belt, unbuttoned the dress,
and slipped it off of the body. As he did this a bundle of papers
dropped upon the floor; these he glanced at hastily and put into his
pocket. Then he took the dead woman up in his arms, went out into the
hall, and started to go up the stairway. The body was relaxed and heavy,
and for that reason difficult to carry. He doubled it up into an awful
heap, with the knees against the chin, and walked slowly and heavily up
the stairs and out into the bath-room. There he laid the corpse down
on the tiled floor. Then he opened the window, closed the shutters, and
lighted the gas. The bath-room was small and contained an ordinary steel
tub, porcelain-lined, standing near the window and raised about six
inches above the floor. The sailor went over to the tub, pried up the
metal rim of the outlet with his knife, removed it, and fitted into its
place a porcelain disk which he took from his pocket; to this disk
was attached a long platinum wire, the end of which he fastened on the
outside of the tub. After he had done this he went back to the body,
stripped off its clothing, put it down in the tub and began to dismember
it with the great Mexican knife. The blade was strong and sharp as a
razor. The man worked rapidly and with the greatest care.

When he had finally cut the body into as small pieces as possible, he
replaced the knife in its sheath, washed his hands, and went out of the
bath-room and down stairs to the lower hall. The sailor seemed perfectly
familiar with the house. By a side door he passed into the cellar. There
he lighted the gas, opened one of the wine cases, and, taking up all
the bottles that he could conveniently carry, returned to the bath-room.
There he poured the contents into the tub on the dismembered body, and
then returned to the cellar with the empty bottles, which he replaced in
the wine cases. This he continued to do until all the cases but one were
emptied and the bath tub was more than half full of liquid. This liquid
was sulphuric acid.

When the sailor returned to the cellar with the last empty wine bottles,
he opened the fifth case, which really contained wine, took some of
it out, and poured a little into each of the empty bottles in order to
remove any possible odor of the sulphuric acid. Then he turned out the
gas and brought up to the bath-room with him the two paper flour sacks
and the little heavy bundle. These sacks were filled with nitrate of
soda. He set them down by the door, opened the little bundle, and took
out two long rubber tubes, each attached to a heavy gas burner, not
unlike the ordinary burners of a small gas-stove. He fastened the tubes
to two of the gas jets, put the burners under the tub, turned the gas
on full, and lighted it. Then he threw into the tub the woman's clothing
and the papers which he had found on her body, after which he took up
the two heavy sacks of nitrate of soda and dropped them carefully into
the sulphuric acid. When he had done this he went quickly out of the
bath-room and closed the door.

The deadly acids at once attacked the body and began to destroy it; as
the heat increased, the acids boiled and the destructive process was
rapid and awful. From time to time the sailor opened the door of the
bath-room cautiously, and, holding a wet towel over his mouth and nose,
looked in at his horrible work. At the end of a few hours there was only
a swimming mass in the tub. When the man looked at four o'clock, it was
all a thick murky liquid. He turned off the gas quickly and stepped
back out of the room. For perhaps half an hour he waited in the hall;
finally, when the acids had cooled so that they no longer gave off
fumes, he opened the door and went in, took hold of the platinum wire
and, pulling the porcelain disk from the stop-cock, allowed the awful
contents of the tub to run out. Then he turned on the hot water, rinsed
the tub clean, and replaced the metal outlet. Removing the rubber tubes,
he cut them into pieces, broke the porcelain disk, and, rolling up the
platinum wire, washed it all down the sewer pipe.

The fumes had escaped through the open window; this he now closed and
set himself to putting the bath-room in order, and effectually removing
every trace of his night's work. The sailor moved around with the very
greatest degree of care. Finally, when he had arranged everything to his
complete satisfaction, he picked up the two burners, turned out the gas,
and left the bath-room, closing the door after him. From the bath-room
he went directly to the attic, concealed the two rusty burners under a
heap of rubbish, and then walked carefully and noiselessly down the
stairs and through the lower hall. As he opened the door and stepped
into the room where he had killed the woman, two police-officers sprang
out and seized him. The man screamed like a wild beast taken in a trap
and sank down.

"Oh! oh!" he cried, "it was no use! it was no use to do it!" Then he
recovered himself in a manner and was silent. The officers handcuffed
him, summoned the patrol, and took him at once to the station-house.
There he said he was a Mexican sailor and that his name was Victor
Ancona; but he would say nothing further. The following morning he sent
for Randolph Mason and the two were long together.



IV.

The obscure defendant charged with murder has little reason to complain
of the law's delays. The morning following the arrest of Victor Ancona,
the newspapers published long sensational articles, denounced him as
a fiend, and convicted him. The grand jury, as it happened, was
in session. The preliminaries were soon arranged and the case was
railroaded into trial. The indictment contained a great many counts,
and charged the prisoner with the murder of Nina San Croix by striking,
stabbing, choking, poisoning, and so forth.

The trial had continued for three days and had appeared so
overwhelmingly one-sided that the spectators who were crowded in the
court-room had grown to be violent and bitter partisans, to such an
extent that the police watched them closely. The attorneys for the
People were dramatic and denunciatory, and forced their case with
arrogant confidence. Mason, as counsel for the prisoner, was indifferent
and listless. Throughout the entire trial he had sat almost motionless
at the table, his gaunt form bent over, his long legs drawn up under his
chair, and his weary, heavy-muscled face, with its restless eyes, fixed
and staring out over the heads of the jury, was like a tragic mask.
The bar, and even the judge, believed that the prisoner's counsel had
abandoned his case.

The evidence was all in and the People rested. It had been shown that
Nina San Croix had resided for many years in the house in which the
prisoner was arrested; that she had lived by herself, with no other
companion than an old negro servant; that her past was unknown, and that
she received no visitors, save the Mexican sailor, who came to her house
at long intervals. Nothing whatever was shown tending to explain who
the prisoner was or whence he had come. It was shown that on Tuesday
preceding the killing the Archbishop had received a communication from
Nina San Croix, in which she said she desired to make a statement of
the greatest import, and asking for an audience. To this the Archbishop
replied that he would willingly grant her a hearing if she would come
to him at eleven o'clock on Friday morning. Two policemen testified
that about eight o'clock on the night of Thursday they had noticed the
prisoner slip into the gate of Nina San Croix's residence and go down
to the side of the house, where he was admitted; that his appearance
and seeming haste had attracted their attention; that they had concluded
that it was some clandestine amour, and out of curiosity had both
slipped down to the house and endeavored to find a position from which
they could see into the room, but were unable to do so, and were about
to go back to the street when they heard a woman's voice cry out in
great anger: "I know that you love her and that you want to get rid of
me, but you shall not do it! You murdered him, but you shall not
murder me! I have all the evidence to convict you of murdering him! The
Archbishop will have it to-morrow! They shall hang you! Do you hear me?
They shall hang you for his murder!" that thereupon one of the policemen
proposed that they should break into the house and see what was wrong,
but the other had urged that it was only the usual lovers' quarrel and
if they should interfere they would find nothing upon which a charge
could be based and would only be laughed at by the chief; that they had
waited and listened for a time, but hearing nothing further had gone
back to the street and contented themselves with keeping a strict watch
on the house.

The People proved further, that on Thursday evening Nina San Croix had
given the old negro domestic a sum of money and dismissed her, with the
instruction that she was not to return until sent for. The old woman
testified that she had gone directly to the house of her son, and later
had discovered that she had forgotten some articles of clothing which
she needed; that thereupon she had returned to the house and had gone
up the back way to her room,--this was about eight o'clock; that
while there she had heard Nina San Croix's voice in great passion and
remembered that she had used the words stated by the policemen; that
these sudden, violent cries had frightened her greatly and she had
bolted the door and been afraid to leave the room; shortly thereafter,
she had heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs, slowly and with
great difficulty, as though some one were carrying a heavy burden; that
therefore her fear had increased and that she had put out the light and
hidden under the bed. She remembered hearing the footsteps moving about
up-stairs for many hours, how long she could not tell Finally, about
half-past four in the morning, she crept out, opened the door, slipped
down stairs, and ran out into the street. There she had found the
policemen and requested them to search the house.

The two officers had gone to the house with the woman. She had opened
the door and they had had just time to step back into the shadow when
the prisoner entered. When arrested, Victor Ancona had screamed with
terror, and cried out, "It was no use! it was no use to do it!"

The Chief of Police had come to the house and instituted a careful
search. In the room below, from which the cries had come, he found a
dress which was identified as belonging to Nina San Croix and which
she was wearing when last seen by the domestic, about six o'clock that
evening. This dress was covered with blood, and had a slit about two
inches long in the left side of the bosom, into which the Mexican knife,
found on the prisoner, fitted perfectly. These articles were introduced
in evidence, and it was shown that the slit would be exactly over the
heart of the wearer, and that such a wound would certainly result in
death. There was much blood on one of the chairs and on the floor. There
was also blood on the prisoner's coat and the leg of his trousers, and
the heavy Mexican knife was also bloody. The blood was shown by the
experts to be human blood.

The body of the woman was not found, and the most rigid and tireless
search failed to develop the slightest trace of the corpse, or the
manner of its disposal. The body of the woman had disappeared as
completely as though it had vanished into the air.

When counsel announced that he had closed for the People, the judge
turned and looked gravely down at Mason. "Sir," he said, "the evidence
for the defence may now be introduced."

Randolph Mason arose slowly and faced the judge.

"If your Honor please," he said, speaking slowly and distinctly,
"the defendant has no evidence to offer." He paused while a murmur of
astonishment ran over the court-room. "But, if your Honor please," he
continued, "I move that the jury be directed to find the prisoner not
guilty."

The crowd stirred. The counsel for the People smiled. The judge looked
sharply at the speaker over his glasses. "On what ground?" he said
curtly.

"On the ground," replied Mason, "that the _corpus delicti_ has not been
proven."

"Ah!" said the judge, for once losing his judicial gravity.

Mason sat down abruptly. The senior counsel for the prosecution was on
his feet in a moment.

"What!" he said, "the gentleman bases his motion on a failure to
establish the _corpus delicti?_ Does he jest, or has he forgotten the
evidence? The term '_corpus delicti_' is technical, and means the body
of the crime, or the substantial fact that a crime has been committed.
Does any one doubt it in this case? It is true that no one actually saw
the prisoner kill the decedent, and that he has so sucessfully
hidden the body that it has not been found, but the powerful chain of
circumstances, clear and close-linked, proving motive, the criminal
agency, and the criminal act, is overwhelming.

"The victim in this case is on the eve of making a statement that would
prove fatal to the prisoner. The night before the statement is to be
made he goes to her residence. They quarrel. Her voice is heard, raised
high in the greatest passion, denouncing him, and charging that he is a
murderer, that she has the evidence and will reveal it, that he shall be
hanged, and that he shall not be rid of her. Here is the motive for the
crime, clear as light. Are not the bloody knife, the bloody dress, the
bloody clothes of the prisoner, unimpeachable witnesses to the criminal
act? The criminal agency of the prisoner has not the shadow of a
possibility to obscure it. His motive is gigantic. The blood on him,
and his despair when arrested, cry 'Murder! murder!' with a thousand
tongues.

"Men may lie, but circumstances cannot. The thousand hopes and fears and
passions of men may delude, or bias the witness. Yet it is beyond the
human mind to conceive that a clear, complete chain of concatenated
circumstances can be in error. Hence it is that the greatest jurists
have declared that such evidence, being rarely liable to delusion or
fraud, is safest and most powerful. The machinery of human justice
cannot guard against the remote and improbable doubt. The inference
is persistent in the affairs of men. It is the only means by which the
human mind reaches the truth. If you forbid the jury to exercise it,
you bid them work after first striking off their hands. Rule out the
irresistible inference, and the end of justice is come in this land; and
you may as well leave the spider to weave his web through the abandoned
courtroom."

The attorney stopped, looked down at Mason with a pompous sneer,
and retired to his place at the table. The judge sat thoughtful and
motionless. The jurymen leaned forward in their seats.

"If your Honor please," said Mason, rising, "this is a matter of law,
plain, clear, and so well settled in the State of New York that even
counsel for the People should know it. The question before your Honor is
simple. If the _corpus delicti,_ the body of the crime, has been proven,
as required by the laws of the commonwealth, then this case should go to
the jury. If not, then it is the duty of this Court to direct the jury
to find the prisoner not guilty. There is here no room for judicial
discretion. Your Honor has but to recall and apply the rigid rule
announced by our courts prescribing distinctly how the _corpus delicti_
in murder must be proven.

"The prisoner here stands charged with the highest crime. The law
demands, first, that the crime, as a fact, be established. The fact that
the victim is indeed dead must first be made certain before any one
can be convicted for her killing, because, so long as there remains
the remotest doubt as to the death, there can be no certainty as to
the criminal agent, although the circumstantial evidence indicating
the guilt of the accused may be positive, complete, and utterly
irresistible. In murder, the _corpus delicti_, or body of the crime, is
composed of two elements:

"Death, as a result.

"The criminal agency of another as the means.

"It is the fixed and immutable law of this State, laid down in the
leading case of Ruloff v. The People, and binding upon this Court, that
both components of the _corpus delicti_ shall not be established by
circumstantial evidence. There must be direct proof of one or the other
of these two component elements of the _corpus delicti_. If one is
proven by direct evidence, the other may be presumed; but both shall not
be presumed from circumstances, no matter how powerful, how cogent, or
how completely overwhelming the circumstances may be. In other words, no
man can be convicted of murder in the State of New York, unless the body
of the victim be found and identified, or there be direct proof that the
prisoner did some act adequate to produce death, and did it in such a
manner as to account for the disappearance of the body."

The face of the judge cleared and grew hard. The members of the bar were
attentive and alert; they were beginning to see the legal escape open
up. The audience were puzzled; they did not yet understand. Mason turned
to the counsel for the People. His ugly face was bitter with contempt.

"For three days," he said, "I have been tortured by this useless
and expensive farce. If counsel for the People had been other than
playactors, they would have known in the beginning that Victor Ancona
could not be convicted for murder, unless he were confronted in this
courtroom with a living witness, who had looked into the dead face of
Nina San Croix; or, if not that, a living witness who had seen him drive
the dagger into her bosom.

"I care not if the circumstantial evidence in this case were so strong
and irresistible as to be overpowering; if the judge on the bench, if
the jury, if every man within sound of my voice, were convinced of the
guilt of the prisoner to the degree of certainty that is absolute; if
the circumstantial evidence left in the mind no shadow of the remotest
improbable doubt; yet, in the absence of the eye-witness, this prisoner
cannot be punished, and this Court must compel the jury to acquit him."
The audience now understood, and they were dumbfounded. Surely this was
not the law. They had been taught that the law was common sense, and
this,--this was anything else.

Mason saw it all, and grinned. "In its tenderness," he sneered, "the law
shields the innocent. The good law of New York reaches out its hand and
lifts the prisoner out of the clutches of the fierce jury that would
hang him."

Mason sat down. The room was silent. The jurymen looked at each other
in amazement. The counsel for the People arose. His face was white with
anger, and incredulous.

"Your Honor," he said, "this doctrine is monstrous. Can it be said that,
in order to evade punishment, the murderer has only to hide or destroy
the body of the victim, or sink it into the sea? Then, if he is not seen
to kill, the law is powerless and the murderer can snap his finger in
the face of retributive justice. If this is the law, then the law for
the highest crime is a dead letter. The great commonwealth winks at
murder and invites every man to kill his enemy, provided he kill him
in secret and hide him. I repeat, your Honor,"--the man's voice was now
loud and angry and rang through the court-room--"that this doctrine is
monstrous!"

"So said Best, and Story, and many another," muttered Mason, "and the
law remained."

"The Court," said the judge, abruptly, "desires no further argument."

The counsel for the People resumed his seat. His face lighted up with
triumph. The Court was going to sustain him.

The judge turned and looked down at the jury. He was grave, and spoke
with deliberate emphasis.

"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "the rule of Lord Hale obtains in this
State and is binding upon me. It is the law as stated by counsel for
the prisoner: that to warrant conviction of murder there must be direct
proof either of the death, as of the finding and identification of the
corpse, or of criminal violence adequate to produce death, and exerted
in such a manner as to account for the disappearance of the body; and
it is only when there is direct proof of the one that the other can be
established by circumstantial evidence. This is the law, and cannot now
be departed from. I do not presume to explain its wisdom. Chief-Justice
Johnson has observed, in the leading case, that it may have its probable
foundation in the idea that where direct proof is absent as to both the
fact of the death and of criminal violence capable of producing
death, no evidence can rise to the degree of moral certainty that the
individual is dead by criminal intervention, or even lead by direct
inference to this result; and that, where the fact of death is not
certainly ascertained, all inculpatory circumstantial evidence wants
the key necessary for its satisfactory interpretation, and cannot be
depended on to furnish more than probable results. It may be, also,
that such a rule has some reference to the dangerous possibility that
a general preconception of guilt, or a general excitement of popular
feeling, may creep in to supply the place of evidence, if, upon other
than direct proof of death or a cause of death, a jury are permitted to
pronounce a prisoner guilty.

"In this case the body has not been found and there is no direct proof
of criminal agency on the part of the prisoner, although the chain of
circumstantial evidence is complete and irresistible in the highest
degree. Nevertheless, it is all circumstantial evidence, and under the
laws of New York the prisoner cannot be punished. I have no right of
discretion. The law does not permit a conviction in this case, although
every one of us may be morally certain of the prisoner's guilt. I am,
therefore, gentlemen of the jury, compelled to direct you to find the
prisoner not guilty."

"Judge," interrupted the foreman, jumping up in the box, "we cannot find
that verdict under our oath; we know that this man is guilty."

"Sir," said the judge, "this is a matter of law in which the wishes of
the jury cannot be considered. The clerk will write a verdict of not
guilty, which you, as foreman, will sign."

The spectators broke out into a threatening murmur that began to grow
and gather volume. The judge rapped on his desk and ordered the bailiffs
promptly to suppress any demonstration on the part of the audience. Then
he directed the foreman to sign the verdict prepared by the clerk, When
this was done he turned to Victor Ancona; his face was hard and there
was a cold glitter in his eyes.

"Prisoner at the bar," he said, "you have been put to trial before this
tribunal on a charge of cold-blooded and atrocious murder. The evidence
produced against you was of such powerful and overwhelming character
that it seems to have left no doubt in the minds of the jury, nor indeed
in the mind of any person present in this court-room.

"Had the question of your guilt been submitted to these twelve arbiters,
a conviction would certainly have resulted and the death penalty would
have been imposed. But the law, rigid, passionless, even-eyed, has
thrust in between you and the wrath of your fellows and saved you from
it I do not cry out against the impotency of the law; it is perhaps as
wise as imperfect humanity could make it. I deplore, rather, the genius
of evil men who, by cunning design, are enabled to slip through the
fingers of this law. I have no word of censure or admonition for you,
Victor Ancona. The law of New York compels me to acquit you. I am only
its mouthpiece, with my individual wishes throttled. I speak only those
things which the law directs I shall speak.

"You are now at liberty to leave this court-room, not guiltless of the
crime of murder, perhaps, but at least rid of its punishment. The eyes
of men may see Cain's mark on your brow, but the eyes of the Law are
blind to it."

When the audience fully realized what the judge had said they were
amazed and silent. They knew as well as men could know, that Victor
Ancona was guilty of murder, and yet he was now going out of the
court-room free. Could it happen that the law protected only against the
blundering rogue? They had heard always of the boasted completeness of
the law which magistrates from time immemorial had labored to perfect,
and now when the skilful villain sought to evade it, they saw how weak a
thing it was.



V.

The wedding march of Lohengrin floated out from the Episcopal Church
of St. Mark, clear and sweet, and perhaps heavy with its paradox of
warning. The theatre of this coming contract before high heaven was
a wilderness of roses worth the taxes of a county. The high caste of
Manhattan, by the grace of the check-book, were present, clothed in
Parisian purple and fine linen, cunningly and marvellously wrought.

Over in her private pew, ablaze with jewels, and decked with fabrics
from the deft hand of many a weaver, sat Mrs. Miriam Steuvisant as
imperious and self-complacent as a queen. To her it was all a kind of
triumphal procession, proclaiming her ability as a general. With her
were a choice few of the _genus homo_ which obtains at the five-o'clock
teas, instituted, say the sages, for the purpose of sprinkling the holy
water of Lethe.

"Czarina," whispered Reggie Du Puyster, leaning forward, "I salute you.
The ceremony _sub jugum_ is superb."

"Walcott is an excellent fellow," answered Mrs. Steuvisant; "not a vice,
you know, Reggie."

"Aye, Empress," put in the others, "a purist taken in the net. The
clean-skirted one has come to the altar. Vive la vertu!"

Samuel Walcott, still sunburned from his cruise, stood before the
chancel with the only daughter of the blue-blooded St. Clairs. His face
was clear and honest and his voice firm. This was life and not romance.
The lid of the sepulchre had closed and he had slipped from under it.
And now, and ever after, the hand red with murder was clean as any.

The minister raised his voice, proclaiming the holy union before God,
and this twain, half pure, half foul, now by divine ordinance one flesh,
bowed down before it. No blood cried from the ground. The sunlight of
high noon streamed down through the window panes like a benediction.

Back in the pew of Mrs. Miriam Steuvisant, Reggie Du Puyster turned down
his thumb. "Habet!" he said.



II--TWO PLUNGERS OF MANHATTAN



I.

FOR my part, Sidney," said the dark man, "I don't agree with your faith
in Providence at all. For the last ten years it has kept too far afield
of our House in every matter of importance. It has never once shown its
face to us except for the purpose of interposing some fatal wrecker just
at the critical moment. Don't you remember how it helped Barton Woodlas
rob our father in that shoe trust at Lynn? And you will recall the
railroad venture of our own. Did not the cursed thing go into the hands
of a receiver the very moment we had gotten the stock cornered? And look
at the oil deal. Did not the tools stick in both test wells within fifty
feet of the sand, and all the saints could not remove them? I tell you I
have no faith in it. The same thing is going to happen again."

"There is some truth in your rant, brother," replied the light man, "but
I cling to my superstition. We have a cool million in this thing, a cool
million. If we can only break the Chicago corner the market is bound to
turn. The thing is below the cost of production now, and this western
combine is already groggy. Ten thousand would break its backbone, and
leave us in a position to force the market up to the ceiling."

"But how in Heaven's name, Sidney, are we going to get the other five
thousand? To-day at ten I put up everything that could be scraped
together, begged, or borrowed, and out of it all we have scarcely five
thousand dollars. For any good that amount will do we might as well have
none at all. We know that this combine would in all probability weather
a plunge of five thousand, while a bold plunge of ten thousand would
rout it as certainly as there is a sun in heaven, but we only have half
enough money and no means of getting another dollar. If there were ten
millions in it the case would be the same. The jig is up."

"I don't think so, Gordon. I don't give it up. We must raise the money."

"Raise the money!" put in the other, bitterly; "as well talk of raising
the soul of Samuel. Did n't I say that I had raised the last money that
human ingenuity could raise; that there was not another shining thing
left on earth to either of us, but our beauty?--And it would take genius
to raise money on that, Sidney, gigantic genius."

He stopped, and looked at his brother. The brother poured his soda into
the brandy, and said simply, "We must find it."

"You find it," said Gordon Montcure, getting up, and walking backward
and forward across the room.

For full ten minutes Sidney Montcure studied the bottom of his glass.
Then he looked up, and said, "Brother, do you remember the little
bald-headed man who stopped us on the steps of the Stock Exchange last
week?"

"Yes; you mean the old ghost with the thin, melancholy face?"

"The same. You remember he said that if we were ever in a desperate
financial position we should come to the office building on the Wall
Street corner and inquire for Randolph Mason, and that Mason would show
us a way out of the difficulty; but that under no circumstances were we
to say how we happened to come to him, except that we had heard of his
ability."

"I recall the queer old chap well," said the other. "He seemed too clean
and serious for a fakir, but I suppose that is what he was; unless he is
wrong in the head, which is more probable."

"Do you know, brother," said Sidney Montcure, thrusting his hands into
his pockets, "I have been thinking of him, and I have a great mind to go
down there in the morning just for a flyer. If there is any such man as
Randolph Mason, he is not a fakir, because I know the building, and he
could not secure an office in any such prominent place unless he was
substantial."

"That is true, although I am convinced that you will find Randolph Mason
a myth."

"At any rate, we have nothing to lose, brother; there may be something
in it. Will you go with me to-morrow morning?"

The dark man nodded assent, and proceeded to add his autograph to the
club's collection, as evidenced by its wine ticket.

Gordon and Sidney Montcure were high-caste club men of the New York
type, brokers and plungers until three p.m., immaculate gentlemen
thereafter. Both were shrewd men of the world. And as they left the
Ephmere Club that night, that same club and divers shop-men of various
guilds had heavy equitable interests in the success of their plans.

Shortly after ten the following morning, the two brothers entered the
great building in which Randolph Mason was supposed to have his office.
There, on the marble-slab directory, was indeed the name; but it bore no
indication of his business, and simply informed the stranger that he
was to be found on the second floor front. The two men stepped into the
elevator, and asked the boy to show them to Mr. Mason's office. The boy
put them off on the second floor, and directed them to enquire at
the third door to the left. They found here a frosted glass door with
"Randolph Mason, Counsellor," on an ancient silver strip fastened to the
middle panel. Sidney Montcure opened the door, and the two entered. The
office room into which they came was large and scrupulously clean.

The walls were literally covered with maps of every description. Two
rows of mammoth closed bookcases extended across the room, and there
were numerous file cases of the most improved pattern. At a big
flat-topped table, literally heaped with letters, sat their friend, the
little bald, melancholy man, writing as though his very life and soul
were at stake.

"We desire to speak with Mr. Mason, sir," said Sidney Montcure,
addressing the little man. The man arose, and went into the adjoining
room. In a moment he returned and announced that Mr. Mason would see the
gentlemen at once in his private office.

They found the private office of Randolph Mason to be in appearance much
like the private office of a corporation attorney. The walls were lined
with closed bookcases, and there were piles of plats and blue prints and
bundles of papers scattered over a round-topped mahogany table.

Randolph Mason turned round in his chair as the men entered.

"Be seated, gentlemen," he said, removing his eye-glasses. "In what
manner can I be of service?" His articulation was metallic and precise.

"We have had occasion to hear of your ability, Mr. Mason," said Gordon
Montcure, "and we have called to lay our difficulty before you, in the
hope that you may be able to suggest some remedy. It may be that our
dilemma is beyond the scope of your vocation, as it is not a legal
matter."

"Let me hear the difficulty," said Mason, bluntly.

"We are in a most unfortunate and critical position," said Gordon
Montcure. "My brother and myself are members of the Board of Trade, and,
in defiance of the usual rule, occasionally speculate for ourselves.
After making elaborate and careful investigation, we concluded that the
wheat market had reached bottom and was on the verge of a strong and
unusual advance. We based this conclusion on two safe indications: the
failure in production of the other staples, and the fact that the price
of wheat was slightly below the bare cost of production. This status of
the market we believed could not remain, and on Monday last we bought
heavily on a slight margin. The market continued to fall. We covered our
margins, and plunged, in order to bull the market. To our surprise the
decline continued; we gathered all our ready money, and plunged again.
The market wavered, but continued to decline slowly. Then it developed
that there was a Chicago combine against us. We at once set about
ascertaining the exact financial status of this combine, and discovered
that it was now very weak, and that a bold plunge of ten thousand
dollars would rout it. But unfortunately all our ready money was now
gone. After exhausting every security and resorting to every imaginable
means we have only five thousand dollars in all. This sum is utterly
useless under the circumstances, for we know well that the combine would
hold out against a plunge of this dimension and we would simply lose
everything, while a bold, sudden plunge of ten thousand would certainly
break the market and make us a vast fortune. Of course, no sane man will
lend us money under circumstances of this kind, and it is not possible
for us to raise another dollar on earth." The speaker leaned back in his
chair, like a man who has stated what he knows to be a hopeless case.
"We are consuming your time unnecessarily," he added; "our case is, of
course, remediless."

Mason did not at once reply. He turned round in his chair and looked
out of the open window. The two brothers observed him more closely.
They noticed that his clothing was evidently of the best, that he was
scrupulously neat and clean, and wore no ornament of any kind. Even the
eyeglasses were attached to a black silk guard, and had a severely plain
steel spring.

"Have you a middle name, sir?" he said, turning suddenly to Sidney
Montcure.

"Yes," replied the man addressed, "Van Guilder; I am named for my
grandfather."

"An old and wealthy family of this city, and well known in New England,"
said Mason; "that is fortunate." Then he bent forward and looking
straight into the eyes of his clients said: "Gentlemen, if you are ready
to do exactly what I direct, you will have five thousand dollars by
to-morrow night. Is that enough?"

"Ample," replied Gordon Montcure; "and we are ready to follow your
instructions to the letter in any matter that is not criminal."

"The transaction will be safely beyond the criminal statutes," said
Mason, "although it is close to the border line of the law."

"'Beyond, is as good as a mile," said Gordon Montcure; "let us hear your
plan."

"It is this," said Mason. "Down at Lynn, Massachusetts, there is
a certain retired shoe manufacturer of vast wealth, accumulated by
questionable transactions. He is now passing into the sixties, and, like
every man of his position, is restless and unsatisfied. Five years ago
he concluded to build a magnificent residence in the suburbs of Lynn. He
spared nothing to make the place palatial in every respect. The work has
been completed within the past summer. The grounds are superb, and
the place is indeed princely. As long as the palace was in process of
building, the old gentleman was interested and delighted; but no
sooner was it finished than, like all men of his type, he was at
once dissatisfied. He now thinks that he would like to travel on the
continent, but he has constructed a Frankenstein Monster, which he
imagines requires his personal care. He will not trust it to an agent,
he does not dare to rent it, and he can find no purchaser for such a
palace in such a little city. The mere fact that he cannot do exactly
as he pleases is a source of huge vexation to such a man as old Barton
Woodlas, of the Shoe Trust."

The two Montcures apparently gave no visible evidence of their mighty
surprise and interest at the mention of the man who had robbed their
father, yet Mason evidently saw something in the tail of their eyes, for
he smiled with the lower half of his face, and continued: "You, sir,"
he said, speaking directly to Sidney Montcure, "must go to Lynn and buy
this house in the morning."

"Buy the house!" answered the man, bitterly, "your irony approaches the
sublime; we have only five thousand dollars and no security. How could
we buy a house?"

"I am meeting the difficulties, if you please, sir," said Mason, "and
not yourself. At ten tomorrow you must be at Lynn. At two p.m. you will
call upon Barton Woodlas, giving your name as Sidney Van Guilder, from
New York. He knows that family, and will at once presume your wealth.
You will say to him that you desire to purchase a country place for your
grandfather, and heard of his residence. The old gentleman will at once
jump at this chance for a wealthy purchaser, and drive you out to his
grounds. You will criticise somewhat and make some objections, but will
finally conclude to purchase, if satisfactory terms can be made. Here
you will find Barton Woodlas a shrewd business dealer, and you must
follow my instructions to the very letter. He will finally agree to take
about fifty thousand dollars. You will make the purchase proposing to
pay down five thousand cash, and give a mortgage on the property for the
residue of the purchase money, making short-time notes. Five thousand in
hand and a mortgage will of course be safe, and the old gentleman will
take it. You demand immediate possession, and as he is not residing in
the house you will get it. Go with him at once to his attorney, pay the
money, have the papers signed and recorded, and be in full possession of
the property by four o'clock in the afternoon."

Mason stopped abruptly and turned to Gordon Montcure. "Sir," he said
curtly, "I must ask you to step into the other office and remain until
I have finished my instructions to your brother. I have found it best
to explain to each individual that part of the transaction which he is
expected to perform. Suggestions made in the presence of a third party
invariably lead to disaster." Gordon Montcure went into the outer room
and sat down. He was impressed by this strange interview with Mason.
Here was certainly one of the most powerful and mysterious men he had
ever met,--one whom he could not understand, who was a mighty enigma.
But the man was so clear and positive that Montcure concluded to do
exactly as he said. After all, the money they were risking was utterly
worthless as matters now stood.

In a few moments Sidney Montcure came out of the private office and
took a cab for the depot, leaving his brother in private interview with
Randolph Mason.



II.

The following afternoon, Gordon Montcure stepped from the train at
Lynn. An hour before, _en route_, he had received a telegram from
Mason saying that the deal had been made and that his brother was in
possession of the property, and authorizing him to proceed according to
instructions. He was a man of business methods and began at once to play
his part. Calling a carriage, he went to the court-house and ascertained
that the deed had been properly recorded. Then he drove to the hotel of
Barton Woodlas and demanded to see that gentleman at once. He was shown
into a private parlor and in a few minutes the shoe capitalist came
down. He was a short, nervous, fat man with a pompous strut.

"Mr. Woodlas, I presume," said Gordon Mont-cure.

"The same, sir," was the answer; "to what am I indebted for this honor?"

"To be brief," replied Montcure, "I am looking for one Sidney Van
Guilder. I am informed that he was to-day with you in this city. Can you
tell me where I can see him?"

"Why, yes," said the old gentleman, anxiously; "I suppose he is out at
the residence I to-day sold him for his grandfather. Is there anything
wrong?"

"What?" cried Montcure, starting up, "You sold him a residence to-day?
Curse the luck! I am too late. He is evidently into his old tricks."

"Old tricks," said the little fat man, growing pale, "what in Heaven's
name is wrong with him? Speak out, man; speak out!"

"To come at once to the point," said Gordon Montcure, "Mr. Van Guilder
is just a little offcolor. He is shrewd and all right in every way
except for this one peculiarity. He seems to have an insane desire to
purchase fine buildings and convert them into homes for his horses. He
has attempted to change several houses on Fifth Avenue into palatial
stables, and has only been prevented by the city authorities. In all
human probability the house you have sold him will be full of stalls by
morning."

"My house full of stalls!" yelled the little fat man, "my house that
I have spent so much money on, and my beautiful grounds a barn-yard!
Never! never! Come on, sir, come on, we must go there at once!" And
Barton Woodlas waddled out of the room as fast as his short legs could
carry him. Gordon Montcure followed, smiling.

Both men climbed into Montcure's carriage and hurried out to the
suburban residence. The grounds were indeed magnificent, and the house a
palace. As they drove in, they noticed several Italian laborers digging
a trench across the lawn. Barton Woodlas tumbled out of the carriage and
bolted into the house, followed by Montcure. Here they found a scene of
the greatest confusion. The house was filled with grimy workmen. They
were taking off the doors and shutters, and removing the stairway, and
hammering in different portions of the house until the noise was like
bedlam.

Sidney Van Guilder stood in the drawing-room, with his coat off,
directing his workmen. His clothing was disarranged and dusty but he
was apparently enthusiastic and happy. "Stop, sir! stop!" cried Barton
Woodlas, waving his arms and rushing into the room. "Put these dirty
workmen out of here and stop this vandalism at once! At once!"

Sidney Van Guilder turned round smiling. "Ah," he said, "is it you,
Mr. Woodlas? I am getting on swimmingly you see. This will make a
magnificent stable. I can put my horses on both floors, but I will be
compelled to cut the inside all out, and make great changes. It is a
pity that you built your rooms so big."

For a moment the little man was speechless with rage; then he danced
up and down and yelled: "Oh, you crazy fool! You crazy fool! You are
destroying my house! It won't be worth a dollar!"

"I beg your pardon," said Van Guilder, coldly, "this is my house and I
shall do with it as I like. I have bought it and I shall make a home
for my horses of it by morning. It cannot possibly be any business of
yours."

"No business of mine!" shouted Woodlas, "what security have I but the
mortgage? And if you go on with this cursed gutting the mortgage won't
be worth a dollar. Oh, my beautiful house! My beautiful house! It is
awful, awful! Come on, sir," he yelled to Gordon Montcure, "I will find
a way to stop the blooming idiot!"

With that he rushed out of the house and rolled into the carriage,
Gordon Montcure following. Together the two men were driven furiously to
the office of Vinson Harcout, counsellor for the Shoe Trust.

That usually placid and unexcitable gentleman turned round in
astonishment as the two men bolted into his private office. Woodlas
dropped into a chair and, between curses and puffs of exhaustion,
began to describe his trouble. When the lawyer had finally succeeded in
drawing from the irate old man a full understanding of the matter, he
leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, "this is an unfortunate state of affairs, but there is
really no legal remedy for it. The title to the property is in Mr. Van
Guilder. He is in possession by due and proper process of law, and he
can do as he pleases, even to the extent of destroying the property
utterly. If he chooses to convert his residence into a stable, he
certainly commits no crime and simply exercises a right which is
legally his own. It is true that you have such equitable interest in
the property that you might be able to stop him by injunction
proceedings--we will try that at any rate."

The attorney stopped and turned to his stenographer. "William," he said,
"ask the clerk if Judge Henderson is in the court-room." The young man
went to the telephone and returned in a moment. "Judge Henderson is not
in the city, sir," he said. "The clerk answers that he went to Boston
early in the day to meet with some judicial committee from New York and
will not return until to-morrow."

The lawyer's face lengthened. "Well," he said, "that is the end of it.
We could not possibly reach him in time to prevent Mr. Van Guilder from
carrying out his intentions."

Gordon Montcure smiled grimly. Mason had promised to inveigle away the
resident judge by means of a bogus telegram, and he had done so.

"Oh!" wailed the little fat man, "is there no law to keep me from being
ruined? Can't I have him arrested, sir?"

"Unfortunately, no," replied the lawyer. "He is committing no crime, he
is simply doing what he has a full legal right to do if he so chooses,
and neither you nor any other man can interfere with him. If you attempt
it, you at once become a violator of the law and proceed at your peril.
You are the victim of a grave wrong, Mr. Woodlas. Your security is being
destroyed and great loss may possibly result. Yet there is absolutely
no remedy except the possible injunction, which, in the absence of
the judge, is no remedy at all. It is an exasperating and unfortunate
position for you, but, as I said, there is nothing to be done."

The face of Barton Woodlas grew white and his jaw dropped. "Gone!" he
muttered, "all gone, five thousand dollars and a stable as security for
forty thousand! It is ruin, ruin!"

"I am indeed sorry," said the cold-blooded attorney, with a feeling of
pity that was unusual, "but there is no remedy, unless perhaps you could
repurchase the property before it is injured."

"Ah," said the little fat man, straightening up in his chair, "I had not
thought of that. I will do it. Come on, both of you," and he hurried to
the carriage without waiting for an answer.

At the residence in question the three men found matters as Barton
Woodlas had last seen them, except that the trench across the lawn was
now half completed and the doors and shutters had all been removed from
the house and piled up on the veranda.

Sidney Van Guilder laughed at their proposition to repurchase. He
assured them that he had long been looking for just this kind of
property, that it suited him perfectly, and that he would not think of
parting with it. The attorney for Wood-las offered two thousand dollars'
advance; then three, then four, but Sidney Van Guilder was immovable.
Finally Gordon Montcure suggested that perhaps the city would not allow
his stable to remain after he had completed it, and advised him to
name some price for the property. Van Guilder seemed to consider this
possibility with some seriousness. He had presumably had this trouble in
New York City, and finally said that he would take ten thousand dollars
for his bargain. Old Barton Woodlas fumed and cursed and ground his
teeth, and damned every citizen of the State of New York from the coast
to the lakes for a thief, a villain, and a robber.

Finally, when the Italians began to cut through the wall of the
drawing-room and the fat old gentleman's grief and rage were fast
approaching apoplexy, the lawyer raised his offer to seven thousand
dollars cash, and Sidney Van Guilder reluctantly accepted it and
dismissed his workmen. The four went at once to the law office of Vinson
Harcout, where the mortgage and notes were cancelled, the money paid,
and the deed prepared, reconveying the property and giving Barton
Woodlas immediate possession.



III.

At nine-thirty the following morning, the two brothers walked into the
private office of Randolph Mason and laid down seven thousand dollars on
his desk. Mason counted out two thousand and thrust it into his pocket.
"Gentlemen," he said shortly, "here is the five thousand dollars which I
promised. I commend you for following my instructions strictly."

"We have obeyed you to the very letter," said Gordon Montcure, handing
the money to his brother, "except in one particular."

"What!" cried Mason, turning upon him, "you dared to change my plans?"

"No," said Gordon Montcure, stepping back, "only the fool lawyer
suggested the repurchase before I could do it."

"Ah," said Randolph Mason, sinking back into his chair, "a trifling
detail. I bid you goodmorning."



III--WOODFORD'S PARTNER

_[See Clark's Criminal Law, p. 274, or any good text-book for the
general principles of law herein concerned. See especially State vs.
Reddick, 48 Northwestern Reporter, 846, and the long list of cases there
cited, on the proposition that the taking of partnership funds by one of
the general partners, even with felonious intent, constitutes no crime.
Also, Gary vs. Northwestern Masonic Aid Association, 53 Northwestern
Reporter, 1086.]_



I.

AFTER some thirty years, one begins to appreciate in a slight degree
the mystery of things in counter-distinction to the mystery of men. He
learns with dumb horror that startling and unforeseen events break into
the shrewdest plans and dash them to pieces utterly, or with grim malice
wrench them into engines of destruction, as though some mighty hand
reached out from the darkness and shattered the sculptor's marble, or
caught the chisel in his fingers and drove it back into his heart.

As one grows older, he seeks to avoid, as far as may be, the effect of
these unforeseen interpositions, by carrying in his plans a factor of
safety, and, as what he is pleased to call his "worldly wisdom" grows,
he increases this factor until it is a large constant running through
all his equations dealing with probabilities of the future. Whether in
the end it has availed anything, is still, after six thousand years,
a mooted question. Nevertheless, it is the manner of men to calculate
closely in their youth, disregarding the factor of safety, and ignoring
utterly the element of Chance, Fortune, ar Providence, as it may please
men to name this infinite meddling intelligence. Whether this arises
from ignorance or some natural unconscious conviction that it is useless
to strive against it, the race has so far been unable to determine.
That it is useless to, the weight of authorities would seem to indicate,
while, on the other hand, the fact that men are amazed and dumbfounded
when they first realize the gigantic part played by this mysterious
power in all human affairs, and immediately thereafter plan to evade
it, would tend to the conviction that there might be some means by which
these startling accidents could be guarded against, or at least their
effect counteracted.

The laws, if in truth there be any, by which these so-called fortunes
and misfortunes come to men, are as yet undetermined, except that they
arise from the quarter of the unexpected, and by means oftentimes of the
commonplace.

On a certain Friday evening in July, Carper Harris, confidential
clerk of the great wholesale house of Beaumont, Milton, & Company of
Baltimore, was suddenly prostrated under the horror of this great truth.
For the first time in his life Fate had turned about and struck him, and
the blow had been delivered with all her strength.

Up to this time he had been an exceedingly fortunate man. To begin with,
he had been born of a good family, although, at the time of his father's
death, reduced in circumstances. While quite a small boy, he had been
taken in as clerk through the influence of Mr. Milton, who had been a
friend of his father. The good blood in the young man had told from the
start. He had shown himself capable and unusually shrewd in business
matters, and had risen rapidly to the position of chief confidential
clerk. In this position he was intrusted with the most important matters
of the firm, and was familiar with all its business relations. His
abilities had expanded with the increasing duties of his successive
positions. He had done the firm much service, and had shown himself to
be a most valuable and trustworthy man. But, with it all, the eyes of
old Silas Beaumont had followed his every act, in season and out of
season, tirelessly. It was a favorite theory of old Beaumont, that
the great knave was usually the man of irreproachable habits, and
necessarily the man of powerful and unusual abilities, and that, instead
of resorting to ordinary vices or slight acts of rascality, he was wont
to bide his time until his reputation gained him opportunity for some
gigantic act of dishonesty, whereby he could make a vast sum at one
stroke.

Old Beaumont was accustomed to cite two scriptural passages as the basis
of his theory, one being that oft-quoted remark of David in his haste,
and the other explanatory of what the Lord saw when he repented that he
had made man on the earth.

Like all those of his type, when this theory had once become fixed with
him, he sought on all occasions for instances by which to demonstrate
its truthfulness. Thus it happened that the honesty and industry
of young Harris were the very grounds upon which Beaumont based his
suspicions and his acts of vigilance.

When it was proposed that Carper Harris should go to Europe in order to
buy certain grades of pottery which the firm imported, Beaumont grumbled
and intimated that it was taking a large risk to intrust money to him.
He said the sum was greater than the young man had been accustomed
to handle, that big amounts of cash were dangerous baits, and then
he switched over to his theory and hinted that just this kind of
opportunity would be the one which a man would seize for his master act
of dishonesty. The other members of the firm ridiculed the idea, and
arranged the matter over Silas Beaumont's protest.

Thus it happened that about seven o'clock on the eventful Friday,
Carper Harris left Baltimore for New York. He carried a small hand-bag
containing twenty thousand dollars, with which he was to buy foreign
exchange. Arriving at the depot he had checked his luggage and had gone
into the chair-car with only his overcoat and the little hand-bag. He
laid his overcoat across the back of the seat and set the little satchel
down in the seat beside him. He had been particularly careful that the
money should be constantly guarded, and for that reason he had attempted
to keep his hand on the handle of the bag during the entire trip,
although he was convinced that there was no danger or risk of any
consequence, for the reason that no one would suspect that the satchel
contained cash. When he arrived in New York he had gone directly to his
hotel and asked to be shown up to his room. It was his intention to look
over the money carefully and see that it was all right, after which he
would have it placed in one of the deposit boxes in the hotel safe until
morning.

When Harris set the hand-bag down on the table under the light, after
the servant had left the room, something about its general appearance
struck his attention, and he bent down to examine it closely. As he did
so his heart seemed to leap into his throat, and the cold perspiration
burst out on his forehead and began to run down his face in streams. The
satchel before him on the table was not the one in which he had placed
the money in Baltimore, and with which he had left the counting-house of
Beaumont, Milton, & Company. The young man attempted to insert the key
in the lock of the satchel, but his hand trembled so that he could not
do it, and in an agony of fear he threw down the keys and wrenched the
satchel open. His great fear was only too well founded. The satchel
contained a roll of newspapers. For a moment Carper Harris stood dazed
and dumbfounded by his awful discovery; then he sank down in a heap on
the floor and covered his face with his hands.

Of all the dreaded calamities that Fate could have sent, this was
the worst. All that he had hoped for and labored for was gone by a
stroke,--wiped out ruthlessly, and by no act or wrong of his. The man
sat on the floor like a child, and literally wrung his hands in anguish,
and strove to realize all the terrible results that would follow in the
wake of this unforeseen calamity.

First of all there was Beaumont's theory, and the horror of the thought
gripped his heart like a frozen hand. It stood like some grim demon
barring the only truthful and honorable way out of the matter. How could
he go back and say that he had been robbed. Beaumont would laugh the
idea to scorn and gloat over the confirmation of his protest. Little
would explanation avail. His friends would turn against him, and join
with Beaumont, and seek to make the severity of their accusation against
him atone for their previous trust and confidence, and their disregard
of what they would now characterize as Mr. Beaumont's unusual foresight.
And then, if they would listen to explanation, what explanation was
there to make? He had left their counting-house with the money in the
afternoon, and now in New York in the evening he claimed to have been
robbed. And how? That some one had substituted another hand-bag for the
one with which he started, without attacking him and even without his
slightest suspicion--a probable story indeed! Why, the hand-bag there on
the table was almost exactly like the one he had taken with him to the
company's office. No one but himself could tell that it was not the same
bag. The whole matter would be considered a shrewd trick on his part,--a
cunningly arranged scheme to rob his employers of this large sum of
money. In his heated fancy he could see the whole future as it would
come. The hard smile of incredulity with which his story would be
greeted,--the arrest that would follow,--the sensational newspaper
reports of the defalcation of Carper Harris, confidential clerk of the
great wholesale house of Beaumont, Milton, & Company. The newspapers
would assume his guilt, as they always do when one is charged with
crime; they would speak of him as a defaulter, and would comment on the
story as an ingenious defence emanating from his shrewd counsel. Even
the newsboys on the street would convict him with the cry of, "All about
the trial of the great defaulter!" The jury its very self, when it went
into the box, would be going there to try a man already convicted of
crime. This conviction would have been forced upon them by the reports,
and they could not entirely escape from it, no matter how hard they
might try. Why, if one of them should be asked suddenly what he was
doing, in all possibility, if he should reply without stopping to think,
he would answer that he was trying the man who had robbed Beaumont,
Milton, & Company. So that way was barred, and it was a demon with a
flaming sword that kept it.

The man arose and began to pace the floor. He could not go back and tell
the truth. What other thing could he do? It was useless to inform the
police. That would simply precipitate the storm. It would be going
by another path the same way which he had convinced himself was so
effectually blocked. Nor did he dare to remain silent. The loss would
soon be discovered, and then his silence would convict him, while flight
was open confession of the crime.

Carper Harris had one brother living in New York,--a sort of black sheep
of the family, who had left home when a child to hazard his fortunes
with the cattle exporters. The family had attempted to control him, but
without avail. He had shifted around the stock-yards in Baltimore, and
had gone finally to New York, and was now a commission merchant, with an
office in Jersey City. The relation between this man and the family had
been somewhat strained, but now, in the face of this dreaded disaster,
Harris felt that he was the only one to appeal to--not that he hoped
that his brother could render him any assistance, but because he must
consult with some one, and this man was after all the only human being
whom he could trust.

He hastily scribbled a note, and, calling a messenger, sent it to his
brother's hotel. Then he threw himself down on the bed and covered his
face with his hands. What diabolical patience and cunning Fate sometimes
exhibits! All the good fortune which had come to young Harris seemed to
have been only for the purpose of smoothing the way into this trap.



II.

What is wrong here, Carper?" said William Harris, as he shut the door
behind him. "I expected to find a corpse from the tone of your note.
What's up?"

The commission merchant was a short heavy young man with a big square
jaw and keen gray eyes. His face indicated bull-dog tenacity and
unlimited courage of the sterner sort.

Carper Harris arose when his brother entered. He was as white as the
dead. "William," he said, "I wish I were a corpse!"

"Ho! ho!" cried the cattle-man, dropping into a chair. "There is a big
smash-up on the track, that is evident. Which is gone, your girl or your
job?"

"Brother," continued Carper Harris, "I am in a more horrible position
than you can imagine. I don't know whether you will believe me or not,
but if you don't, no one will."

"You may be a fool, Carper," answered the commission merchant, closing
his hands, on the arms of his chair, "but you are not a liar. Go on,
tell me the whole thing."

Carper Harris drew up a chair to the table and began to go over the
whole affair from the beginning to the end. As he proceeded, the muscles
of his brother's face grew more and more rigid, until they looked as
hard and as firm as a cast. When he finally finished and dropped back
into his chair, the cattle-man arose and without a word went over to the
window, and stood looking out over the city, with his hands behind
his back. There was no indication by which one could have known of
the bitter struggle going on in the man's bosom, unless one could
have looked deep into his eyes; there the danger and despair which he
realized as attendant upon this matter shone through in a kind of fierce
glare.

Finally he turned round and looked down half smilingly at his brother.
"Well, Carper," he said, "is that all the trouble? We can fix that all
right."

"How?" almost screamed young Harris, bounding to his feet, "how?"

The commission merchant came back leisurely to his chair and sat down.
His features were composed and wore an air of pleasant assurance. "My
boy," he began, "this is tough lines, to be sure, but you are worth
a car-load of convicts yet. Sit down then, and I will straighten this
thing out in a jiffy. I have been devilish lucky this season, and I now
have about sixteen thousand dollars in bank. You have, I happen to
know, some five thousand dollars in securities which came to you out of
father's estate when it was settled. Turn these securities over to
me and go right on to Europe as you intended. I will realize on the
securities, and with the money I now have will be enabled to
purchase the exchange which you require, and will have it sent to you
immediately, so there will be no delay. You can go right on with your
business as you intended, and neither old Beaumont nor any other living
skinflint will ever know of this robbery."

Carper Harris could not speak. His emotion choked him. He seized his
brother's hand and wrung it in silence, while the tears streamed down
his face.

"Come, come," said the cattle-man, "this won't do! Brace up! I am simply
lending you the money. You can return it if you ever get able. If you
don't, why, it came easy, and I won't ever miss the loss of it."

"May God bless you, brother!" stammered Carper Harris. "You have saved
me from the very grave, and what is more--from the stigma of a felon.
You shall not lose this money by me. I will repay it if Heaven spares my
life."

"Don't go on like a play-actor, Carper," said the cattle-man, rising and
turning to the door. "Pull yourself together, gather up your duds, and
skip out to London. The stuff will be there by the time you are ready
for it." Then he went out and closed the door behind him.



III.

I had to lie to him," said William Harris. "There was no other way out
of it. I knew it was the only means by which I could get him out of
the country. If he stayed here they would nab him and put him in the
penitentiary in spite of the very devil himself. It is all very well to
talk about even-eyed justice and all that rot, but a young man in
that kind of a position would have about as much show as a snowball in
Vesuvius. The best thing to do was to put him over the pond, and the
next thing was to come here. I did both, now what is to be done?"

"It is evident," said Randolph Mason, "that the young man is the victim
of one of our numerous gangs of train robbers, and it is quite as
evident that it is utterly impossible to recover the stolen money. The
thing to be done is to shift the loss."

"Shift the loss, sir," echoed the cattle-man; "I don't believe that I
quite catch your meaning."

"Sir," said Mason, "the law of self-preservation is the great law
governing the actions of men. All other considerations are of a
secondary nature. The selfish interest is the great motive power. It is
the natural instinct to seek vicarious atonement. Men do not bear a hurt
if the hurt can be placed upon another. It is a bitter law, but it is,
nevertheless, a law as fixed as gravity."

"I see," said the commission merchant; "but how is this loss to be
shifted on any one? The money is gone for good; there is no way to get
it back, and there is no means by which we can switch the responsibility
to the shoulders of any other person. The money was placed in Carper
Harris's custody, he was instructed to use great care in order to
prevent any possible loss. He left Baltimore with it. The story of his
robbery would only render him ridiculous if it were urged in his behalf.
He alone is responsible for the money; there is no way to shift it."

"I said, sir," growled Mason, "that the loss must be shifted. What does
the responsibility matter, provided the burden of loss can be placed
upon other shoulders? How much money have you?"

"Only the five thousand dollars which I received from the sale of his
securities," answered the man. "The story which I told him about the
sixteen thousand was all a lie; I have scarcely a thousand dollars to my
name, all told."

Mason looked at the cattle-man and smiled grimly. "So far you have done
well," he said; "it seems that you must be the instrument through which
this cunning game of Fate is to be blocked. You are the strong one;
therefore the burden must fall on your shoulders. Are you ready to bear
the brunt of this battle?"

"I am," said the man, quietly; "the boy must be saved if I have to go to
Sing Sing for the next twenty years."



IV.

The traveller crossing the continent in a Pullman car is convinced that
West Virginia is one continuous mountain. He has no desire to do other
than to hurry past with all the rapidity of which the iron horse is
capable. He can have no idea that in its central portion is a stretch of
rolling blue-grass country, as fertile and as valuable as the stock-farm
lands of Kentucky; with a civilization, too, distinctly its own, and not
to be met with in any other country of the world. It seems to combine,
queerly enough, certain of the elements of the Virginia planter, the
western ranchman, and the feudal baron. Perhaps nowhere in any of the
United States can be found such decided traces of the ancient feudal
system as in this inland basin of West Virginia, surrounded by great
mountain ranges, and for many generations cut off from active relations
with the outside world. Nor is this civilization of any other than
natural growth. In the beginning, those who came to this region were
colonial families of degree,--many of them Tories, hating Washington and
his government, and staunch lovers of the king at heart, for whom
the more closely settled east and south were too unpleasant after the
success of the Revolution. Many of them found in this fertile land lying
against the foot-hills, and difficult of access from either the east
or west, the seclusion and the utter absence of relations with their
fellows which they so much desired. With them they brought certain
feudal customs as a basis for the civilization which they builded.
The nature of the country forced upon them others, and the desire
for gain--ever large in the Anglo-Saxon heart--brought in still other
customs, foreign and incongruous.

Thus it happened that at an early day this country was divided into
great tracts, containing thousands of acres of grass lands, owned by
certain powerful families, who resided upon it, and, to a very large
extent, preserved ancient customs and ancient ideas in relation to men.
The idea of a centrally situated manor-house was one adhered to from
the very first, and this differed from the Virginia manor in that it
was more massive and seemed to be built with the desire of strength
predominating, as though the builder had yet in mind a vague notion of
baronial defences, and some half hope or half fear of grim fights, in
which he and his henchmen would defend against the invader. Gradually,
after the feudal custom, the owner of one of these great tracts gathered
about him a colony of tenants and retainers, who looked after his stock
and grew to be almost fixtures of the realty and partook in no degree of
the shiftless qualities of the modern tenant. They were attached to the
family of the master of the estate, and shared in his peculiarities and
his prejudices. His quarrel became their own, and personal conflicts
between the retainers of different landowners were not infrequent. At
such times, if the breaches of the peace were of such a violent order
as to attract the attention of the law, the master was in honor bound
to shield his men as far as possible, and usually his influence was
sufficient to preserve them from punishment.

Indeed it was the landowner and his people against the world. They were
different from the Virginians in that they were more aggressive and
powerful, and were of a more adventurous and hardy nature. They were
never content to be mere farmers, or to depend upon the cultivation of
the soil. Nor were they careful enough to become breeders of fine stock.
For these reasons it came about that they adopted a certain kind of
stock business, combining the qualities of the ranch and the farm. They
bought in the autumn great herds of two-year-old cattle, picking them
up along the borders of Virginia and Kentucky. These cattle they brought
over the mountains in the fall, fed them through the winter, and turned
them out in the spring to fatten on their great tracts of pasture land.
In the summer this stock was shipped to the eastern market and sold
in favorable competition with the corn-fed stock of the west, and the
stable-fed cattle of Virginia and Pennsylvania. As this business grew,
the little farmer along the border began to breed the finer grades of
stock. This the great landowners encouraged, and as the breeds grew
better, the stock put upon the market from this region became more
valuable, until at length the blue-grass region of West Virginia has
become famous for its beef cattle, and for many years its cattle have
been almost entirely purchased by the exporters for the Liverpool
market.

So famous have the cattle of certain of these great landowners become,
that each season the exporters send men to buy the stock, and not
infrequently contract for it from year to year. Often a landowner, in
whom the speculative spirit is rife, will buy up the cattle and make
great contracts with the exporter, or he will form a partnership with an
eastern commission merchant and ship with the market. The risks taken in
this business are great, and often vast sums of money are made or lost
in a week. It is a hazardous kind of gambling for the reason that great
amounts are involved, and the slightest fall in the market will often
result in big loss. With the shipping feature of this business have
grown certain customs. Sometimes partnerships will be formed to continue
for one or more weeks, and for the purpose of shipping. One drove of
cattle or a number of droves; and when the shippers are well known the
cattle are not paid for until the shipper returns from the market, it
being presumed that he would not carry in bank sufficient money to pay
for a large drove.

It is a business containing all the peril and excitement of the stock
exchange, and all its fascinating hope of gain, as well as its dreaded
possibility of utter ruin. Often in a grimy caboose at the end of a
slow freight train is as true and fearless a devotee of Fortune, and as
reckless a plunger as one would find in the pit on Wall Street, and not
infrequently one with as vast plans and as heavy a stake in the play
as his brother of the city. Yet to look at him--big, muscular, and
uncouth--one would scarcely suspect that every week he was juggling with
values ranging from ten to sixty thousand dollars.

One Monday morning of July, William Harris, a passenger on the through
St. Louis express of the Baltimore & Ohio, said to the conductor that
he desired to get off at Bridgeport, a small shipping station in this
blue-grass region of West Virginia. The conductor answered that his
train did not stop at this station, but that as the town was on a grade
at the mouth of a tunnel he would slow up sufficiently for Mr. Harris to
jump off if he desired to assume the risk. This Harris concluded to do,
and accordingly, as the train ran by the long open platform beside the
cattle pens, he swung himself down from the steps of the car and jumped.
The platform was wet, and as Harris struck the planks his feet slipped
and he would have fallen forward directly under the wheels of the coach
had it not been that a big man standing near by sprang forward and
dragged him back.

"You had a damned close call there, my friend," said the big man.

"Yes," said Harris, picking himself up, "you cut the undertaker out of a
slight fee by your quick work."

The stranger turned sharply when he heard Harris's voice and grasped him
by the hand. "Why, Billy," he said, "I did n't know it was you. What are
you doing out here?"

"Well, well!" said Harris, shaking the man's hand vigorously, "there is
a God in Israel sure. You are the very man I am looking for, Woodford."

Thomas Woodford was a powerfully built man--big, and muscular as an
ox. He was about forty, a man of property, and a cattle-shipper known
through the whole country as a daring speculator of almost phenomenal
success. His plans were often gigantic, and his very rashness seemed to
be the means by which good fortune heaped its favors upon him. He was
in good humor this morning. The reports from the foreign markets
were favorable, and indications seemed to insure the probability of a
decidedly substantial advance at home. He put his big hand upon Harris's
arm and fairly led him down the platform. "What is up, Billy?" he asked,
lowering his voice.

"In my opinion," answered Harris, "the big combine among the exporters
is going to burst and go up higher than Gilderoy's kite, and if we can
get over to New York in time, we will have the world by the tail."

"Holy-head-of-the-church!" exclaimed the cattle-shipper, dropping his
hands. "It will be every man for himself, and they will have to pay
whatever we ask. But we must get over there this week. Next week
everything that wears hoofs will be dumped into Jersey City. Come over
to the hotel and let us hold a council of war."

The two men crossed the railroad track and entered the little
eating-house which bore the high-sounding and euphonious title of "Hotel
Holloway." They went directly up the steps and into a small room in the
front of the building overlooking the railroad. Here Woodford locked the
door, pulled off his coat, and took a large chew of tobacco. It was
his way of preparing to wrestle with an emergency--a kind of mechanical
means of forcing his faculties to a focus.

"Now, Billy," he said, "how is the best way to begin?"

Harris drew up his chair beside the bed on which his companion had
seated himself.

"The situation is in this kind of shape," he began.

"The exporters have all the ships chartered and expect Ball & Holstein
to furnish the cattle for next week's shipments. I believe that old Ball
will kick out of the combine and tell the other exporters in the trust
that they may go to the devil for their cattle. You know what kind of
a panic this will cause. The space on the boats has been chartered and
paid for, and it would be a great loss to let it stand empty. Nor could
they ship the common stock on the market. All these men have foreign
contracts, made in advance and calling for certain heavy grades of
stock, and they are under contract to furnish a certain specified
number of bullocks each week. They formed the combine in order to avoid
difficulties, and have depended on a pool of all the stock contracted
for by the several firms, out of which they could fill their boats when
the supply should happen to be short or the market temporarily high. The
foreign market is rising, and the old man is dead sure to hold on to the
good thing in his clutches. I was so firmly convinced that the combine
was going to pieces that I at once jumped on the first train west and
hurried here to see you. The exporters must fill their contracts no
matter what happens. If old Ball kicks over, as he is sure to do, the
market will sail against the sky. We will have them on the hip if we can
get the export cattle into New York, but we have no time to lose.
These cattle must be bought to-day, and carred here to-morrow. Do you
understand me?"

"Yes," said the cattle-shipper, striking his clenched right hand into
the palm of his left. "It is going to be quick work, but we can do it or
my name is not Woodford."

"We must have at least twelve carloads of big export cattle," continued
Harris. "Not one to weigh less than sixteen hundred pounds. They must be
good. Now, where can you get them quickest?"

"Well," answered the shipper, thoughtfully, "old Ralph Izzard has the
best drove, but he wants five cents for them, and that is steep, too
steep."

"No," said Harris, "that is all right if they are good. We have no time
to run over the country to hunt them up. If these are the right kind we
will not stand on his price."

"You can stake your soul on them being the right kind, Billy," answered
the cattle-shipper enthusiastically. "Izzard picked them out of a drove
of at least a thousand last fall, and he has looked after the brutes and
pampered them like pet cats. They will go over sixteen hundred, every
one of them, and they are as fat as hogs and as broad on the backs as a
bed. I could slip out to his place and buy them to-night and have them
here in time to car to-morrow, if you think we can give the old man his
price."

"They will bring six and a half in New York, and go like hot cakes,"
said Harris, "but you will have to get out of this quick or you may run
into a crowd of buyers from Baltimore."

"All right, Billy," said the cattle-shipper, rising and pulling on
his coat, "I will tackle the old man to-night. We had better go to
Clarksburg, and there you can lay low, and can come up to-morrow on the
freight that stops here for the cattle. I will go out to Izzard's from
there, and drive here by noon to-morrow. The accommodation will be along
in about a half hour. I will go down and order the cars."

"Wait a moment, Woodford," said Harris, "we ought to have some written
agreement about this business."

"What is the use?" answered the shipper. "We will go in even on it, but
if you want to fix up a little contract, go ahead, and I will sign it.
By the way, old Izzard is a little closer than most anybody else; we may
have to pay him something down."

"I thought about that," said Harris, "and I brought some money with me,
but I did n't have time to gather up much. I have about six thousand
dollars here. Can you piece out with that?"

"Easy," replied the shipper. "The old devil would not have the nerve to
ask more than ten thousand down."

William Harris seated himself at the table and drew up a memorandum of
agreement between them, stating that they had formed a partnership
for the purpose of dealing in stock, and had put into it ten thousand
dollars as a partnership fund; that they were to share the profits or
losses equally between them, and that the partnership was to continue
for thirty days. This agreement both men signed, and Harris placed it in
his pocket. Then the two men ordered the cattle cars for the following
day and went to Clarksburg on the evening train.

Here Harris asked Woodford if he should pay over to him the five
thousand dollars or put it in the bank. To this the cattle-shipper
replied that he did not like to take the risk of carrying money over the
country, and that it would be best to deposit it and check it out as it
should be needed.

Woodford and Harris went to the bank. The shipper drew five thousand
dollars from his own private account, put it with the five thousand
which Harris handed him, and thrust the package of bills through the
window to the teller.

"How do you wish to deposit this money, gentlemen?" asked the officer.

"I don't know, hardly," said the shipper, turning to his companion;
"what do you think about it, Billy?"

"Well," said the commission-merchant, thoughtfully, "I suppose we had
better deposit it in the firm name of Woodford & Harris, then you can
give your checks that way and they wont get mixed with your private
matters."

"That is right," said the cattle-shipper, "put it under the firm
name." Whereupon the teller deposited the money subject to the check of
Woodford & Harris.

"Now, Billy," continued Woodford, as they passed out into the street, "I
will buy these cattle and put them on the train to-morrow. You go down
with them. I will stay here and look over the country for another drove,
and, if you want more, telegraph me."

"That suits me perfectly," replied Harris. "I must get back to New
York, and I can wire you just how matters stand the moment I see the
market." Then the two men shook hands and Harris returned to his hotel.

The following afternoon William Harris went to Bridgeport on the freight
train. There he found twelve cars loaded with cattle, marked "Woodford
& Harris." At Grafton he hired a man to go through with the stock, and
took the midnight express for New York.

The partnership formed to take advantage of the situation which
Harris had so fluently described, had been brought about with ease and
expedition. Woodford was well known to William Harris. He had met him
first in Baltimore where young Harris was a mere underling of one of the
great exporting firms. Afterwards he had seen him frequently in Jersey
City, and of late had sold some stock for him. The whole transaction was
in close keeping with the customs of men in this business.

The confidence of one average cattle-man in another is a matter of
more than passing wonder. Yet almost from time immemorial it has been
respected, and instances are rare indeed where this confidence has been
betrayed to any degree. Perhaps after all the ancient theory that
"trust reposed breeds honesty in men," has in it a large measure
of truthfulness, and if practised universally might result in huge
elevation of the race. And it may be, indeed, that those who attempt to
apply this principle to the business affairs of men are philanthropists
of no little stature. But it is at best a dangerous experiment, wherein
the safeguards of society are lowered, and whereby grievous wrongs break
in and despoil the citizen.

To the view of one standing out from the circle of things, men often
present queer contradictions. They call upon the state to protect them
from the petty rogue and make no effort to protect themselves from the
great one. They place themselves voluntarily in positions of peril, and
then cry out bitterly if by any mishap they suffer hurt from it, and
fume and rail at the law, when it is themselves they should rail at.
The wonder is that the average business man is not ruined by the rogue.
Surely the ignorance of the knave will not protect him always.

The situation would seem to arise from a false belief that the
protection of the law is a great shield, covering at all points against
the attacks of wrong.



V.

On Saturday afternoon about three o'clock, the cashier of the Fourth
National Bank in the town of Clarksburg called Thomas Woodford as he
was passing on the street, and requested him to come at once into the
directors' room. Woodford saw by the man's face that there was something
serious the matter and he hurried after him to the door of the private
office. As he entered, Mr. Izzard arose and crossed the room to him. The
old man held a check in his hand and was evidently laboring under great
excitement.

"Woodford," he cried, thrusting the check up into the cattle-shipper's
face, "this thing is not worth a damn! There is no money here to pay
it."

"No money to pay it!" echoed Woodford. "You must be crazy. We put the
money in here Monday. There's ten thousand dollars here to pay it."

"Well," said the old man, trembling with anger, "there is none here now.
You gave me this check Tuesday on my cattle which you and Harris bought,
and you told me there was money here to meet it. I thought you were
all right, of course, and I did not come to town until to-day. Now the
cashier says there is not a cursèd cent here to the credit of you and
Harris."

The blood faded out of the cattle-shipper's face, leaving him as white
as a sheet. He turned slowly to the cashier: "What became of that
money?" he gasped.

"Why," the officer replied, "it was drawn out on the check of yourself
and Harris. Did n't you know about it? The check was properly endorsed."

"Show me the check," said Thomas Woodford, striving hard to control the
trembling of his voice. "There must be some mistake."

The cashier went to his desk and returned with a check, which he spread
out on the table before the cattle-shipper. The man seized it and
carried it to the light, where he scrutinized it closely. It was in
proper form and drawn in the firm name of "Woodford & Harris," directing
the Fourth National Bank to pay to William Harris ten thousand dollars.
It was properly endorsed by William Harris and bore the stamp of the New
York Clearing House.

"When was this check cashed?" asked Woodford.

"It was sent in yesterday," answered the cashier. "Is there anything
wrong with it?"

For a time Woodford did not speak. He stood with his back to the two men
and was evidently attempting to arrive at some solution of the matter.
Presently he turned and faced the angry land-owner.

"There has been a mistake here, Mr. Izzard," he said, speaking slowly
and calmly. "Suppose I give you my note for the money; the bank here
will discount it, and you will not be put to any inconvenience."

To this the old gentleman readily assented. "All I want," he assured the
shipper, "is to be safe. Your note, Woodford, is good for ten times the
sum."

Thomas Woodford turned to the desk and drew a negotiable note for the
amount of the check. This he gave to Mr. Izzard, and then hurried to
the telegraph office, where he wired Harris asking for an immediate
explanation of the mysterious transaction.

He was a man accustomed to keep his own counsels, and he was not yet
ready to abandon them. He gave directions where the answer was to be
sent, then he went to the hotel, locked himself in his room, and began
to pace the floor, striving to solve the enigma of this queer proceeding
on the part of William Harris.

The transaction had an ugly appearance. The money had been placed in the
bank by the two men for the express purpose of meeting this check, which
he had given to Izzard as a part payment on his stock. Harris knew this
perfectly, and had suggested it. Now, how should it happen that he had
drawn the money in his own name almost immediately upon his arrival in
New York?

Could it be that Harris had concluded to steal the money? This the
cattle-shipper refused to believe. He had known Harris for years, and
knew that he was considered honest, as the world goes. Besides, Harris
would not dare to make such a bold move for the purpose of robbery.
His name was on the back of the check; there was no apparent attempt to
conceal it. No, there could be but one explanation, considered Woodford:
Harris had found the market rising and a great opportunity to make a
vast sum of money; consequently he had bought more stock and had been
compelled to use this money for the purpose of payment. There could be
no other explanation, so the cattle-shipper convinced himself.

Thomas Woodford was not a man of wavering decisions. When his conclusion
was once formed, that was the end of it. He went over to the wash-stand,
bathed his face, and turned to leave the room. As he did so, some one
rapped on the door; when he opened it, a messenger boy handed him a
telegram. He took the message, closed the door, and went over to the
window. For a moment the dread of what the little yellow envelope might
possibly contain, made the big rough cattle-shipper tremble. Then he
dismissed the premonition as an unreasonable fear, and with calm finger
opened the message. The telegram was from New York, and contained
these few words: "Have been robbed. Everything is lost," and was signed
"William Harris."

Thomas Woodford staggered as if some one had dealt him a terrible blow
in the face. The paper fell from his fingers and fluttered down on the
floor. The room appeared to swim round him; his heart thumped violently
for a moment, and then seemed to die down in his breast and cease its
beating. He sank down in his chair and fell forward on the table,
his big body limp under the shock of this awful calamity. It was all
perfectly plain to him now. The entire transaction from the beginning to
the end had been a deep-laid, cunning plan to rob him. The checking out
of the ten thousand dollars was but a small part of it Harris had sold
the cattle, and, seeking to keep the money, had simply said that he had
been robbed. The story about the probable dissolution of the exporters'
combine had been all a lie. He had been the dupe--the easy, willing
dupe, of a cunning villain.

William Harris had come to West Virginia with the deliberate intention
of inveigling him into this very trap. He had left New York with the
entire scheme well planned. He had stopped at Bridgeport and told him
the plausible story about what would happen to the combine, in order to
arouse his interest and draw him into the plot and to account for his
own presence in the cattle region. It was a shrewdly constructed tale,
which, under the circumstances, the most cautious man in the business
would have believed.

The man winced as he recalled how cunningly Harris had forced him to do
the very things he desired done, without appearing to even suggest them.
There was the deposit of the fund in the partnership name,--that seemed
all reasonable enough. It had not occurred to him that this money would
then be subject to Harris's check as well as his own. Then, too, it was
reasonable that he should go out and buy the cattle, and Harris ship
them,--Harris was a commission-merchant by trade, and this division of
the work was natural. Such a robbery had not occurred before in all the
history of this business, and how fatally well all the circumstances and
the customs of the trade fitted into the plan of this daring rascal!

Then, like a benumbing ache, came the gradual appreciation of the
magnitude of this loss. The cattle were worth twenty thousand dollars.
He had agreed to pay Izzard that sum for the drove, and then there was
the five thousand of his own money. Twenty-five thousand dollars in all.
It was no small sum for the wealthiest to lose, and to this man in his
despair it loomed large indeed.

Financial ruin is an evil-featured demon at best. The grasp of his hand
is blighting; the leer of his sunken face, maddening. It requires strong
will to face the monster when one knows that he is coming, even after
his shadow has been flitting across one's path for years. When he leaps
down suddenly from the dark upon the shoulders of the unsuspecting
passer-by, that one must be strong indeed if all that he possesses of
virtue and honesty and good motive be not driven out from him.

The old clock on the court-house struck five, its battered iron tongue
crying out from above the place where men were accustomed to resort for
Justice.

The sound startled Woodford and reminded him of something. He arose and
went to the window and stood looking at the gaunt old building.

Yes, there was the Law. He had almost forgotten that, and the Law would
not tolerate wrong. It hated the evil-doer, and hunted him down even to
the death, and punished him. Men were often weak and half blind, but the
Law was strong always, and its eyes were far-sighted. The world was not
so large that the rogue could hide from it. In its strength it would
seek him out and hold him responsible for the evil he had done. It stood
ever in its majesty between the knave and those upon whom he sought to
prey; its shadow, heavy with warning, lay always before the faces of
vicious men.

In his bitterness, Woodford thanked Heaven that this was true. From the
iron hand of the Law; William Harris should have vengeance visited upon
him to the very rim of the measure.



VI.

Randolph Mason looked up from his desk as William Harris burst into his
office. The commission-merchant's face was red, and he was panting with
excitement. "Mr. Mason," he cried, "there is trouble on foot; you must
help me out!"

"Trouble," echoed Mason, "is it any new thing to meet? Why do you come
back with your petty matters?"

"It is no petty matter, sir," said Harris; "you planned the whole thing
for me, and you said it was no crime. Now they are trying to put me
in the penitentiary. You must have been wrong when you said it was no
crime."

"Wrong?" said Mason, sharply. "What fool says I am wrong?"

"Why, sir," continued Harris, rapidly, "Thomas Woodford has applied to
the Governor for an extradition, asking that I be turned over to the
authorities of West Virginia on the charge of having committed a felony.
You said I could draw out the partnership fund and keep it, and that I
could sell the cattle and buy foreign exchange with the money, and it
would be no crime. Now they are after me, and you must go to Albany and
see about it."

"I shall not go to Albany," said Mason. "You have committed no crime and
cannot be punished."

"But," said Harris, anxiously, "won't they take me down there? Won't the
Governor turn me over to them?"

"The Governor," continued Mason, "is no fool. The affidavit stating the
facts, which must accompany the application, will show on its face
that no crime has been committed. You were a partner, with a partner's
control of the funds. The taking of partnership property by one partner
is no crime. Neither did you steal the cattle. They were sold to you.
Your partner trusted you. If you do not pay, it is his misfortune.
It was all a business affair, and by no possible construction can be
twisted into a crime. Nor does it matter how the partnership was formed,
so that it existed. It is no crime to lie in regard to an opinion.
You have violated no law,--you have simply taken advantage of its weak
places to your own gain and to the hurt of certain stupid fools. The
Attorney General will never permit an extradition in this case while the
world stands. Go home, man, and sleep,--you are as safe from the law as
though you were in the grave."

With that, Randolph Mason arose and opened the office door. "I bid you
good-morning, sir," he said curtly.

The Governor of New York pushed the papers across the table to the
Attorney General. "I would like you to look at this application for the
extradition of one Harris, charged with committing a felony in the State
of West Virginia," he said. "The paper seems to be regular, but I am
somewhat in doubt as to the proper construction to be placed upon the
affidavit stating the facts alleged to constitute this crime."



VII.


The Attorney General took the papers and went over them rapidly. "Well,"
he said, "there is nothing wrong with the application. Everything
is regular except the affidavit, and it is quite clear that it fails to
support this charge of felony."

"I was inclined to that opinion," said the Governor, "and I thought best
to submit the matter to you."

"It is usual," continued the Attorney General, "to grant the application
without question, where the papers are regular and the crime is
charged, and it is not required that the crime be charged with the legal
exactness necessary in an indictment. The Governor is not permitted to
try the question whether the accused is guilty or not guilty. Nor is
he to be controlled by the question whether the offence is or is not a
crime in his own State, the question before him being whether the act
is punishable as a crime in the demanding State. The Governor cannot go
behind the face of the papers nor behind the facts alleged to constitute
a crime, and if these facts, by any reasonable construction, support the
charge of crime, the extradition will usually be granted. But it is a
solemn proceeding, and one not to be trifled with, and not to be invoked
without good cause, nor to be used for the purpose of redressing civil
injuries, or for the purpose of harassing the citizens; and where on
the face of the affidavit it is plainly evident that no crime has been
committed, and that by no possible construction of the facts stated
could the matter be punishable as a crime, then it is the duty of the
Governor to refuse the extradition.

"In this case the authorities in the demanding State have filed an
affidavit setting forth at length the facts alleged to constitute a
felony. This paper shows substantially that a general partnership was
formed by William Harris and Thomas Woodford, and that pursuant to such
business relations certain partnership property came into the possession
of Harris; this property he converted to his own use. It is clear that
this act constituted no crime under the statutes of West Virginia or
the common law there obtaining. The property was general partnership
property; the money taken was a general partnership fund, subject to the
check of either partner. The partner Harris was properly in possession
of the cattle as a part owner. He was also lawfully entitled to the
possession of the partnership fund if he saw fit to draw it out and use
it. If it be presumed that his story of the robbery is false, and that
he deliberately planned to secure possession of the property and money,
and did so secure possession of it, and converted it to his own use, yet
he has committed no crime. He has simply taken advantage of the trust
reposed in him by his partner Woodford, and has done none of those acts
essential to a felony. The application must be refused."

"That was my opinion," said the Governor, "but such a great wrong had
been done that I hesitated to refuse the extradition."

"Yes," answered the Attorney General, "all the wrong of a serious
felony has been done, but no crime has been committed. The machinery
of criminal jurisprudence cannot be used for the purpose of redressing
civil wrong, the distinction being that, by a fiction of law, crimes are
wrongs against the State, and in order to be a crime the offence must be
one of those wrongs described by the law as being against the peace and
dignity of the State. If, on the other hand, the act be simply a wrong
to the citizen and not of the class described as being offences against
the State, it is no crime, no matter how injurious it may be or how
wrongful to the individual. The entire transaction was a civil matter
resulting in injury to the citizen, Woodford, but it is no crime, and is
not the proper subject of an extradition."

The Governor turned around in his chair. "James," he said to his private
secretary, "return the application for the extradition of William
Harris, and say that upon the face of the papers it is plainly evident
that no crime has been committed."

The blow which Fate had sought to deliver with such malicious cunning
against the confidential clerk of Beaumont, Milton, & Company had been
turned aside, and had fallen with all its crushing weight upon the
shoulders of another man, five hundred miles to westward, within the
jurisdiction of a distant commonwealth.



IV--THE ERROR OF WILLIAM VAN BROOM


_[The lawyer will at once see that the false making of this paper is no
forgery, and that no crime has been committed. See the Virginia case of
Foulke in 2 Robinson's Virginia Reports, 836; the case of Jackson vs.
Weisiger, 11 Ky. (Monroe Reports), 214; and the later case of Charles
Waterman vs. The People, 67 111., 91.]_



I.

THE morning paper contained this extravagant personal: "Do not suicide.
If you are a non-resident of New York in difficulty, at nine to-night
walk east by the corner of the -------- Building with a copy of this
paper in your right hand."

The conservative foreigner, unfamiliar with our great dailies, would,
perhaps, be surprised that the editor would print such a questionable
announcement in his paper, but at this time in New York the personal
column had become a very questionable directory, resorted to by all
classes of mankind for every conceivable purpose, be it gain, adventure,
or even crime; no one thought to question the propriety of such
publications. Indeed, no one stopped to consider them at all, unless he
happened to be a party in interest.



II.


A few minutes before the hour mentioned in the above personal, a cab
came rattling down --------

Street. The driver wore a fur-cap and a great-coat buttoned up around
his ears. As he turned the corner to the -------- Building, he glanced
down at his front wheel and brought his horses up with a jerk. There was
evidently something wrong with the wheel, for he jumped down from the
box to examine it. He shook the wheel, took off the tap, and began to
move the hub carefully out toward the end of the axle. As he worked he
kept his eyes on the corner. Presently a big, plainly dressed man walked
slowly down by the building. He carried a half-open newspaper in his
right hand and seemed to be keeping a sharp lookout around him. He
stopped for a moment by the carriage, satisfied himself that it was
empty, and went on. At the next corner he climbed up on the seat of the
waiting patrol wagon and disappeared.

The cabman seemed to be engrossed with the repair of his wheel and
gave no indication that he had seen the stranger. Almost immediately
thereafter a second man passed the corner with a newspaper in prominent
evidence. He was a "hobo" of the most pronounced type and marched by
with great difficulty. After he had passed, he turned round and threw
the newspaper into the gutter with a volley of curses.

The cabman worked on at his wheel. He had now removed it to the end of
the axle and was scraping the boxing with his knife. At this moment a
young man wearing a gray overcoat and a gray slouch hat came rapidly
down the street. At the corner he put his hand quickly into his overcoat
pocket, took out a newspaper, and immediately thrust it into his other
pocket. The cabman darted across the street and touched him on the
shoulder. The man turned with a quick, nervous start. The cabman took
off his cap, said something in a low tone, and pointed to his wheel.
The two men crossed to the carriage. The cabman held the axle and the
stranger slipped the wheel into place, while the two talked in low
tones. When it was done, the stranger turned round, stepped up on the
pavement, and hurried on by the building. The cabman shut his door with
a bang, climbed up on his box, and drove rapidly down -------- Street.



III.

Parks," said Randolph Mason, taking off his great-coat in the private
office, "who wanted to see me at this unusual hour?"

"He was a Philadelphia man, he said, sir," answered the little
melancholy clerk.

"Well," said Mason, sharply, "did he expect to die before morning that I
should be sent for in the middle of the night?"

"He said that he would leave at six, sir, and must see you as soon as
possible, so I thought I had best send for you."

"He is to be here at ten, you say?"

"At ten, sir," answered the little man, going out into the other office
and closing the door behind him. When the door was closed, Parks went
over to a corner of the room, took up a hackman's overcoat and fur cap,
put them into one of the bookcases and locked the sliding top. Then he
went quietly out of the room and down the steps to the entrance of the
building.

In the private office Randolph Mason walked backward and forward with
his hands in his pockets. He was restless and his eyes were bright.

"Another weakling," he muttered, "making puny efforts to escape from
Fate's trap, or seeking to slip from under some gin set by his fellows.
Surely, the want of resources on the part of the race is utter, is
abysmal. What miserable puppets men are! moved backward and forward in
Fate's games as though they were strung on a wire and had their bellies
filled with sawdust! Yet each one has his problem, and that is the
important matter. In these problems one pits himself against the
mysterious intelligence of Chance,--against the dread cunning and the
fatal patience of Destiny. Ah! these are worthy foemen. The steel grates
when one crosses swords with such mighty fencers."

There was a sound as of men conversing in low tones in the outer office.
Mason stopped short and turned to the door. As he did so, the door was
opened from the outside and a man entered, closed the door behind him,
and remained standing with his back against it.

Randolph Mason looked down at the stranger sharply. The man wore a gray
suit and gray overcoat; he was about twenty-five, of medium height,
with a clean-cut, intelligent face that was peculiar; originally it had
expressed an indulgent character of unusual energy. Now it could not be
read at all. It was simply that silent, immobile mask so sought after by
the high-grade criminal. His face was white, and the perspiration, was
standing out on his forehead, indicating that he was laboring under some
deep and violent emotion. Yet, with all, his manner was composed and
deliberate, and his face gave no sign other than its whiteness; it was
calm and expressionless, as the face of the dead.

Randolph Mason dragged a big chair up to his desk, sat down in his
office chair and pointed to the other. The stranger came and sat down
in the big chair, gripping its arms with his hands, and without
introduction or comment began to talk in a jerky, metallic voice.

"This is all waste of time," he said. "You won't help me. There is no
reason for my being here. I should have had it over by this time, and
yet that would not help her, and she is the only one. It would be the
meanest kind of cowardice to leave her to suffer; and yet I dare not
live to see her suffer, I could not bear that. I love her too much for
that, I----"

"Sir," said Mason, brutally, "this is all irrelevant rant. Come to the
point of your difficulty."

The stranger straightened up and passed his hand across his forehead.
"Yes," he said, "you are right, sir; it is all rant. I forget where I
am. I will be as brief and concise as possible.

"My name is Camden Gerard. I am a gambler by profession. My mother
died when I was about ten years old and my father, then a Philadelphia
lawyer, found himself with two children, myself and my little sister, a
mere baby in arms. He sent me to one of the eastern colleges and put the
baby in a convent. Thus things ran on for perhaps ten or twelve years.
The evil effect of forcing me into a big college at an early age soon
became apparent I came under the influence of a rapid and unscrupulous
class and soon became as rapid and unscrupulous as the worst. I went all
the paces and gradually became an expert college gambler of such high
order that I was able to maintain myself. At about twelve my sister
Marie began to show remarkable talent as an artist and my father,
following her wishes, took her to Paris and placed her in one of the
best art schools of that city. In a short time thereafter my father
died suddenly, and it developed after investigation that he had left no
estate whatever. I sold the books and other personal effects, and found
myself adrift in the world with a few hundred dollars, no business, no
profession, and no visible means of support, and, further, I had this
helpless child to look after.

"I went to supposed friends of my father and asked them to help me into
some business by which I could maintain myself and my little sister.
They promised, but put me off with one excuse after another, until I
finally saw through their hypocrisy and knew that they never intended
to assist me. I felt, indeed, that I was adrift, utterly helpless and
friendless, and the result was, that I resorted to my skill as a gambler
for the purpose of making a livelihood. For a time fortune favored me,
and I lived well, and paid all the college expenses of Marie. I was
proud of the child. She was sweet and lovable, and developing into a
remarkably handsome girl. About two months ago, my luck turned sharply
against me; everything went wrong with long jumps. Night after night
I was beaten. Anybody broke me, even the 'tender-feet,' I gathered
together every dollar possible and struggled against my bad fortune, but
to no purpose. I only lost night after night. In the midst of all, Marie
wrote to me for money to pay her quarterly bills. I replied that I would
send it in a short time. I pawned everything, begged and borrowed and
struggled, and resorted to every trick and resource of my craft; but all
was utterly vain and useless. I was penniless and stranded. On the heels
of it all, I to-day received another letter from Marie, saying that her
bills must be paid by the end of the month, or they would turn her out
into the city."

His voice trembled and the perspiration poured out on his forehead. "You
know what it means for a helpless young girl to be turned out in Paris,"
he went on; "I know, and the thought of it makes me insanely desperate.
Now," said the man, looking Mason squarely in the eyes, "I have told you
all the truth. What am I to do?"

For a time Mason's face took on an air of deep abstraction. "This is
Saturday night," he said, as though talking to himself. "You should
complete it by Friday. There is time enough."

"Young man," he continued, speaking clearly and precisely, "you are to
leave New York for West Virginia to-morrow morning. A messenger boy will
meet you at the train, with a package of papers which I shall send. In
it you will find full instructions and such things as you will need.
These instructions you are to follow to the very letter. Everything will
depend on doing exactly as I say, but," he continued, with positive and
deliberate emphasis, "this must not fail."

The man arose and drew a deep breath. "It will not fail," he said; "I
will do anything to save her from disgrace,--anything." Then he went
out.

At the entrance of the building Parks stepped up and touched the
stranger on the shoulder. "My friend," he said, "I will bring those
papers myself, and I will see that you have sufficient money to carry
this thing through. But remember that I am not to be trifled with. You
are to come here just as soon as you return."



IV.

Shortly before noon on Monday morning, Camden Gerard stepped into the
jewelry establishment of William Van Broom, in the city of Wheeling, and
asked for the proprietor. That gentleman came forward in no very kindly
humor. Upon seeing the well dressed young man, he at once concluded that
he was a high-grade jewel drummer, and being a practical business man,
he was kindly at sales and surly at purchases.

"This is Mr. Van Broom, I believe," said the young man. "My name
is Gerard. I am from New York, sir." Then noticing the jeweller's
expression, he added, quickly: "I am not a salesman, sir, and am not
going to consume your time. I am in West Virginia on business, and
stepped in here to present a letter of introduction which my friend,
Bartholdi, insisted upon writing."

The affability of the jeweller returned with a surge. He bowed and
beamed sweetly as he broke the seal of the letter of introduction. The
paper bore the artistic stamp of Bartholdi and Banks, the great diamond
importers, and ran as follows:

"William Van Broom, Esq.,

"Wheeling, West Va.

"Dear Sir:

"This will introduce Mr. Camden Gerard. Kindly show him every possible
courtesy, for which we shall be under the greatest obligations.

"Most sincerely your obedient servants,

"Bartholdi and Banks"

The jeweller's eyes opened wide with wonder. He knew this firm to be the
largest and most aristocratic dealers in the world. It was much honor,
and perhaps vast benefit, to be of service to them, and he was flattered
into the seventh heaven.

"I am indeed glad to meet you, sir," he said, seizing the man's hand and
shaking it vigorously. "I certainly hope that I can be of service. It is
now near twelve; you will come with me to lunch at the club?"

"I thank you very much," answered Camden Gerard, "but I am compelled
to go to the Sistersville oil field on the noon train. However, I will
return at eight, and shall expect you to dine with me at the hotel."

The jeweller accepted the invitation with ill-concealed delight. The
young man thanked him warmly for his kindly interest, bade him good-day,
and went out.

That night at eight, Camden Gerard and Mr. William Van Broom dined
in the best style the city could afford. The wine was excellent and
plentiful, and Gerard proved to be most entertaining. He was brilliant
and considerate to such a degree, that when the two men parted for
the night the jeweller assured himself that he had never met a more
delightful companion.

The following morning Camden Gerard dropped into the store for a few
moments, and while conversing with his friend Van Broom, noticed a
little ring in the show window. He remarked on its beauty, and intimated
that he must purchase a birthday present for his little daughter. The
jeweller took the ring from the case and handed it to Gerard. That
gentleman discovered that it was far prettier than he had at first
imagined it, and inquired the price.

"It is marked at twenty-five dollars," said the jeweller.

"Why," said Camden Gerard, "that is very cheap; I will take it."

The jeweller wrapped up the ring and gave it to the New Yorker. That
gentleman paid the money and returned to his hotel.

The next day Camden Gerard was presumably down in the great Tyler County
oil field. At any rate he returned to the city on the evening train and
dined with Van Broom at the club. As the evening waned, the men grew
confidential. Gerard spoke of the vast fortunes that were made in oil.
He said that the West Virginia fields were scarce half developed, but
that they had already attracted the attention of the great Russian
companies and that gigantic operations might be soon expected.
He denounced the autocratic policy of the Czar in regard to oil
transportation, and hinted vaguely at vast international combines. He
spoke of St. Petersburg and the larger Russian cities; of the manners
and customs of the nobility; of their vast fortunes, and their very
great desire to invest in America. He intimated vaguely that there now
existed in New York a colossal syndicate backed by unlimited Russian
capital, but he gave the now excited and curious jeweller no definite
information concerning himself or his business in West Virginia,
shrewdly leaving Van Broom to draw his own inferences.

It was late when William Van Broom retired to his residence. He was
happy and flattered, and with reason. Had he not been selected by the
great firm of Bartholdi & Banks to counsel with one who, he strongly
suspected, was the private agent of princes?

About two o'clock on the following Thursday afternoon, Mr. Camden Gerard
called upon William Van Broom and said that he wished to speak with
him in his private office. The New Yorker was soiled and grimy, and
had evidently just come from a train, but he was smiling and in high
spirits.

When the two men were alone in the private office, Camden Gerard took a
roll of paper from his pocket, and turned to Van Broom. "Here are some
papers," he said, speaking low that he might not be overheard. "I have
no secure place to put them, and I would be under great obligations to
you if you would kindly lock them up in your safe."

"Certainly," said the jeweller, taking the papers and crossing to the
safe. He threw back the door and pulled out one of the little boxes. It
contained an open leather case in which there was a magnificent diamond
necklace.

"By George!" said Camden Gerard, "those are splendid stones."

"Yes," answered Van Broom, taking out the case and handing it to the
New Yorker. "They are too valuable for my trade; I am going to return
them."

Camden Gerard carried the necklace to the light and examined it
critically. The stones were not large but they were clear and flawless.

"What are these worth?" he said, turning to Van Broom.

"Thirty-five hundred dollars," answered the jeweller.

"What!" cried Gerard, "only thirty-five hundred dollars for this
necklace? It is the cheapest thing I ever saw. You are away under the
foreign dealers."

"They are cheap," said Van Broom. "That is almost the wholesale price."

"But," said Camden Gerard, "you must be mistaken. Your mark is certainly
wrong. I have seen smaller stones in the Russian shops for double the
price."

"We can't sell the necklace at that figure," said Van Broom, smiling.
"We are not such sharks as your foreign dealers."

"If you mean that," said Camden Gerard, "I will buy these jewels here
and now. I had intended purchasing something in the east for my wife,
but I can never do better than this."

The New Yorker took out his pocket-book and handed Van Broom a bill.
"Before you retract," he said, "here is fifty to seal the bargain. Get
your hat and come with me to the bank."

"All right," said Mr. Van Broom, taking the money. "The necklace is
yours, my friend." Camden Gerard closed the leather case and put it into
his pocket. The jeweller locked the safe, put on his hat, and the two
went out of the store and down the street to the banking house of the
Mechanics' Trust Company. Mr. Gerard enquired for the cashier. The
teller informed him that the cashier was in the back room of the bank
and if he would step back he could see him. The New Yorker asked his
companion to wait for a moment until he spoke with the cashier. Then he
went back into the room indicated by the teller, closing the door after
him.

The cashier sat at a table engaged with a pile of correspondence. He was
busy and looked up sharply as the man entered.

"Sir," said the New Yorker, "have you received a sealed package from the
Adams Express Company consigned to one Camden Gerard?"

"No," answered the cashier, turning to his work.

"You have not?" repeated Gerard, excitedly, "then I will run down to
the telegraph office and see what is the matter." Thereupon he crossed
hurriedly to the side door of the office, opened it and stepped out into
the street. The cashier went on with his work.

For perhaps a quarter of an hour William Van Broom waited for his
companion to conclude his business with the cashier. Finally he grew
impatient and asked the teller to remind Mr. Gerard that he was waiting.
The teller returned in a moment and said that the gentleman had gone to
the telegraph office some time ago. The jeweller's heart dropped like a
lead plummet. He turned without a word and hurried to the office of the
Western Union. Here his fears were confirmed, Camden Gerard had not been
in the office. He ran across the street to the hotel and enquired for
the New Yorker. The clerk informed him that the gentleman had paid his
bill and left the hotel that morning. The jeweller's anxiety was at
fever heat, but with all he was a man of business method and knew the
very great value of silence. He called a carriage, went to the chief
of police, and set his machinery in motion. Returning to his place of
business he opened the safe and took out the package of papers which
Camden Gerard had given him. Upon examination this proved to be simply
a roll of blank oil leases. Then remembering the letter of introduction,
he telegraphed to Bartholdi & Banks. Hours passed and not the slightest
trace of Camden Gerard could be found. The presumed friend of the great
diamond importers had literally vanished from the face of the earth.

About four o'clock the jeweller received an answer from Bartholdi &
Banks, stating that they knew no such man as Camden Gerard and that his
letter of introduction was false. Mr. William Van Broom was white with
despair. He put the letter and answer into his pocket and went at once
to the office of the prosecuting attorney for the State and laid the
whole matter before him.

"My dear sir," said that official, when Mr. Van Broom had finished his
story, "your very good friend Camden Gerard owes you thirty-four hundred
and fifty dollars, which he will perhaps continue to owe. You may as
well go back to your business."

"What do you mean?" said the jeweller.

"I mean," replied the attorney, "that you have been the dupe of a shrewd
knave who is familiar with the weak places in the law and has resorted
to an ingenious scheme to secure possession of your property without
rendering himself liable to criminal procedure. It is true that if the
diamonds were located you could attach and recover them by a civil
suit, but it is scarcely possible that such a shrewd knave would permit
himself to be caught with the jewels, and it is certain that he has some
reasonably safe method by which he can dispose of them without fear of
detection. He has trapped you and has committed no crime. If you had
the fellow in custody now, the judge would release him the moment an
application was made. The entire matter was only a sale. He bought the
jewels and you trusted him. He is no more a law-breaker than you are. He
is only a sharper dealer."

"But, sir," cried the angry Van Broom, spreading the false letter out on
the table, "that is forged, every word of it. I will send this fellow to
the penitentiary for forgery. I will spend a thousand dollars to catch
him."

"If you should spend a thousand dollars to catch him," said the
attorney, smiling, "you would never be able to send him to the
penitentiary on that paper. It is not forgery."

"Not forgery!" shouted the jeweller, "not forgery, man! The rascal wrote
every word of that letter. He signed the name of Bartholdi & Banks at
the bottom of it. Every word of that paper is false. The company never
heard of it. Here is their telegram."

"Mr. Van Broom," said the public prosecutor, "listen to me, sir. All
that you say is perhaps true. Camden Gerard doubtless wrote the entire
paper and signed the name of Bartholdi & Banks, and presented it to
you for a definite purpose. To such an act men commonly apply the term
forgery, and in the common acceptation of the word it is forgery and a
reprehensible wrong; but legally, the false making of such a paper as
this is not forgery and is no crime. In order to constitute the crime
of forgery, the instrument falsely made must be apparently capable of
effecting a fraud, of being used to the prejudice of another's right. It
must be such as might be of legal efficacy, or might be the foundation
of some legal liability.

"This paper in question, although falsely made, has none of the vital
elements of forgery under the law. If genuine, it would have no legal
validity, as it affects no legal rights. It would merely be an
attempt to receive courtesies on a promise, of no legal obligation, to
reciprocate them; and courtesies have never been held to be the subject
of legal fraud. This is a mere letter of introduction, which, by no
possibility, could subject the supposed writer to any pecuniary loss or
legal liability. It is not a subject of forgery, and its false making is
no crime.

"Men commonly believe that all writings falsely made or falsely altered
are forgeries. There was never a greater error. Forgery may be committed
only of those instruments in writing which, if genuine, would, or might
appear as the foundation of another man's liability, or the evidence of
his right. All wrongful and injurious acts are not punished by the
law. Wrongs to become crimes must measure up to certain definite and
technical standards. These standards are laid down rigidly by the law
and cannot be contracted or expanded. They are fixed and immutable. The
act done must fit closely into the prescribed measure, else it is no
crime. If it falls short, never so little, in any one vital element, the
law must, and will, disregard it as criminal, no matter how injurious,
or wrongful, or unjust it may be. The law is a rigid and exact science."

Mr. William Van Broom dropped his hands to his sides and gazed at the
lawyer in wonder.

"These facts," continued the attorney, in his clear, passionless voice,
"are matters of amazement to the common people when brought to their
attention. They fail to see the wise but technical distinctions. They
are willing to trust to what they are pleased to call common-sense, and,
falling into traps laid by the cunning villain, denounce the law for
impotency."

"Well," said the jeweller, as he arose and put on his overcoat, "what is
the good of the law anyhow?"

The prosecuting attorney smiled wearily. To him the wisdom of the
law was clear, beautiful, and superlatively just. To the muddy-headed
tradesman it was as color to the blind.



V.

Over in the art school of old Monsieur Pontique, Marie Gerard saw
the result of the entire matter in the light of kindness and sweet
self-sacrifice; and perhaps she saw it as it was. This is a queer world
indeed.



V--THE MEN OF THE JIMMY

_[See Ranney vs. The People, 22 N.Y.R., 413; Scott vs. The People, 66
Barb. [N.Y], 62; The People vs. Blanchard, 90 N. Y. Repts., 314.
Also, Rex vs. Douglas, 2 Russell on Crimes, 624, and other cases there
cited.]_



I.

PARKS," said Randolph Mason, "has Leslie Wilder a country place on the
Hudson?"

"Yes, sir," replied the bald little clerk. "It is at Cliphmore, I think,
sir."

"Well," said Mason, "here is his message, Parks, asking that I come to
him immediately. It seems urgent and probably means a will. Find out
what time a train leaves the city and have a carriage."

The clerk took the telegram, put on his coat, and went down on the
street. It was cold and snowing heavily. The wind blew up from the
river, driving the snow in great, blinding sheets. The melancholy Parks
pulled his hat down over his face, walked slowly round the square, and
came back to the entrance of the office building. Instead of taking the
elevator he went slowly up the steps into the outer office. Here he took
off his coat and went over to the window, and stood for some minutes
looking out at the white city.

"At any rate he will not suspect me," he muttered, "and we must get
every dollar possible while we can. He won't last always."

At this moment a carriage drove up and stopped by the curb. Parks turned
round quickly and went into Mason's private office. "Sir," he said,
"your train leaves at six ten, and the carriage is waiting."

When Randolph Mason stepped from the train at the little Cliphmore
station, it was pitch dark, and the snow was sweeping past in great
waves. He groped his way to the little station-house and pounded on the
door. There was no response. As he turned round a man stepped up on the
platform, pulled off his cap, and said, "Excuse me, sir, the carriage is
over here, sir." Mason followed the man across the platform, and up what
seemed to be a gravel road for perhaps twenty yards. Here they found
a closed carriage. The man threw open the door, helped Mason in, and
closed it, forcing the handle carefully. Then he climbed up in front,
struck the horses, and drove away.

For perhaps half an hour the carriage rattled along the gravel road, and
Mason sat motionless. Suddenly he leaned over, turned the handle of the
carriage door, and jerked it sharply. The door did not open. He tucked
the robes around him and leaned back in the seat, like a man who had
convinced himself of the truth of something that he suspected. Presently
the carriage began to wobble and jolt as though upon an unkept country
road. The driver pulled up his horses and allowed them to walk. The snow
drifted up around him and he seemed to have great difficulty in
keeping to the road Presently he stopped, climbed down from the box
and attempted to open the door. He apparently had some difficulty, but
finally threw it back and said: "Dis is de place, sir."

Randolph Mason got out and looked around him. "This may be the place,"
he said to the man, "but this is not Wilder's."'

"I said dis here is de place," answered the man, doggedly.

"Beyond a doubt," said Mason, "and since you are such a cunning liar I
will go in."

The driver left the horses standing and led the way across what seemed
to be an unkept lawn, Mason following. A house loomed up in the dark
before them. The driver stopped and rapped on the door. There was no
light visible and no indication of any inhabitant. The driver rapped
again without getting any response. Then he began to curse, and to kick
the door violently.

"Will you be quiet?" said a voice from the inside, and the door opened.
The hall-way was dark, and the men on the outside could not see the
speaker.

"Here is de man, sir," said the driver.

"That is good," replied the voice; "come in."

The two men stepped into the house. The man who had bid them enter
closed the door and bolted it. Then he took a lantern from under his
coat and led them back through the hall to the rear of the building.
The house was dilapidated and old, and had the appearance of having been
deserted for many years.

The man with the lantern turned down a side hall, opened a door, and
ushered Mason into a big room, where there was a monster log fire
blazing.

This room was dirty and bare. The windows were carefully covered from
the inside, so as to prevent the light from being seen. There was no
furniture except a broken table and a few old chairs. At the table
sat an old man smoking a pipe. He had on a cap and overcoat, and was
studying a newspaper spread out before him. He seemed to be spelling
out the words with great difficulty, and did not look up. Randolph
Mason took off his great-coat, threw it over a chair, and seated himself
before the fire. The man with the lantern placed it on the mantel-shelf,
took up a short pipe, and seating himself on a box by the hearth corner,
began to smoke. He was a powerful man, perhaps forty years old, clean
and decently dressed. His forehead was broad. His eyes were unusually
big and blue. He seemed to be of considerable intelligence, and his
expression, taken all in all, was innocent and kindly.

For a time there was nothing said. The driver went out to look after
his horses. The old man at the table labored on at his newspaper, and
Randolph Mason sat looking into the fire. Suddenly he turned to the man
at his left. "Sir," said he "to what difficulty am I indebted for this
honor?"

"Well," said the man, putting his pipe into his pocket, "the combination
is too high for us this time; we can't crack it. We knew about you and
sent for you."

"Your plan for getting me here does little credit to your wits," said
Mason; "the trick is infantile and trite."

"But it got you here anyhow," replied the man.

"Yes," said Mason, "when the dupe is willing to be one. But suppose I
had rather concluded to break with your driver at the station? It is
likewise dangerous to drive a man locked in a carriage when he may
easily kill you through the window."

"Trow on de light, Barker," said the old man at the table; "what is de
use of gropin'?"

"Well," said the younger man, "the fact is simply this: The Boss and
Leary and a 'supe' were cracking a safe out in the States. They were
tunnelling up early in the morning, when the 'supe' forced a jimmy
through the floor. The bank janitor saw it, and they were all caught and
sent up for ten years. We have tried every way to get the boys out,
but have been unable to do anything at all, until a few days ago we
discovered that one of the guards could be bribed to pass in a kit, and
to hit the 'supe' if there should be any shooting, if we could put up
enough stuff. He was to be discharged at the end of his month anyway,
and he did not care. But he would not move a finger under four thousand
dollars. We have been two weeks trying to raise the money, and have
now only twelve hundred. The guard has only a week longer, and another
opportunity will not occur perhaps in a lifetime. We have tried
everything, and cannot raise another hundred, and it is our only chance
to save the Boss and Leary."

"Dat is right," put in the old man; "it don't go at all wid us, we is
gittin' trowed on it, and dat is sure unless dis gent knows a good ting
to push, and dat is what he is here fur, to name de good ting to push.
Dat is right, dat 's what we 's got to have, and we 's got to have it
now. We don't keer no hell-room fur de 'supe,' it's de Boss and Leary we
wants."

Randolph Mason got up and stood with his back to the fire. The lines of
his face grew deep and hard. Presently he thrust out his jaw, and began
to walk backward and forward across the room.

"Barker," muttered the old man, looking up for the first time, "de guy
has jimmy iron in him."

The blue-eyed man nodded and continued to watch Mason curiously.
Suddenly, as he passed the old man at the table, Mason stopped short
and put his finger down on the newspaper. The younger man leaped up
noiselessly, and looking over Mason's shoulder read the head-lines under
his finger. "Kidnapped," it ran. "The youngest son of Cornelius Rockham
stolen from the millionaire's carriage. Large rewards offered. No clew."

"Do you know anything about this?" said Mason, shortly.

"Dat 's de hell," replied the old man, "we does n't."

Mason straightened up and swung round on his heel. "Sir," he said to
the man Barker, "are you wanted in New York?"

"No," he replied, "I am just over; they don't know me."

"Good," said Mason, "it is as plain as a blue print. Come over here."

The two crossed to the far corner of the room. There Mason grasped the
man by the shoulder and began to talk to him rapidly, but in a voice too
low to be heard by the old man at the table. "Smoove guy, dis," muttered
the old man. "He may be fly in de nut, but he takes no chances on de
large audejence."

For perhaps twenty minutes Randolph Mason talked to the man at the wall.
At first the fellow did not seem to understand, but after a time his
face lighted up with wonder and eagerness, and his assurance seemed to
convince the speaker, for presently they came back together to the fire.

"You," said Mason to the old man, "what is your name?"

"It cuts no ice about de label," replied the old man, pulling at his
pipe. "Fur de purposes of dis seeyance I am de Jook of Marlbone."

"Well," said Mason, putting on his coat, "Mr. Barker will tell your
lordship what you are to do."

The big blue-eyed man went out and presently returned with the carriage
driver. "Mr. Mason," he said, "Bill will drive you to the train and you
will be in New York by twelve."

"Remember," said Mason, savagely, turning around at the door, "it must
be exactly as I have told you, word for word."



II


I tell you," said Cornelius Rockham, "it is the most remarkable
proposition that I have ever heard."

"It is strange," replied the Police Chief, thoughtfully. "You say the
fellow declared that he had a proposition to make in regard to
the child, and that he refused to make it save in the presence of
witnesses."

"Yes, he actually said that he would not speak with me alone or where he
might be misunderstood, but that he would come here to-night at ten and
State the matter to me and such reliable witnesses as I should see fit
to have, not less than three in number; that a considerable sum of money
might be required, and that I would do well to have it in readiness;
that if I feared robbery or treachery, I should fill the house with
policemen, and take any and every precaution that I thought necessary.
In fact, he urged that I should have the most reliable men possible for
witnesses, and as many as I desired, and that I must avail myself of
every police protection in order that I might feel amply and thoroughly
secure."

"Well," said the Police Chief, "if the fellow is not straight he is a
fool. No living crook would ever make such a proposition."

"So I am convinced," replied Mr. Rockham. "The precautions he suggests
certainly prove it. He places himself absolutely in our hands, and knows
that if any crooked work should be attempted we have everything ready to
thwart it; that there is nothing that he could accomplish, and he would
only be placing himself helplessly in the grasp of the police. However,
we will not fail to avail ourselves of his suggestion. You will see to
it, Chief?"

"Yes," said the officer, rising and putting on his coat. "We will give
him no possible chance. It is now five. I will send the men in an hour."

At ten o'clock that night, the palatial residence of Cornelius Rockham
was in a state of complete police blockade. All the approaches were
carefully guarded. The house itself, from the basement to the very roof,
literally swarmed with the trusted spies of the police. The Chief
felt indeed that his elaborate precautions were in a vast measure
unnecessary. He was not a quick man, but he was careful after a
ponderous method, and trusted much to precautionary safeguards.

Cornelius Rockham, the Chief, and two sergeants in citizen's dress, were
waiting. Presently the bell rang and a servant ushered a man into the
room. He was big and plainly dressed. His hair was brown and his
eyes were blue, frank and kindly and his expression was pleasant and
innocent, almost infantile.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," he said, "I believe I am here by appointment
with Mr. Rockham."

"Yes," replied Cornelius Rockham, rising, "pray be seated, sir. I have
asked these gentlemen to be present, as you suggested."

"Your time is valuable, no doubt," said the man, taking the proffered
chair, "and I will consume as little of it as possible. My name is
Barker. I am a comparative stranger in this city, and by pure accident
am enabled to make the proposition which I am going to make. Your child
has been missing now for several days, I believe, without any clew
whatever. I do not know who kidnapped it, nor any of the circumstances.
It is now half-past ten o'clock. I do not know where it is at this time,
and I could not now take you to it. At eleven o'clock to-night, I shall
know where it is, and I shall be able to take you to it. But I need
money, and I must have five thousand dollars to compensate me for the
information."

The man paused for a moment, and passed his hand across his forehead.
"Now," he went on, "to be perfectly plain. I will not trust you, and
you, of course, will not trust me. In order to insure good faith on both
sides, I must ask that you pay me the money here, in the presence of
these witnesses, then handcuff me to a police officer, and I will take
you to the child at eleven o'clock. You may surround me with all the
guards you think proper, and take every precaution to insure your
safety and prevent my escape. You will pardon my extreme frankness, but
business is business, and we all know that matters of this kind must be
arranged beforehand. Men are too indifferent after they get what they
want." Barker stopped short, and looked up frankly at the men around
him.

Cornelius Rockham did not reply, but his white, haggard face lighted
up hopefully. He beckoned to the Police Chief, and the two went into an
adjoining room.

"What do you think?" said Rockham, turning to the officer.

"That man," replied the Chief, "means what he says, or else he is an
insane fool, and he certainly bears no indication of the latter. It is
evident that he will not open his mouth until he gets the money, for
the reason that he is afraid that he will be ignored after the child
is recovered. I do not believe there is any risk in paying him now, and
doing as he says; because he cannot possibly escape when fastened to a
sergeant, and if he proves to be a fake, or tries any crooked work, we
will return the money to you and lock him up."

"I am inclined to agree with you," replied Rockham; "the man is
eccentric and suspicious, but he certainly will not move until paid, and
we have no charge as yet upon which to arrest him. Nor would it avail us
anything if we did. There is little if any risk, and much probability of
learning something of the boy. I will do it."

He went down to the far end of the hall and took a package of bills from
a desk. Then the two men returned to the drawing-room.

"Sir," said Rockham to Barker, "I accept your proposition, here is the
money, but you must consider yourself utterly in our hands. I am willing
to trust you, but I am going to follow your suggestion."

"A contract is a contract," replied Barker, taking the money and
counting it carefully. When he had satisfied himself that the amount was
correct he thrust the roll of bills into his outside coat-pocket.

"It is now fifteen minutes until eleven," said the Police Chief,
stepping up to Barker's chair, "and if you are ready we will go."

"I am ready," said the man, getting up.

The Police Chief took a pair of steel handcuffs from his pocket, locked
one part of them carefully on Barker's left wrist and fastened the other
to the right wrist of the sergeant. Then they went out of the house and
down the steps to the carriages.

The Police Chief, Barker, and the sergeant climbed into the first
carriage, and Mr. Rockham and the other officer into the second.

"Have your man drive to the Central Park entrance," said Barker to the
Chief. The officer called to the driver and the carriages rolled away.
At the west entrance to Central Park the men alighted.

"Now, gentlemen," said Barker, "we must walk west to the second corner
and wait there until a cab passes from the east. The cab will be close
curtained and will be drawn by a sorrel cob. As it passes you will dart
out, seize the horse, and take possession of the cab. You will find the
child in the cab, but I must insist for my own welfare, that you make
every appearance of having me under arrest and in close custody."

The five men turned down the street in the direction indicated. Mr.
Rockham and one of the officers in the front and the other two following
with Barker between them. For a time they walked along in silence.
Then the Police Chief took some cigars from his pocket, gave one to the
sergeant, and offering them to Barker said, "Will you smoke, sir?"

"Not a cigar, I thank you," replied the man, "but if you will permit me
I will light my pipe." The two men stopped. Barker took a short pipe and
a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, filled the pipe and lighted it; as
he was about to return the pouch to his coat pocket, an old apple-woman,
hobbling past, caught the odor and stopped.

"Fur de love of Hivin, Mister," she drawled, "give me a pipe uv yer
terbaccy?" Barker laughed, tossed her the pouch, and the three hurried
on.

At the corner indicated the men stopped. The Police Chief examined the
handcuffs carefully to see that they were all right; then they drew back
in the shadow and waited for the cab. Eleven o'clock came and passed and
the cab did not appear. Mr. Rockham paced the sidewalk nervously and the
policemen gathered close around Barker.

At half-past eleven o'clock Barker straightened up, shrugged his
shoulders, and turned to the Police Chief. "It is no use," he said,
"they are not here and they never will come now."

"What!" cried the Police Chief savagely, "do you mean that we are
fooled?"

"Yes," said Barker, "all of us. It is no use I tell you, the thing is
over."

"It is not over with you, my man," growled the Chief. "Here, sergeant,
get Mr. Rockham his money and let us lock this fellow up."

The sergeant turned and thrust his hand into Barker's outside
coat-pocket, then his chin dropped and he turned white. "It is gone!" he
muttered.

"Gone!" shouted Rockham; "search the rascal!"

The sergeant began to go carefully over the man. Suddenly he stopped.
"Chief," he muttered, "it was in that tobacco pouch."

The Police Chief staggered back and spun round on his heel. "Angels of
Hell!" he gasped, "it was a cute trick, and it threw us all, every one
of us."

Rockham bounded forward and brought his hand down heavily on Barker's
shoulder. "As for you, my fine fellow," he said, bitterly, "we have you
all right and we will land you in Sing Sing."

Barker was silent. In the dark the men could not see that he was
smiling.



III.

The court-room of Judge Walter P. Wright was filled with an interested
audience of the greater and unpunished criminals of New York. The
application of Barker for a _habeas corpus_, on the ground that he had
committed no crime, had attracted wide attention. It was known that the
facts were not disputed, and the proceeding was a matter of wonder.

Some days before, the case had been submitted to the learned judge. The
attorneys for the People had not been anxious enough to be interested,
and looked upon the application as a farce. The young man who appeared
for Barker announced that he represented one Randolph Mason, a
counsellor, and was present only for the purpose of asking that Barker
be discharged, and for the further purpose of filing the brief of Mason
in support of the application. He made no argument whatever, and had
simply handed up the brief, which the attorneys for the People had not
thought it worth their while to examine.

Barker sat in the dock, grim and confident. The attorneys for the
commonwealth were listless. The audience was silent and attentive. It
was a vital matter to them. If Barker had committed no crime, what a
rich, untramped field was open. The Judge laid his hand upon the books
piled up beside him and looked down at the bar.

"This proceeding," he began, "is upon the application of one Lemuel
Barker for a writ of _habeas corpus_, asking that he be discharged from
custody, upon the ground that he has committed no crime punishable at
common law or under the statutes of New York. An agreed state of facts
has been submitted, upon which he stands charged by the commonwealth
with having obtained five thousand dollars from one Cornelius Rockham
by false pretences. The facts are, briefly, that on the 17th day of
December Barker called at the residence of Rockham and said that he
desired to make a proposition looking to the recovery of the lost child
of said Rockham, but he desired to make it in the presence of witnesses,
and would return at ten o'clock that night. Pursuant to his appointment,
Barker again presented himself at the residence of said Rockham, and,
in the presence of witnesses, declared, in substance, that at that time
(then ten o'clock) he knew nothing of the said child, could not produce
it, and could give no information in regard to it, but that at eleven
o'clock he would know where the child was and would produce it; and
that, if the said Rockham would then and there pay him five thousand
dollars, he would at eleven o'clock take them to the lost child. The
money was paid and the transaction completed.

"At eleven o'clock, Barker took the men to a certain corner in the upper
part of this city, and it there developed that the entire matter was a
scheme on his part for the purpose of obtaining the said sum of money,
which he had in some manner disposed of; and that he in fact knew
nothing of the child and never intended to produce it.

"The attorneys for the People considered it idle to discuss what
they believed to be such a plain case of obtaining money under false
pretences; and I confess that upon first hearing I was inclined to
believe the proceeding a useless imposition upon the judiciary. I have
had occasion to change my opinion."

The attorneys present looked at each other with wonder and drew their
chairs closer to the table. The audience moved anxiously.

"The prisoner," continued the Judge, "has filed in his behalf the
remarkable brief of one Randolph Mason, a counsellor. This I have
read, first, with curiosity, then interest, then wonder, and, finally,
conviction. In it the crime sought to be charged is traced from the
days of the West Saxon Wights up to the present, beginning with the most
ancient cases and ending with the later decisions of our own Court of
Appeals. I have gone over these cases with great care, and find that
the vital element of this crime is, and has ever been, the false and
fraudulent representation or statement as to an _existing_ or _past
fact_. Hence, no representation, however false, in regard to a _future_
transaction can be a crime. Nor can a false statement, _promissory_ in
its nature, be the subject of a criminal charge.

"To constitute this crime there must always be a false representation
or statement as to a _fact_, and that _fact_ must be a _past_ or an
_existing fact_. These are plain statements of ancient and well settled
law, and laid here in this brief, almost in the exact language of our
courts.

"In this case the vital element of crime is wanting. The evidence fails
utterly to show false representation as to any _existing fact_. The
prisoner, Barker, at the time of the transaction, positively disclaimed
any knowledge of the child, or any ability to produce it. What he did
represent was that he would know, and that he would perform certain
things, in the future. The question of remoteness is irrelevant. It is
immaterial whether the future time be removed minutes or years.

"The false representation complained of was wholly in regard to a future
transaction, and essentially promissory in its nature, and such a wrong
is not, and never has been, held to be the foundation of a criminal
charge."

"But, if your Honor please," said the senior counsel for the People,
rising, "is it not clearly evident that the prisoner, Barker, began with
a design to defraud; that that design was present and obtained at the
time of this transaction; that a representation was made to Rockham
for the purpose of convincing him that there then existed a _bona
fide_ intention to produce his child; that money was obtained by false
statements in regard to this intention then existing, when in fact such
intention did not exist and never existed, and statements made to induce
Rockham to believe that it did exist were all utterly false, fraudulent,
and delusive? Surely this is a crime."

The attorney sat down with the air of one who had propounded an
unanswerable proposition. The Judge adjusted his eyeglasses and began to
turn the pages of a report. "I read," he said, "from the syllabus of the
case of The People of New York vs. John H. Blanchard. 'An indictment
for false pretences may not be founded upon an assertion of an existing
intention, although it did not in fact exist. There must be a false
representation as to an existing fact.'

"Your statement, sir, in regard to intention, in this case is true, but
it is no element of crime."

"But, sir," interposed the counsel for the People, now fully awake to
the fact that Barker was slipping from his grasp, "I ask to hold this
man for conspiracy and as a violator of the Statute of Cheats."

"Sir," said the Judge, with some show of impatience, "I call your
attention to Scott's case and the leading case of Ranney. In the
former, the learned Court announces that if the false and fraudulent
representations are not criminal there can be no conspiracy; and, in the
latter, the Court says plainly that false pretences in former statutes,
and gross fraud or cheat in the more recent acts, mean essentially the
same thing.

"You must further well know that this man could not be indicted at
common law for cheat, because no false token was used, and because in
respect to the instrumentality by which it was accomplished it had no
special reference to the public interest.

"This case is most remarkable in that it bears all the marks of a gross
and detestable fraud, and in morals is a vicious and grievous wrong, but
under our law it is no crime and the offender cannot be punished."

"I understand your Honor to hold," said the baffled attorney, jumping to
his feet, "that this man is guilty of no crime; that the dastardly act
which he confesses to have done constitutes no crime, and that he is to
go out of this court-room freed from every description of liability or
responsibility to any criminal tribunal; that the law is so defective
and its arm so short that it cannot pluck forth the offender and punish
him when by every instinct of morality he is a criminal. If this be
true, what a limitless field is open to the knave, and what a snug
harbor for him is the great commonwealth of New York!"

"I can pardon your abruptness," said the Judge, looking down upon the
angry and excited counsellor, "for the reason that your words are almost
exactly the lament of presiding Justice Mullin in the case of Scott.
But, sir, this is not a matter of sentiment; it is not a matter of
morality; it is not even a matter of right. It is purely and simply a
matter of law, and there is no law."

The Judge unconsciously arose and stood upright beside the bench. The
audience of criminals bent forward in their seats.

"I feel," he continued, "for the first time the utter inability of the
law to cope with the gigantic cunning of Evil. I appreciate the utter
villainy that pervaded this entire transaction. I am convinced that it
was planned with painstaking care by some master mind moved by Satanic
impulse. I now know that there is abroad in this city a malicious
intelligence of almost infinite genius, against which the machinery
of the law is inoperative. Against every sentiment of common right, of
common justice, I am compelled to decide that Lemuel Barker is guilty of
no crime and stands acquit."

It was high noon. The audience of criminals passed out from the temple
of so-called Justice, and with them went Lemuel Barker, unwhipped and
brazen; now with ample means by which to wrest his fellows in villainy
from the righteous wrath of the commonwealth. They were all enemies of
this same commonwealth, bitter, never wearying enemies, and to-day they
had learned much. How short-armed the Law was! Wondrous marvel that they
had not known it sooner! To be sure they must plan so cunningly that
only the Judge should pass upon them. He was a mere legal machine.

He was only the hand applying the rigid rule of the law. The danger was
with the jury; there lay the peril to be avoided. The jury! how they
hated it and feared it! and of right, for none knew better than they
that whenever, and where-ever, and however men stop to probe for it,
they always find, far down in the human heart, a great love of common
right and fair dealing that is as deep-seated and abiding as the very
springs of life.



VI--THE SHERIFF OF GULLMORE


_[The crime of embezzlement here dealt with is statutory. The venue of
this story could have been laid in many other States; the statutes are
similar to a degree. See the Code of West Virginia; also the late case
of The State vs. Bolin, 19 Southwestern Reporter, 650; also the long
list of ancient cases in Russell on Crimes, 2d volume.]_



I.

IT is hard luck, Colonel," said the broker, "but you are are not the
only one skinned in the deal; the best of them caught it to-day. By
Jupiter! the pit was like Dante's Inferno!"

"Yes, it's gone, I reckon," muttered the Colonel, shutting his teeth
down tight on his cigar; "I guess the devil wins every two out of
three."

"Well," said the broker, turning to his desk, "it is the fortune of
war."

"No, young man," growled the Colonel, "it is the blasted misfortune of
peace. I have never had any trouble with the fortune of war. I could
stand on an ace high and win with war. It is peace that queers me.
Here in the fag-end of the nineteenth century, I, Colonel Moseby Allen,
sheriff of Gull-more County, West Virginia, go up against another man's
game,--yes, and go up in the daytime. Say, young man, it feels queer at
the mellow age of forty-nine, after you have been in the legislature of
a great commonwealth, and at the very expiration of your term as sheriff
of the whitest and the freest county in West Virginia,--I say it feels
queer, after all those high honors, to be suddenly reminded that you
need to be accompanied by a business chaperon."

The Colonel stood perfectly erect and delivered his oration with the
fluency and the abandon of a southern orator. When he had finished, he
bowed low to the broker, pulled his big slouch hat down on his forehead,
and stalked out of the office and down the steps to the street.

Colonel Moseby Allen was built on the decided lines of a southern
mountaineer. He was big and broad-shouldered, but he was not well
proportioned. His body was short and heavy, while his legs were long.
His eyes were deep-set and shone like little brown beads. On the whole,
his face indicated cunning, bluster, and rashness. The ward politician
would have recognized him among a thousand as a kindred spirit, and the
professional gambler would not have felt so sure of himself with such a
face across the table from him.

When the Colonel stepped out on the pavement, he stopped, thrust his
hands into his pockets, and looked up and down Wall Street; then he
jerked the cigar out of his mouth, threw it into the gutter, and began
to deliver himself of a philippic upon the negative merits of brokers
in general, and his broker in particular. The Virginian possessed
a vocabulary of smooth billingsgate that in vividness and diversity
approached the sublime. When he had consigned some seven generations
of his broker's ancestry to divers minutely described localities in
perdition, he began to warm to his work, and his artistic profanity
rolled forth in startling periods.

The passers-by stopped and looked on in surprise and wonder. For a
moment they were half convinced that the man was a religious fanatic,
his eloquent, almost poetic, tirade was so thoroughly filled with holy
names. The effect of the growing audience inspired the speaker. He
raised his voice and began to emphasize with sweeping gestures. He had
now finished with the broker's ancestry and was plunging with a rush
of gorgeous pyrotechnics into the certain future of the broker himself,
when a police officer pushed through the crowd and caught the irate
Virginian by the shoulder.

Colonel Allen paused and looked down at the officer.

"You," he said, calmly, "I opine are a minion of the law; a hireling of
the municipal authorities."

"See here," said the officer, "you are not allowed to preach on the
street. You will have to come with me to the station-house."

The Colonel bowed suavely. "Sir," he said, "I, Colonel Moseby Allen,
sheriff of Gullmore County in the Mountain State of West Virginia, am a
respecter of the law, even in the body of its petty henchmen, and if
the ordinances of this Godforsaken Gomorrah are such that a free-born
American citizen, twenty-one years old and white, is not permitted
the inalienable privilege of expressing his opinion without let or
hindrance, then I am quite content to accompany you to the confines of
your accursed jail-house."

Allen turned round and started down the street with the officer. He
walked a little in advance, and continued to curse glibly in a low
monotone. When they were half way to the corner below, a little man
slipped out of the crowd and hurried up to the policeman. "Mike," he
whispered, putting his hand under the officer's, "here is five for you.
Turn him over to me."

The officer closed his hand like a trap, stepped quickly forward, and
touched his prisoner on the shoulder.

As the Virginian turned, the officer said in a loud voice: "Mr. Parks,
here, says that he knows you, and that you are all right, so I 'll let
you go this time." Then, before any reply could be made, he vanished
around the corner.

Colonel Allen regarded his deliverer with the air of a world-worn cynic.
"Well," he said, "one is rarely delivered from the spoiler by the hand
of his friend, and I cannot now recall ever having had you for an enemy.
May I inquire what motive prompts this gracious courtesy?"

"Don't speak so loud," said Parks, stepping up close to the man. "I
happen to know something about your loss, Colonel Allen, and perhaps
also a way to regain it. Will you come with me?"

The Virginian whistled softly. "Yes," he said.



II.

This is a fine hotel," observed Colonel Allen, beginning to mellow
under the mystic spell of a five-course dinner and a quart of Cliquot.
"Devilish fine hotel, Mr. Parks. All the divers moneys which I in my
official capacity have collected in taxes from the fertile county of
Gullmore, would scarcely pay for the rich embellishment of the barber
shop of this magnificent edifice."

"Well, Colonel," said the bald Parks, with a sad smile, "that would
depend upon the amount of the revenues of your county. I presume that
they are large, and consequently the office of sheriff a good one."

"Yes, sir," answered the Virginian, "it is generally considered
desirable from the standpoint of prominence. The climate of Gullmore is
salubrious. Its pasture lands are fertile, and its citizens cultured
and refined to a degree unusual even in the ancient and aristocratic
counties of the Old Dominion. And, sir,"--here the Colonel drew himself
up proudly, and thrust his hand into the breast of his coat,--"I am
proud, sir,--proud to declare that from time to time the good citizens
of Gullmore, by means of their suffrage, and with large and comfortable
majorities, have proclaimed me their favorite son and competent
official. Six years ago I was in the legislature at Charleston as the
trusted representative of this grand old county of Gullmore; and four
years ago, after the fiercest and most bitterly contested political
conflict of all the history of the South, I was elected to that most
important and honorable office of sheriff,--to the lasting glory of my
public fame, and the great gratification of the commonwealth."

"That gratification is now four years old?" mused Parks.

Colonel Moseby Allen darted a swift, suspicious glance at his
companion, but in a moment it was gone, and he had dropped back into his
grandiloquent discourse. "Yes, sir, the banner county of West Virginia,
deserting her ancient and sacred traditions, and forgetting for the time
the imperishable precepts of her patriotic fathers, has gone over to
affiliate with the ungodly. We were beaten, sir,--beaten in this
last engagement,--horse, foot, and dragoons,--beaten by a set of
carpet-baggers,--a set of unregenerate political tricksters of such
diabolical cunning that nothing but the gates of hell could have
prevailed against them. Now, sir, now,--and I say it mournfully, there
is nothing left to us in the county of Gullmore, save only honor."

"Honor," sneered Parks, "an imaginary rope to hold fools with! It wont
fill a hungry stomach, or satisfy a delinquent account." The little
clerk spoke the latter part of his sentence slowly and deliberately.

Again the suspicious expression passed over the face of Colonel Allen,
leaving traces of fear and anxiety in its wake. His eyes, naturally
a little crossed, drew in toward his nose, and the muscles around his
mouth grew hard. For a moment he was silent, looking down into his
glass; then, with an effort, he went on: "Yes, the whole shooting-match
is in the hands of the Philistines. From the members of the County Court
up to the important and responsible position which I have filled for the
last four years, and when my accounts are finally wound up, I----"

"Your accounts," murmured Parks, "when they are finally wound up, what
then?"

Every trace of color vanished from the Virginian's face, his heavy jaws
trembled, and he caught hold of the arms of the chair to steady himself.

Parks did not look up. He seemed deeply absorbed in studying the bottom
of his glass. For a moment Colonel Moseby Allen had been caught off his
guard, but it was only for a moment. He straightened up and underwent
a complete transformation. Then, bending forward, he said, speaking low
and distinctly: "Look here, my friend, you are the best guesser this
side of hell. Now, if you can pick a winning horse we will divide the
pool."

The two men were at a table in a corner of the Hoffman café, and, as it
chanced, alone in the room. Parks glanced around quickly, then he leaned
over and said: "That depends on just one thing, Colonel."

"Turn up the cards," growled the Virginian, shutting his teeth down
tight on his lip.

"Well," said Parks, "you must promise to stick to your rôle to the end,
if you commence with the play."

The southerner leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin
thoughtfully. Finally he dropped his hand and looked up. "All right," he
muttered; "I'll stand by the deal; throw out the cards."

Parks moved his chair nearer to the table and leaned over on his elbow.
"Colonel," he said, "there is only one living man who can set up a
successful counter-plot against fate, that is dead certain to win, and
that man is here in New York to-day. He is a great lawyer, and besides
being that, he is the greatest plotter since the days of Napoleon. Not
one of his clients ever saw the inside of a prison. He can show men how
to commit crimes in such a way that the law cannot touch them. No matter
how desperate the position may be, he can always show the man who is in
it a way by which he can get out. There is no case so hopeless that he
cannot manage it. If money is needed, he can show you how to get it--a
plain, practical way, by which you can get what you need and as much as
you need. He has a great mind, but he is strangely queer and erratic,
and must be approached with extreme care, and only in a certain way.
This man," continued the little clerk, lowering his voice, "is named
Randolph Mason. You must go to him and explain the whole matter, and you
must do it just in the way I tell you."

Again the Virginian whistled softly. "My friend," he said, "there is
a little too much mystery about this matter. I am not afraid of you,
because you are a rascal; no one ever had a face like you that was not
a rascal. You will stick to me because you are out for the stuff, and
there is no possible way to make a dollar by throwing the game. I am
not afraid of any living man, if I have an opportunity to see his face
before the bluff is made. You are all right; your game is to use me in
making some haul that is a little too high for yourself. That is what
you have been working up to, and you are a smooth operator, my friend. A
greenhorn would have concluded long ago that you were a detective, but
I knew a blamed sight better than that the moment you made your first
lead. In the first place, you are too sharp to waste your time with any
such bosh, and in the second place, it takes cash to buy detectives,
and there is nobody following me with cash. Gullmore county has no kick
coming to it until my final settlements are made, and there is no man
treading shoe leather that knows anything about the condition of my
official business except myself, and perhaps also that shrewd and
mysterious guesser--yourself. So, you see, I am not standing on
ceremonies with you. But here, young man, comes in a dark horse, and you
want me to bet on him blindfolded. Those are not the methods of Moseby
Allen. I must be let in a little deeper on this thing."

"All I want you to do," said Parks, putting his hand confidentially
on the Virginian's arm, "is simply to go and see Randolph Mason, and
ap-proach him in the way I tell you, and when you have done that, I will
wager that you stay and explain everything to him."

Colonel Allen leaned back in his chair and thrust his hands into his
pockets. "Why should I do that?" he said curtly.

"Well," murmured the little man mournfully, "one's bondsmen are entitled
to some consideration; and then, there is the penitentiary. Courts have
a way of sending men there for embezzlement."

"You are correct," said Allen, quietly, "and I have not time to go."

"At any rate," continued Parks, "there can be no possible danger to you.
You are taking no chances. Mr. Mason is a member of the New York bar,
and anything you may tell him he dare not reveal. The law would not
permit him to do so if he desired. The whole matter would be kept as
thoroughly inviolate as though it were made in the confessional. Your
objections are all idle. You are a man in a desperate position. You are
up to your waist in the quicksand, now, and, at the end of the year, it
is bound to close over your head. It is folly to look up at the sky and
attempt to ignore this fact. I offer to help you--not from any goodness
of heart, understand, but because we can both make a stake in this
thing. I need money, and you must have money,--that is the whole thing
in a nutshell. Now," said Parks, rising from his chair, "what are you
going to do?"

"Well," said the Virginian, drawing up his long legs and spreading out
his fat hands on the table, "_Colonel Moseby Allen, of the county of
Gullmore, will take five cards, if you please_."



III.

This must be the place," muttered the Virginian, stopping under the
electric light and looking up at the big house on the avenue. "That
fellow said I would know the place by the copper-studded door, and
there it is, as certain as there are back taxes in Gullmore." With that,
Colonel Moseby Allen walked up the granite steps and began to grope
about in the dark door-way for the electric bell. He could find no trace
of this indispensable convenience, and was beginning to lapse into a
flow of half-suppressed curses, when he noticed for the first time an
ancient silver knocker fastened to the middle of the door. He seized it
and banged it vigorously.

The Virginian stood in the dark and waited. Finally he concluded that
the noise had not been heard, and was about to repeat the signal when
the door was flung suddenly open, and a tall man holding a candle in his
hand loomed up in the door-way.

"I am looking," stammered the southerner, "for one Randolph Mason, an
attorney-at-law."

"I am Randolph Mason," said the man, thrusting the silver candlestick
out before him. "Who are you, sir?"

"My name is Allen," answered the southerner, "Moseby Allen, of Gullmore
county, West Virginia."

"A Virginian," said Mason, "what evil circumstance brings you here?"

Then Allen remembered the instructions which Parks had given him so
minutely. He took off his hat and passed his hand across his forehead.
"Well," he said, "I suppose the same thing that brings the others. We
get in and plunge along just as far as we can. Then Fate shuts down
the lid of her trap, and we have either to drop off the bridge or come
here."

"Come in," said Mason. Then he turned abruptly and walked down
the hall-way. The southerner followed, impressed by this man's
individuality. Allen had pushed his way through life with bluff and
bluster, and like that one in the scriptural writings, "neither feared
God nor regarded man." His unlimited assurance had never failed him
before any of high or low degree, and to be impressed with the power of
any man was to him strange and uncomfortable.

Mason turned into his library and placed the candlestick on a table in
the centre of the floor. Then he drew up two chairs and sat down in one
of them motioning Allen to the other on the opposite side of the table.
The room was long and empty, except for the rows of heavy book-cases
standing back in the darkness. The floor was bare, and there was no
furniture of any kind whatever, except the great table and the ancient
high-back chairs. There was no light but the candle standing high in its
silver candlestick.

"Sir," said Mason, when the Virginian had seated himself, "which do you
seek to evade, punishment or dishonor?"

The Virginian turned round, put his elbows on the table, and looked
squarely across at his questioner. "I am not fool enough to care for the
bark," he answered, "provided the dog's teeth are muzzled."

"It is well," said Mason, slowly, "there is often difficulty in dealing
with double problems, where both disgrace and punishment are sought to
be evaded. Where there is but one difficulty to face, it can usually be
handled with ease. What others are involved in your matter?"

"No others," answered the Virginian; "I am seeking only to save myself."

"From the law only," continued Mason, "or does private vengeance join
with it?"

"From the law only," answered Allen.

"Let me hear it all," said Mason.

"Well," said the Virginian, shifting uneasily in his chair, "my affairs
are in a very bad way, and every attempt that I have made to remedy
them has resulted only in disaster. I am walking, with my hands tied,
straight into the penitentiary, unless some miracle can be performed in
my favor. Everything has gone dead against me from my first fool move.
Four years ago I was elected sheriff of Gullmore county in the State
of West Virginia. I was of course required by law to give a large bond.
This I had much difficulty in doing, for the reason that I have no
estate whatever. Finally I induced my brother and my father, who is
a very old man, to mortgage their property and thereby secured the
requisite bond. I entered upon the duties of my office, and assumed
entire control of the revenues of the county. For a time I managed them
carefully and kept my private business apart from that of the county.
But I had never been accustomed to strict business methods, and I soon
found it most difficult to confine myself to them. Little by little I
began to lapse into my old habit of carelessness. I neglected to keep
up the settlements, and permitted the official business to become
intermixed with my private accounts. The result was that I awoke one
morning to find that I owed the county of Gullmore ten thousand dollars.
I began at once to calculate the possibility of my being able to meet
this deficit before the expiration of my term of office, and soon found
that by no possible means would I be able to raise this amount out of
the remaining fees. My gambling instincts at once asserted themselves.
I took five thousand dollars, went to Lexington, and began to play the
races in a vain, reckless hope that I might win enough to square my
accounts. I lost from the very start. I came back to my county and went
on as before, hoping against hope that something would turn up and
let me out. Of course this was the dream of an idiot, and when the
opposition won at the last election, and a new sheriff was installed,
and I was left but a few months within which to close up my accounts,
the end which I had refused to think of arose and stared me in the face.
I was now at the end of my tether, and there was nothing there but
a tomb. And even that way was not open. If I should escape the
penitentiary by flight or by suicide, I would still leave my brother and
my aged father to bear the entire burden of my defalcations; and when
they, as my bondsmen, had paid the sum to the county, they would all be
paupers."

The man paused and mopped the perspiration from his face. He was now
terribly in earnest, and seemed to be realizing the gravity and the
hopelessness of his crime. All his bluster and grandiloquent airs had
vanished.

"Reckless and unscrupulous as I am," he went on, "I cannot bear to
think of my brother's family beggars because of my wrong, or my father
in his extreme old age turned out from under his own roof and driven
into the poor-house, and yet it must come as certainly as the sun will
rise tomorrow."

The man's voice trembled now, and the flabby muscles of his face
quivered.

"In despair, I gathered up all the funds of the county remaining in my
hands and hurried to this city. Here I went to the most reliable broker
I could find and through him plunged into speculation. But all the
devils in hell seemed to be fighting for my ruin. I was caught in that
dread and unexpected crash of yesterday and lost everything. Strange
to say, when I realized that my ruin was now complete, I felt a kind of
exhilaration,--such, I presume, as is said to come to men when they are
about to be executed. Standing in the very gaping jaws of ruin, I
have to-day been facetious, even merry. Now, in the full glare of this
horrible matter, I scarcely remember what I have been doing, or how I
came to be here, except that this morning in Wall Street I heard some
one speak of your ability, and I hunted up your address and came without
any well defined plan, and, if you will pardon me, I will add that it
was also without any hope."

The man stopped and seemed to settle back in his chair in a great heap.

Randolph Mason arose and stood looking down at the Virginian.

"Sir," said Mason, "none are ever utterly lost but the weak. Answer my
question."

The Virginian pulled himself together and looked up.

"Is there any large fund," continued Mason, "in the hands of the
officers of your county?"

"My successor," said Allen, "has just collected the amount of a levy
ordered by the county court for the purpose of paying the remainder due
on the court-house. He now has that fund in his hands."

"When was the building erected?" said Mason.

"It was built during the last year of my term of office, and paid for in
part out of levies ordered while I was active sheriff. When my successor
came in there still remained due the contractors on the work some thirty
thousand dollars. A levy was ordered by the court shortly before my term
expired, but the collection of this levy fell to the coming officer, so
this money is not in my hands, although all the business up to this time
has been managed by me, and the other payments on the building made
from time to time out of moneys in my hands, and I have been the chief
manager of the entire work and know more about it than any one else. The
new sheriff came into my office a few days ago to inquire how he was to
dispose of this money."

Mason sat down abruptly. "Sir," he said almost bitterly, "there is not
enough difficulty in your matter to bother the cheapest intriguer in
Kings county. I had hoped that yours was a problem of some gravity."

"I see," said the Virginian, sarcastically, "I am to rob the sheriff of
this money in such a manner that it won't be known who received it, and
square my accounts. That would be very easy indeed. I would have only to
kill three men and break a bank. Yes, that would be very easy. You might
as well tell me to have blue eyes."

"Sir," said Randolph Mason, slowly, "you are the worst prophet unhung."

"Well," continued the man, "there can be no other way, If it were turned
over to me in my official capacity what good would it do? My bondsmen
would be responsible for it. I would then have it to account for, and
what difference, in God's name, can it make whether I am sent to the
penitentiary for stealing money which I have already used, or for
stealing this money? It all belongs to the county. It is two times six
one way, and six times two the other way."

"Sir," said Mason, "I retract my former statement in regard to your
strong point. Let me insist that you devote your time to prophecy. Your
reasoning is atrocious."

"I am wasting my time here," muttered the Virginian, "there is no way
out of it."

Randolph Mason turned upon the man. "Are you afraid of courts?" he
growled.

"No," said the southerner, "I am afraid of nothing but the
penitentiary."

"Then," said Mason, leaning over on the table, "listen to me, and you
will never see the shadow of it."



IV.

I suppose you are right about that," said Jacob Wade, the newly elected
sheriff of Gullmore county, as he and Colonel Moseby Allen sat in the
office of that shrewd and courteous official. "I suppose it makes
no difference which one of us takes this money and pays the
contractors,--we are both under good bonds, you know."

"Certainly, Wade, certainly," put in the Colonel, "your bond is as good
as they can be made in Gullmore county, and I mean no disrespect to the
Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe when I assert that the whole kingdom
of heaven could not give a better bond than I have. You are right, Wade;
you are always right; you are away ahead of the ringleaders of your
party. I don't mind if I do say so. Of course, I am on the other side,
but it was miraculous, I tell you, the way you swung your forces into
line in the last election. By all the limping gods of the calendar, we
could not touch you!" Colonel Moseby Allen leaned over and patted his
companion on the shoulder. "You are a sly dog, Wade," he continued. "If
it had not been for you we would have beaten the bluebells of Scotland
out of the soft-headed farmers who were trying to run your party. I told
the boys you would pull the whole ticket over with you, but they did
n't believe me. Next time they will have more regard for the opinion of
Moseby Allen of Gull-more." The Colonel burst out into a great roar of
laughter, and brought his fat hand down heavily on his knee.

Jacob Wade, the new sheriff, was a cadaverous-looking countryman, with a
face that indicated honesty and egotism. He had come up from a farm, and
had but little knowledge of business methods in general, and no idea of
how the duties of his office should be properly performed. He puffed
up visibly under the bald flattery of Allen, and took it all in like a
sponge.

"Well," said Wade, "I suppose the boys did sort of expect me to help
them over, and I guess I did. I have been getting ready to run for
a long time, and I aint been doing no fool things. When the Farmers
Alliance people was organizing, I just stayed close home and sawed wood,
and when the county was all stirred up about that there dog tax, I kept
my mouth shut, and never said nothing."

"That 's what you did, Wade," continued the Colonel, rubbing his hands;
"you are too smooth to get yourself mixed up with a lot of new-fangled
notions that would brand you all over the whole county as a crank. What
a man wants in order to run for the office of sheriff is a reputation
for being a square, solid, substantial business man, and that is what
you had, Wade, and besides that you were a smooth, shrewd, far-sighted,
machine politician."

Jacob Wade flushed and grew pompous under this eloquent recital of his
alleged virtues. Allen was handling his man with skill. He was a natural
judge of men, and possessed in no little degree the rare ability of
knowing how to approach the individual in order to gain his confidence
and goodwill.

"No," he went on, "I am not partisan enough to prevent me from
appreciating a good clearheaded politician, no matter what his party
affiliations may be. I am as firm and true to my principles as any of
those high up in the affairs of state. I have been honored by my party
time and again in the history of this commonwealth, and have
defended and supported her policies on the stump, and in the halls of
legislation, and I know a smooth man when I see him, and I honor him,
and stick to him out of pure love for his intelligence and genius."

The Colonel arose. He now felt that his man was in the proper humor to
give ready assent to the proposition which he had made, and he turned
back to it with careless indifference.

"Now, Jacob," he said lowering his voice, "this is not all talk. You are
a new officer, and I am an old one. I am familiar with all the routine
business of the sheriffalty, and I am ready and willing and anxious to
give all the information that can be of any benefit to you, and to do
any and everything in my power to make your term of office as pleasant
and profitable as it can be made. I am wholly and utterly at your
service, and want you to feel that you are more than welcome to command
me in any manner you see fit. By the way, here is this matter that we
were just discussing. I am perfectly familiar with all that business.
I looked after the building for the county, collected all the previous
levies, and know all about the contracts with the builders--just what
is due each one and just how the settlements are to be made,--and I am
willing to take charge of this fund and settle the thing up. I suppose
legally it is my duty to attend to this work, as it is in the nature of
unfinished business of my term, but I could have shifted the whole
thing over on you and gotten out of the trouble of making the final
settlements with the contractors. The levy was ordered during my term,
but has been collected by you, and on that ground I could have washed my
hands of the troublesome matter if I had been disposed to be ugly. But
I am not that kind of a man, Wade; I am willing to shoulder my lawful
duties, and wind this thing up and leave your office clear and free from
any old matters."

Jacob Wade, sheriff of Gullmore county, was now thoroughly convinced
of two things. First, that he himself was a shrewd politician, with
an intellect of almost colossal proportions, and second, that Colonel
Moseby Allen was a great and good man, who was offering to do him a
service out of sheer kindness of heart.

He arose and seized Allen's hand. "I am obliged to you, Colonel, greatly
obliged to you," he said; "I don't know much about these matters yet,
and it will save me a deal of trouble if you will allow me to turn
this thing over to you, and let you settle it up. I reckon from the
standpoint of law it is a part of your old business as sheriff."

"Yes," answered Allen, smiling broadly, "I reckon it is, and I reckon I
ought n't to shirk it."

"All right," said Wade, turning to leave the office, "I 'll just hand
the whole thing over to you in the morning." Then he went out.

The ex-sheriff closed the door, sat down in his chair, and put his feet
on the table. "Well, Moseby, my boy," he said, "that was dead easy. The
Honorable Jacob Wade is certainly the most irresponsible idiot west of
the Alleghany mountains. He ought to have a committee,--yes, he ought to
have two committees, one to run him, and one to run his business." Then
he rubbed his hands gleefully. "It is working like a greased clock," he
chuckled, "and by the grace of God and the Continental Congress, when
this funeral procession does finally start, it wont be Colonel Moseby
Allen of the county of Gullmore who will occupy the hearse."



V.

The inhabitants of the city could never imagine the vast interest
aroused in the county of Gullmore by the trial of Colonel Moseby Allen
for embezzlement. In all their quiet lives the good citizens had not
been treated to such a sweeping tidal wave of excitement. The annual
visits of the "greatest show on earth" were scarcely able to fan the
interests of the countrymen into such a flame. The news of Allen's
arrest had spread through the country like wildfire. Men had talked
of nothing else from the moment this startling information had come to
their ears. The crowds on Saturday afternoons at the country store had
constituted themselves courts of first and last resort, and had passed
on the matter of the ex-sheriff's guilt at great length and with
great show of learning. The village blacksmith had delivered ponderous
opinions while he shod the traveller's horse; and the ubiquitous justice
of the peace had demonstrated time and again with huge solemnity that
Moseby Allen was a great criminal, and by no possible means could be
saved from conviction. It was the general belief that the ex-sheriff
would not stand trial; that he would by some means escape from the jail
where he was confined. So firm-rooted had this conviction become that
the great crowd gathered in the little county seat on the day fixed
for the trial were considerably astonished when they saw the ex-sheriff
sitting in the dock. In the evening after the first day of the trial,
in which certain wholly unexpected things had come to pass, the crowd
gathered on the porch of the country hotel were fairly revelling in the
huge sensation.

Duncan Hatfield, a long ungainly mountaineer, wearing a red
hunting-shirt and a pair of blue jeans trousers, was evidently the
Sir-Oracle of the occasion.

"I tell you, boys," he was saying, "old Moseby aint got no more show
than a calliker apron in a brush fire. Why he jest laid down and give
up; jest naturally lopped his ears and give up like a whipped dog."

"Yes," put in an old farmer who was standing a little back in the crowd,
"I reckon nobody calkerlated on jest sich a fizzle."

"When he come into court this mornin'," continued the Oracle, "with that
there young lawyer man Edwards, I poked Lum Bozier in the side, and told
him to keep his eye skinned, and he would see the fur fly, because I
knowed that Sam Lynch, the prosecutin' attorney, allowed to go fer old
Moseby, and Sam is a fire-eater, so he is, and he aint afraid of nuthin
that walks on legs. But, Jerusalem! it war the tamest show that ever
come to this yer town. Edwards jest sot down and lopped over like a
weed, and Sam he begun, and he showed up how old Moseby had planned this
here thing, and how he had lied to Jake Wade all the way through, and
jest how he got that there money, and what an everlasting old rascal
he was, and there sot Edwards, and he never asked no questions, and he
never paid no attention to nuthin."

"Did n't the lawyer feller do nuthin at all, Dunk?" enquired one of
the audience, who had evidently suffered the great misfortune of being
absent from the trial.

"No," answered the Oracle, with a bovine sneer, "he never did nothin
till late this evenin. Then he untangled his legs and got up and said
somethin to the jedge about havin to let old Moseby Allen go, cause what
he had done was n't no crime.

"Then you ought to a heard Sam. He jest naturally took the roof off;
he sailed into old Moseby. He called him nine different kinds of
horse-thieves, and when he got through, I could see old Ampe Props
noddin his head back thar in the jury-box, and then I knowed that it
were all up with Colonel Moseby Allen, cause that jury will go the way
old Ampe goes, jest like a pack of sheep."

"I reckon Moseby's lawyer were skeered out," suggested Pooley Hornick,
the blacksmith.

"I reckon he war," continued the Oracle, "cause when Sam sot down, he
got up, and he said to the jedge that he didn't want to do no argufying,
but he had a little paper that would show why the jedge would have to
let old Moseby go free, and then he asked Sam if he wanted to see it,
and Sam he said no, he cared nuthin for his little paper. Then the
feller went over and give the little paper to the jedge, and the jedge
he took it and he said he would decide in the mornin'."

"You don't reckon," said the farmer, "that the jedge will give the old
colonel any show, do you?"

"Billdad Solsberry," said the Oracle, with a grave judicial air, as
though to settle the matter beyond question, "you are a plumb fool. If
the angel Gabriel war to drop down into Gullmore county, he could n't
keep old Moseby Allen from goin' to the penitentiary."

Thus the good citizens sat in judgment, and foretold the doom of their
fellow.



VI.

On Monday night, the eleventh day of May, in the thirty-third year of
the State of West Virginia, the judge of the criminal court of Gullmore
county, and the judge of the circuit court of Gullmore county were to
meet together for the purpose of deciding two matters,--one relating to
the trial of Moseby Allen, the retiring sheriff, for embezzling funds
of the county, amounting to thirty thousand dollars, and the other, an
action pending in the circuit court, wherein the State of West Virginia,
at the relation of Jacob Wade, was seeking to recover this sum from the
bondsmen of Allen. In neither of the two cases was there any serious
doubt as to the facts. It seemed that it was customary for the retiring
sheriff to retain an office in the court building after the installation
of his successor, and continue to attend to the unfinished business of
the county until all his settlements had been made, and until all the
matters relating to his term of office had been finally wound up and
administered.

In accordance with this custom, Moseby Allen, after the expiration of
his term, had continued in his office in a quasi-official capacity, in
order to collect back taxes and settle up all matters carried over from
his regular term.

It appeared that during Allen's term of office the county had built a
court-house, and had ordered certain levies for the purpose of raising
the necessary funds. The first of the levies had been collected by
Allen, and paid over by him to the contractors, as directed by the
county court. The remaining levies had not been collected during his
term, but had been collected by the new sheriff immediately after his
installation. This money, amounting to some thirty thousand dollars,
had been turned over to Allen upon his claim that it grew out of the
unfinished affairs of his term, and that, therefore, he was entitled to
its custody. He had said to the new sheriff that the levy upon which it
had been raised was ordered during his term, and the work for which it
was to be paid all performed, and the bonds of the county issued, while
he was active sheriff, and that he believed it was a part of the matters
which were involved in his final settlements. Jacob Wade, then sheriff,
believing that Allen was in fact the proper person to rightly administer
this fund, and knowing that his bond to the county was good and would
cover all his official affairs, had turned the entire fund over to him,
and paid no further attention to the matter.

It appeared that, at the end of the year, Moseby Allen had made all of
his proper and legitimate settlements fully and satisfactorily, and
had accounted to the proper authorities for every dollar that had
been collected by him during his term of office, but had refused and
neglected to account for the money which he had received from Wade. When
approached upon the subject, he had said plainly that he had used this
money in unfortunate speculations and could not return it. The man had
made no effort to check the storm of indignation that burst upon him;
he firmly refused to discuss the matter, or to give any information in
regard to it. When arrested, he had expressed no surprise, and had gone
to the jail with the officer. At the trial, his attorney had simply
waited until the evidence had been introduced, and had then arisen and
moved the court to direct a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that
Allen, upon the facts shown, had committed no crime punishable under the
statutes of West Virginia.

The court had been strongly disposed to overrule this motion without
stopping to consider it, but the attorney had insisted that a memorandum
which he handed up would sustain his position, and that without mature
consideration the judge ought not to force him into the superior
court, whereupon his Honor, Ephraim Haines, had taken the matter under
advisement until morning.

In the circuit court the question had been raised that Allen's bond
covered only those matters which arose by virtue of his office, and that
this fund was not properly included. Whereupon the careful judge of that
court had adjourned to consider.

It was almost nine o'clock when the Honorable Ephraim Haines walked into
the library to consult with his colleague of the civil court. He
found that methodical jurist seated before a pile of reports, with his
spectacles far out on the end of his nose,--an indication, as the said
Haines well knew, that the said jurist had arrived at a decision, and
was now carefully turning it over in his mind in order to be certain
that it was in spirit and truth the very law of the land.

"Well, Judge," said Haines, "have you flipped the penny on it, and if
so, who wins?"

The man addressed looked up from his book and removed his spectacles. He
was an angular man, with a grave analytical face.

"It is not a question of who wins, Haines," he answered; "it is a
question of law. I was fairly satisfied when the objection was first
made, but I wanted to be certain before I rendered my decision. I have
gone over the authorities, and there is no question about the matter.
The bondsmen of Allen are not liable in this action."

"They are not!" said Haines, dropping his long body down into a chair.
"It is public money, and the object of the bond is certainly to cover
any defalcations."

"This bond," continued the circuit judge, "provides for the faithful
discharge, according to law, of the duties of the office of sheriff
during his continuance in said office. Moseby Allen ceased to be sheriff
of this county the day his successor was installed, and on that day this
bond ceased to cover his acts. This money was handed over by the lawful
sheriff to a man who was not then an officer of this county. Moseby
Allen had no legal right to the custody of this money. His duties as
sheriff had ceased, his official acts had all determined, and there was
no possible way whereby he could then perform an official act that would
render his bondsmen liable. The action pending must be dismissed. The
present sheriff, Wade, is the one responsible to the county for this
money. His only recourse is an action of debt, or assumpsit, against
Allen individually, and as Allen is notoriously insolvent, Wade and his
bondsmen will have to make up this deficit."

"Well," said Haines, "that is hard luck."

"No," answered the judge, "it is not luck at all, it is law. Wade
permitted himself to be the dupe of a shrewd knave, and he must bear the
consequences."

"You can depend upon it," said the Honorable Ephraim Haines, criminal
judge by a political error, "that old Allen won't get off so easy with
me. The jury will convict him, and I will land him for the full term."

"I was under the impression," said the circuit judge, gravely, "that a
motion had been made in your court to direct an acquittal on the ground
that no crime had been committed."

"It was," said Haines, "but of course it was made as a matter of form,
and there is nothing in it."

"Have you considered it?"

"What is the use? It is a fool motion."

"Well," continued the judge, "this matter comes up from your court
to mine on appeal, and you should be correct in your ruling. What
authorities were cited?"

"Here is the memorandum," said the criminal judge, "you can run down the
cases if you want to, but I know it is no use. The money belonged to the
county and old Allen embezzled it,--that is admitted."

To this the circuit judge did not reply. He took the memorandum which
Randolph Mason had prepared for Allen, and which the local attorney
had submitted, and turned to the cases of reports behind him. He was a
hard-working, conscientious man, and not least among his vexatious cares
were the reckless decisions of the Honorable Ephraim Haines.

The learned judge of the criminal court put his feet on the table and
began to whistle. When at length wearied of this intellectual diversion,
he concentrated all the energy of his mammoth faculties on the highly
cultured pastime of sharpening his penknife on the back of the Code.

At length the judge of the circuit court came back to the table, sat
down, and adjusted his spectacles. "Haines," he said slowly, "you will
have to sustain that motion."

"What!" cried the Honorable Ephraim, bringing the legs of his chair down
on the floor with a bang.

"That motion," continued the judge, "must be sustained. Moseby Allen has
committed no crime under the statutes of West Virginia."

"Committed no crime!" almost shouted the criminal jurist, doubling his
long legs up under his chair, "why, old Allen admits that he got this
money and spent it. He says that he converted it to his own use; that it
was not his money; that it belonged to the county. The evidence of the
State shows that he cunningly induced Wade to turn this money over to
him, saying that his bond was good, and that he was entitled to the
custody of the fund. The old rascal secured the possession of this money
by trickery, and kept it, and now you say he has committed no crime. How
in Satan's name do you figure it out?"

"Haines," said the judge, gravely, "I don't figure it out. The law
cannot be figured out. It is certain and exact. It describes perfectly
what wrongs are punishable as crimes, and exactly what elements
must enter into each wrong in order to make it a crime. All right of
discretion is taken from the trial court; the judge must abide by the
law, and the law decides matters of this nature in no uncertain terms."

"Surely," interrupted Haines, beginning to appreciate the gravity of the
situation, "old Allen can be sent to the penitentiary for this crime. He
is a rank, out and out embezzler. He stole this money and converted it
to his own use. Are you going to say that the crime of embezzlement is a
dead letter?"

"My friend," said the judge, "you forget that there is no equity in the
criminal courts. The crime of embezzlement is a pure creature of the
statute. Under the old common law there was no such crime. Consequently
society had no protection from wrongs of this nature, until this evil
grew to such proportions that the law-making power began by statute to
define this crime and provide for its punishment. The ancient English
statutes were many and varied, and, following in some degree thereafter,
each of the United States has its own particular statute, describing
this crime as being composed of certain fixed technical elements. This
indictment against Moseby Allen is brought under Section 19 of Chapter
145 of the Code of West Virginia, which provides: 'If any officer,
agent, clerk or servant of this State, or of any county, district,
school district or municipal corporation thereof, or of any incorporated
bank or other corporation, or any officer of public trust in this State,
or any agent, clerk or servant of such officer of public trust, or any
agent, clerk or servant of any firm or person, or company or association
of persons not incorporated, embezzle or fraudulently convert to his
own use, bullion, money, bank notes or other security for money, or
any effects or property of another person which shall have come to his
possession, or been placed under his care or management, by virtue of
his office, place or employment, he shall be guilty of larceny thereof.'

"This is the statute describing the offence sought to be charged. All
such statutes must be strictly construed. Applying these requisites of
the crime to the case before us, we find that Allen cannot be convicted,
for the reason that at the time this money was placed in his hands he
was not sheriff of Gullmore county, nor was he in any sense its agent,
clerk, or servant. And, second, if he could be said to continue an
agent, clerk, or servant of this county, after the expiration of his
term, he would continue such agent, clerk, or servant for the purpose
only of administering those matters which might be said to lawfully
pertain to the unfinished business of his office. This fund was in
no wise connected with such unfinished affairs, and by no possible
construction could he be said to be an agent, clerk, or servant of this
county for the purpose of its distribution or custody. Again, in order
to constitute such embezzlement, the money must have come into his
possession by virtue of his office. This could not be, for the reason
that he held no office. His time, had expired; Jacob Wade was sheriff,
and the moment Jacob Wade was installed, Allen's official capacity
determined, and he became a private citizen, with only the rights and
liabilities of such a citizen.

"Nor is he guilty of larceny, for the very evident reason that the
proper custodian, Wade, voluntarily placed this money in his hands, and
he received it under a _bona fide_ color of right."

The Honorable Ephraim Haines arose, and brought his ponderous fist down
violently on the table. "By the Eternal!" he said, "this is the cutest
trick that has been played in the two Virginias for a century. Moseby
Allen has slipped out of the clutches of the law like an eel."

"Ephraim," said the circuit judge, reproachfully, "this is no frivolous
matter. Moseby Allen has wrought a great wrong, by which many innocent
men will suffer vast injury, perhaps ruin. Such malicious cunning is
dangerous to society. Justice cannot reach all wrongs; its hands are
tied by the restrictions of the law. Why, under this very statute, one
who was _de facto_ an officer of the county or State, by inducing some
other officer to place in his hands funds to which he was not legally
entitled, could appropriate the funds so received with perfect impunity,
and without committing any crime or rendering his bondsmen liable. Thus
a clerk of the circuit court could use without criminal liability any
money, properly belonging to the clerk of the county court, or sheriff,
provided he could convince the clerk or sheriff that he was entitled to
its custody; and so with any officer of the State or county, and this
could be done with perfect ease where the officers were well known to
each other and strict business methods were not observed. Hence all the
great wrong and injury of embezzlement can be committed, and all the
gain and profit of it be secured, without violating the statute or
rendering the officer liable to criminal prosecution. It would seem
that the rogue must be stupid indeed who could not evade the crime of
embezzlement."

The man stopped, removed his spectacles, and closed them up in their
case. He was a painstaking, honest servant of the commonwealth, and,
like many others of the uncomplaining strong, performed his own duties
and those of his careless companion without murmur or comment or hope of
reward.

The Honorable Ephraim Haines arose and drew himself up pompously. "I
am glad," he said, "that we agree on this matter. I shall sustain this
motion."

The circuit judge smiled grimly. "Yes," he said, "it is not reason or
justice, but it is the law."

At twelve the following night Colonel Moseby Allen, ex-sheriff of the
county of Gullmore, now acquitted of crime by the commonwealth,
hurried across the border for the purpose of avoiding certain lawless
demonstrations on the part of his countrymen,--and of all his acts of
public service, this was the greatest.



VII.--THE ANIMUS FURANDI


_[See the case of State vs. Brown et al.% 104 Mo., 365; the strange case
of Reuben Deal, 64 N. C., 270; also on all fours with the facts here
involved, see Thompson vs. Commonwealth, 18 S. W. Rept., 3022; and the
very recent case of The People vs. Hughes, 39 Pacific Rept., 492;
also Rex vs. Hall, Bodens case, and others there cited, 2 Russell on
Crimes.]_



I.

I AM tired of your devilish hints, why can't you come out with it,
man?" The speaker was half angry.

Parks leaned forward on the table, his face was narrow and full of
cunning. "Mystery is your long suit, Hogarth, I compliment you."

"You tire me," said the man; "if you have any reason for bringing me
here at this hour of the night I want to know it."

"Would I be here in the office at two o'clock in the morning, with a
detective and without a reason? Listen, I will be plain with you. I must
get Mr. Mason out of New York; he is going rapidly, and unless he gets
a sea-voyage and a change of country he will be in the mad-house. He is
terribly thin and scarcely sleeps any more at all. No human being
can imagine what a monster he is to manage, or in what an infinitely
difficult position I have been placed. When we came here from Paris,
after the unfortunate collapse of the canal syndicate, the situation
that confronted me was of the most desperate character. Mr. Mason was
practically a bankrupt. He had spent his entire fortune in a mighty
effort to right the syndicate, and would have succeeded if it had not
been for the treachery of some of the French officials. He had been
absent so long from New York that his law practice was now entirely
lost, and, worst of all, this mysterious tilt of his mind would render
it utterly impossible for him ever to regain his clientage. For a time
I was in despair. Mr. Mason was, of course, utterly oblivious to the
situation, and there was no one with whom I could advise, even if I
dared attempt it. When everything failed in Paris, Mr. Mason collapsed,
physically. He was in the hospital for months; when he came out, his
whole nature was wrenched into this strange groove, although his mind
was apparently as keen and powerful as ever and his wonderful faculties
unimpaired. He seemed now possessed by this one idea, that all the
difficulties of men were problems and that he could solve them.

"A few days after we landed in New York, I wandered into the
court-house; a great criminal had been apprehended and was being tried
for a desperate crime. I sat down and listened. As the case developed,
it occurred to me that the man had botched his work fearfully, and that
if he could have had Mr. Mason plan his crime for him he need never have
been punished. Then the inspiration came. Why not turn this idea of Mr.
Mason to account?

"I knew that the city was filled with shrewd, desperate men, who
feared nothing under high heaven but the law, and were willing to take
desperate chances with it. I went to some of them and pointed out the
mighty aid that I could give; they hooted at the idea, and said that
crime was crime and the old ways were the best ways."

Parks paused and looked up at the detective. "They have since changed
their minds," he added.

"What did Mr. Mason think of your method of securing clients?" said
Hogarth.

"That was my greatest difficulty," continued Parks. "I resorted to every
known trick in order to prevent him from learning how the men happened
to come to him, and so far I have been successful. He has never
suspected me, and has steadily believed that those who came to him with
difficulties were attracted by his great reputation. By this means, Mr.
Mason has made vast sums of money, but what he has done with it is a
mystery. I have attempted to save what I could, but I have not enough
for this extended trip to the south of France. Now, do you understand
me?"

"Yes," answered the detective, "you want to find where his money is
hidden."

"No," said Parks, with a queer smile, "I am not seeking impossible
ventures. What Randolph Mason chooses to make a mystery will remain so
to the end of time, all the detectives on the earth to the contrary."

"What do you want, then?" asked Hogarth, doggedly.

Parks drew his chair nearer to the man and lowered his voice. "My
friend," he said, "this recent change in the administration of the city
has thrown you out on your uppers. Your chief is gone for good, and with
him all your hopes in New York. It was a rout, my friend, and they have
all saved themselves but you. What is to become of you?"

"God knows!" said the detective. "Of course I am still a member of the
agency, but there is scarcely bread in that."

"This world is a fighting station," continued Parks. "The one intention
of the entire business world is robbery. The man on the street has no
sense of pity; he grows rich because he conceives some shrewd scheme
by which he is enabled to seize and enjoy the labor of others. His only
object is to avoid the law; he commits the same wrong and causes the
same resulting injury as the pirate. The word 'crime,' Hogarth, was
invented by the strong with which to frighten the weak; it means
nothing. Now listen, since the thing is a cutthroat game, why not have
our share of the spoil?" Hogarth's face was a study; Parks was shrewdly
forcing the right door.

"My friend," the little man went on, "we can make a fortune by a twist
of the wrist, and go scot-free with the double eagles clinking in
our pockets. We can make it in a day, and thereafter wag our heads at
fortune and snap our fingers at the law."

"How?" asked the detective. The door had broken and swung in.

"I will tell you," said Parks, placing his hand confidentially on the
man's shoulder. "Mr. Mason has a plan. I know it, because yesterday he
was walking up Broadway, apparently oblivious to everything. Suddenly
his face cleared up, and he stopped and snapped his fingers. 'Good!'
he said, 'a detective could do it, and it would be child play, child
play.'"

Hogarth's countenance fell. "Is that all?" he said.

"All!" echoed Parks, bringing his hand down on the table. "Is n't that
enough, man? You don't know Randolph Mason. If he has a plan by which a
detective can make a haul, it is good, do you hear, and it goes."

"What does this mean, Parks?" said a voice.

The little clerk sprang up and whirled round. In his vehemence he had
not noticed the door-way. Randolph Mason stood in the shadow. He was
thin and haggard, his face was shrunken and unshaven, and he looked worn
and exhausted.

"Oh, sir," said Parks, gathering himself quickly, "this is my friend
Braxton Hogarth, and he is in great trouble. He came here to ask me for
help; we have been talking over the matter for many hours, and I don't
see any way out for him."

"Where has the trap caught him?" said Mason, coming into the room.

"It is an awful strange thing, sir," answered the clerk. "Mr. Hogarth's
only son is the teller of the Bay State Bank in New Jersey. This morning
they found that twenty thousand dollars was missing from the vault. No
one had access to the vault yesterday but young Hogarth. The cashier was
in this city, the combination was not known to any others. There is no
evidence of robbery. The circumstances are so overwhelming against young
Hogarth that the directors went to him and said plainly that if the
money was in its place by Saturday night he would not be prosecuted,
and the matter would be hushed up. He protested his innocence, but they
simply laughed and would not listen to him. The boy is prostrated, and
we know that he is innocent, but there is no way on earth to save
him unless Mr. Hogarth can raise the money, which is a hopeless
impossibility."

Parks paused, and glanced at Hogarth, the kind of glance that obtains
among criminals when they mean, "back up the lie."

The detective buried his face in his hands.

"The discretion of Fate is superb," said Mason. "She strikes always the
vulnerable spot. She gives wealth if one does not need it; fame, if one
does not care for it; and drives in the harpoon where the heart is."

"The strange thing about it all, sir," continued Parks, "is that Mr.
Hogarth has been a detective all his life and now is a member of the
Atlantic Agency. It looks like the trailed thing turning on him."

"A detective!" said Mason, sharply. "Ah, there is the open place, and
there we will force through."

The whole appearance of the man changed in an instant. He straightened
up, and his face lighted with interest. He drew up a chair and sat down
at the table, and there, in the chill dark of that November morning, he
unfolded the daring details of his cross-plot, and the men beside him
stared in wonder.



II.

About one o'clock on Thursday afternoon, William Walson, manager of the
great Oceanic Coal Company, stepped out of the Fairmont Banking House in
the Monongahela mining regions of West Virginia. It was pay-day at his
mine, and he carried a black leather satchel in his hand containing
twenty thousand dollars in bills. At this time the gigantic plant of
this company was doing an enormous business. The labor unions of the
vast Pennsylvania coal regions were out on the bitterest and most
protracted strike of all history. The West Virginia operators were
moving the heavens in order to supply the market; every man who could
hold a pick was at work under the earth day and night.

The excitement was something undreamed of. The region was overrun with
straggling workmen, tramps, "hobos," and the scum criminals of the
cities, and was transformed as if by magic into a hunting-ground where
the keen human ferret stalked the crook and the killer with that high
degree of care and patience which obtains only with the man-hunter.

William Walson was tall, with short red beard and red hair, black eyes,
and rather a sharp face; his jaw was square, bespeaking energy, but his
expression was rather that of a man who won by the milder measures of
conciliation and diplomacy. For almost a month he had been taxing his
physical strength to the uttermost, and on this afternoon he looked worn
and tired out utterly. He walked hurriedly from the bank door to the
buck-board, untied the horse, raised the seat, and put the satchel down
in the box under the cushion, then climbed in and drove away.

The great plant of the Oceanic Coal Company was on a branch of the
railroad, some considerable distance from the main line by rail, but
only a few miles over the hills from the Fairmont Junction. William
Walson struck out across the country road. The sun shone warm. He had
lost so much sleep that presently he began to feel drowsy, and as the
horse jogged along he nodded in his seat.

About a mile from the town, at the foot of a little hill in the woods,
a man stepped suddenly out from the fence and caught the horse by the
bridle. Walson started and looked up. As he did so the stranger covered
him with a revolver and bade him put up his hands and get out of the
buck-board. The coal dealer saw in a moment that the highwayman meant
what he said, and that resistance would be folly. He concluded also
that he was confronted by one of the many toughs at large in the
neighborhood, and that the fellow's intention was simply to rob him of
his personal effects and such money as he might have in his pockets; it
was more than probable that the man before him had no knowledge of the
money hidden under the seat and would never discover it.

"Tie your horse, sir," said the highwayman.

Walson loosed the hitch strap and fastened the horse to a small tree by
the roadside.

"Turn your back to me," said the robber, "and put out your hands behind
you." The coal dealer obeyed, thinking that the fellow was now going
through his pockets. To his surprise and astonishment the man came up
close behind him and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

"What do you mean by this?" cried Watson, whirling round on his heels.

The big man with the revolver grinned. "You will find out soon enough,"
he said. "Move along; the walking is good."

William Watson was utterly at sea. He could not understand why this man
should kidnap him, and start back with him to the town. What could the
highwayman possibly mean by this queer move? At any rate it was evident
that he had no knowledge of the money, and Walson reasoned shrewdly
that, if he remained quiet and submissive, the vast sum in the
buck-board would escape the notice of this erratic thief.

The two men walked along in silence for some time; the highwayman was
big, with keen gray eyes and a shrewd face; he seemed curiously elated.
When the two came finally to the brow of the hill overlooking the town,
Walson stopped and turned to his strange captor; he was now convinced
that the fellow was a lunatic.

"Sir," he said, "what in Heaven's name are you trying to do?"

"Introduce you to your fellows in Sing Sing, my friend," answered the
highwayman. "The gang will be glad to welcome Red Lead Jim."

It all came to the coal dealer in a moment "Oh, you miserable ass!" he
cried, "what an infernal mistake! My name is William Walson, I am the
manager of the Oceanic Coal Company, there is twenty thousand dollars in
that buck-board. I must go back to it or it will be lost. Here take off
these damned handcuffs, and be quick about it." And he literally danced
up and down in the road with rage.

His companion leaned against the fence and roared with laughter. "You
are a smooth one, Red, but the job and your twenty thousand will keep."

Walson's face changed. "Come," he said, "let us get this fool business
over," and he began to run down the hill to the town, his captor
following close beside him.

Men came out into the street in astonishment when they saw the strange
pair. Walson was dusty and cursing like a pirate. He called upon the
crowd that was quickly gathering, to identify him and arrest his idiotic
kidnapper. The people explained that Mr. Walson was all right, that he
was a prominent citizen, that it was all some horrible mistake. But
the fellow hung on to his man until he got him to the jail. There the
sheriff freed Walson and demanded an explanation. The mob crowded around
to hear what it all meant. The stranger seemed utterly astonished at the
way the people acted. He said that his name was Braxton Hogarth, that
he was a New York detective, an employee of the Atlantic Agency; that he
was trailing one Red Lead Jim, a famous bank cracker who was wanted
in New York for robbery and murder; that he had tracked him to West
Virginia, and that coming suddenly upon William Walson in the road he
had believed him to be the man, had arrested him, and brought him at
once to the town in order to have him extradited. He said that if Walson
was not the man it was the most remarkable case of mistaken identity on
record. He then produced a photograph, to which was attached a printed
description. The photograph was an excellent likeness of Walson, and the
description fitted him perfectly. The coal dealer was dumbfounded and
joined with the crowd in admitting the excusableness of the detective's
mistake under the very peculiar circumstances, but he said that the
story might not be true, and asked the sheriff to hold the detective
in custody until he was fully convinced that everything was as Hogarth
said. The detective declared himself perfectly satisfied with this
arrangement, and William Walson secured a horse and hurried back to his
buck-board.

The perilous vocation of Hogarth had inured him to tragic positions.
He was thoroughly master of his hand and was playing it with quiet and
accurate precision. He asked the sheriff to telegraph the agency and
inform it of the situation and said that it would immediately establish
the truth of his statement.

That night the mining town of Fairmont was in an uproar. The streets
were filled with excited men loudly discussing the great misfortune that
had so strangely befallen the manager of the Oceanic Coal Company. It
had happened that when William Walson returned to his buck-board,
after his release by the sheriff, he found the horse lying dead by
the roadside, and the buck-board a heap of ashes and broken irons. The
charred remains of the satchel were found under the heap of rubbish, but
it was impossible to determine whether the money had been carried away
or destroyed by the fire. A jug that had lately contained liquor was
found near by. All the circumstances indicated that the atrocious
act was the malicious work of some one of the roving bands of drunken
cutthroats. But the wonder of it all was the coincidence of the
detective and the glaring boldness of the fiend "hobos."

The Atlantic Agency of New York, answered the sheriff's telegram
immediately, confirming Hogarth's statement, and referring to the
District Attorney of New York and the Chief of Police; These answered
that the agency was all right and that its statement should be accepted
as correct. Finally, as a last precaution, the sheriff and the president
of the Oceanic Coal Company talked with the New York Police Chief by
long-distance telephone. When they were at length assured that the
detective's story was true, he was released and asked to go with the
president before the board of directors. Here he went fully over the
whole matter, explaining that the man, Red Lead Jim, was a desperate
character, and for that reason he had been so severe and careful, not
daring to risk the drive back to town in the buck-board. When asked his
theory of the robbery, he said that the first impression of the people
was undoubtedly correct, that the country was full of wandering gangs of
desperate blacklegs, that the money being in paper was perhaps destroyed
by the fire and not discovered at all by the thugs in their malicious
and drunken deviltry.

The board of directors were not inclined to censure Hogarth, suggesting
that after all he had perhaps saved the life of William Walson, as it
was evident that the drunken "hobos" would have murdered him if he
had been present when they chanced upon the horse and buck-board.
Nevertheless, the detective seemed utterly prostrated over the great
loss that had resulted from his unfortunate mistake, and left for New
York on the first train.



III.

The following night two men stepped from the train at Jersey City and
turned down towards the ferry. For a time they walked along in silence;
suddenly the big one turned to his companion. "Parks," he said, "you are
a lightning operator, my boy, you should play the mob in a Roman drama."

"I fixed the 'hobo' evidence all right, Hogarth," answered the other,
"and I have not forgotten the trust fund," whereupon he winked at his
big companion and tapped on the breast of his coat significantly.

The detective's face lighted up and then grew anxious. "Well," he said,
lowering his voice, "are we going to try the other end of it?"

"Why not?" answered the little clerk. "Don't we need the trust fund
doubled?"



IV.

The great gambling house of Morehead, Opstein, & Company was beginning
to be deserted by the crowd that had tempted the fickle goddess all
night long to their great hurt. It was now four o'clock in the morning,
and only one or two of the more desperate losers hung on to play. Snakey
the Parson, a thin delicate knave, with a long innocent, melancholy
face, was dealing faro for the house. "Snakey" was a "special" in the
parlance of the guild; his luck was known to come in "blizzards"; if he
won, to use the manager's language, he won out through the ceiling,
and if he lost, he lost down to his health. For this reason Snakey the
Parson was not a safe man as a "regular," but he was a golden bonanza
when the cards went his way, and to-night they were going his way.

The stragglers drifted out one by one and the dealer was preparing
to quit the table when the door opened and two men entered: one was a
little old man with a white beard and a lean, hungry face; the other
was a big, half-drunken cattle drover. The two came up to the table and
stood for a moment looking at the lay-out. A faint smile passed over
the face of Snakey the Parson, he knew the types well, they were western
cattle-shippers with money.

"How high do ye go, mister?" said the little man.

"Against the sky," answered the dealer, sadly.

"Then I'll jist double me pile," said the little old man, reaching down
into his pocket and fishing up a roll of bills wrapped in a dirty old
newspaper. He counted the money and placed it upon the table.

The dealer looked up in astonishment. "Ten thousand!" he said.

"Yep," answered the old man, "an I want ter bet hit on the jack er
spades."

The dealer pushed a stack of yellow chips across the table.

"No, siree," said the player, "you don't give me no buttons. I' ll put
my pile on this side and you put your pile on t'other side, and the
winner takes 'em."

Snakey the Parson wavered a moment. It was against the rules, but here
was too good a thing to lose. He turned, counted out the money, and
placed it on his right, and began to deal from the box. The cards fell
rapidly. For a time the blacks ran on the side of the house. Suddenly
they changed and the queen and the ten of spades fell on the left. The
dealer saw the card under his thumb and paused. The keen eyes of the old
man were fixed on him. He determined to take the long chance, knowing
that the loss was only temporary; and the jack of spades came up and
fell on the side of the stranger.

With a whoop of joy the old man clutched the money. "I am going to try
her agin!" he cried.

"Hold on," said the big cattle-drover, pushing up to the table; "my wad
is as good as you; it is my turn now."

The dealer grinned. "You can both play, gentlemen," he said, speaking
with a low, sweet accent.

"No, we can't," muttered the drover, with the childish obstinacy of a
half-drunken man. "I want the whole shooting match to myself; he can
have the next whirl at her."

Thereupon the drover dragged a big red pocket book from somewhere inside
his coat, took out a thick, straight package of bills, and laid it down
on the table.

"How much?" said the dealer, running his finger over the end of the
package.

'"Same as Abe's," said the drover.

"Here," said the little old man, peevishly, "if you won't let me play,
bet my roll with yourn," and he pushed the ten thousand of his own money
to his companion, and placed the money, which he had won from the bank,
in his pocket. The drover took the money and piled it up on the ace of
spades.

The dealer's face grew pensive and sweet; it was all right this time; he
was going to round off the night with a golden _coup d' état_. He opened
the safe behind him, counted out twenty thousand in big bills, and piled
it up on one side of the bank. Then he opened the box and began. The old
man wandered around the room; the big, half-drunken cattle-shipper hung
over the table. Snakey, the Parson scarcely saw either; he was intent on
manipulating the box, and his hand darted in and out like a white snake.
Suddenly the ace of spades flew out, and fell on the side of the house.
The quick dealer clapped his left hand over the box and put out his
right for the player's money. As he did so, the big drover bent forward
and thrust a revolver into his face.

"No, you don't," he growled, "this is my money and I will not leave it,
thank you."

Snakey the Parson glanced at the man and knew that he had been fooled,
but he was composed and clear-headed. Under the box on the right were
weapons and the electric button; he began to take his right hand slowly
from the table.

"Stop!" said the drover, sharply, "that game won't work!"

The dealer looked up into the player's face, and dropped his hands; he
was a brave man, and desperate, as gamblers go, but he knew death when
he saw it; his face turned yellow and became ghastly, but he did not
move.

The drover took up his money from the lay-out, and handed it to the
old man. He used his left hand only, and did not take his eyes from the
gambler's face. The old man thrust the bundle of bills in his pocket,
and hurried from the room. The gambler sat rigid as a wax figure. The
drover waited until his companion had sufficient time to get thoroughly
away from the house; then he began to move slowly backward to the door,
keeping the gambler covered with the weapon. The faro dealer watched
every move of the drover, like a hawk, but he did not attempt to take
his hand from the table; the muzzle of the revolver was too rigid; it
was simply moving backward from his face in a dead straight line. At
the door the drover stopped, drew himself together, then sprang suddenly
through and bounded down the stairs.

Snakey the Parson touched the electric button, and as the drover rushed
into the street, two policemen caught him by the shoulder.



V

Well," said the Police Chief, "I am tired of making an ass of myself;
Mr. Mason says this cattle drover has committed no crime except a petty
assault, and if he is right, I want to know it. That man beats the very
devil. Every time I have sent up a case against his protest the judges
have pitched me out on my neck, and the thing has got to be cursedly
monotonous."

The District Attorney smiled grimly, and turned around in his chair.
"Have you given me all the details?" he said.

"Yes," answered the official, "just exactly as they occurred."

The District Attorney arose, thrust his hands into his pockets, and
looked down at the great man-hunter; there was a queer set to his mouth,
and the merest shadow of a twinkle in his eyes.

"Well, my friend," he said, "you are pitched out on your neck again."

The official drew a deep breath, and his face fell. "Then it is not
robbery?" he said.

"No," answered the attorney.

"Well," mused the Police Chief, "this law business is too high for me. I
have spent my life dealing with crimes, and I thought I knew one when I
saw it; but I give it up, I don't know the first principles. Why, here
is a fellow who voluntarily goes into a gambling house, plays and loses,
then draws a revolver and forcibly takes away the money which, by the
rules of the play, belongs to the house; robs the dealer by threatening
to kill him; steals the bank's money, and fights his way out. It cannot
matter that the man robbed was a lawbreaker himself, or that the crime
occurred in a gambling house. It is the law of New York that has been
violated; the place and parties are of no importance. Here is certainly
the force and the putting in fear that constitute the vital element of
robbery; and yet you say it is not robbery. You have me lost all right."

"My dear sir," put in the District Attorney, "the vital element of
robbery is not the force and terror but is what is called in the books
the _animus furandi_, meaning the intention to steal. The presence of
this felonious intent determines whether or not the wrong is a crime.
If it be not present there can be no robbery, no matter how great
the force, violence, or putting in fear, or how graven serious, or
irreparable the resulting injury.

"It is true indeed that the force and terror are elements, but the vital
one is the intent. If force and violence one takes his own property from
the possession of another, it is no robbery; nor is it robbery for one
to take the property of another by violence under the belief that it
is his own, or that he has some right to it, or by mistake or
misunderstanding, although vast loss be caused thereby and great wrong
and hurt result."

"I have no hope of ever understanding it," said the Police Chief; "I am
only a common man with a short life time."

"Why, sir," continued the attorney, "it is as plain as sunlight. Robbery
is compounded of larceny and force. It is larceny from the person by
violence, but in order to constitute it the property must be taken
from the peaceable possession of the party and it must be taken _animo
furandi_. Neither of these happened in the case you state, because the
faro dealer, by means of an unlawful game, could not secure any color
of right or title to the money which he should win by it. Therefore the
money taken was not his property, and could not have been taken from his
peaceable possession.

"In the second place, this vital element of robbery, the animus furandi,
is totally wanting, for the reason that the player, in forcibly seizing
the money which he had lost, was actuated by no intention to steal,
but, on the contrary, was simply taking possession of his own property,
property to which he had a full legal right and title."

"But," put in the officer, "there was the other ten thousand which the
old man won, they got away with that; if the game was unlawful they had
no right to that."

"True," said the lawyer. "The old man had no title to the ten thousand
which he had won, but he did not steal it; the dealer gave it to him of
his own free will, and the old man had it in his possession by the full
voluntary consent of the dealer some time before the resort to violence.
There was clearly no crime in this."

"Damn it all!" said the Police Chief, wearily, "is there no way to get
at him, can't we railroad him before a jury?"

The District Attorney looked at the baffled officer and grinned
ominously. "My friend," he said, "there is no power in Venice can alter
a decree established. The courts have time and again passed upon cases
exactly similar to this, and have held that there was no crime, except,
perhaps, a petty misdemeanor. We could not weather a proceeding on
_habeas corpus_ ten minutes; we could never get to a jury. When the
judge came to examine the decisions on this question we would go out, as
you expressed it, on our necks."

"Well," muttered the Police Chief, as he pulled on his coat, "it is just
as Randolph Mason said, out he goes."

The attorney laughed and turned to his desk. The officer crossed to
the door, jerked it open, then stopped and faced round. "Mr. District
Attorney," he said, "won't there be hell to pay when the crooks learn
the law?" Then he stalked through and banged the door after him.

The District Attorney looked out of the window and across the street at
the dirty row of ugly buildings. "Humph!" he said, "there is something
in that last remark of the Chief."



VI.

Braxton Hogarth, detective, member of the Atlantic Agency, in good
standing, now, by right of law and by virtue of his craft, restored
to his freedom and identity, stepped back and was swallowed up by the
crowd.

The great ocean liner steamed out from the port of New York on its
pathless journey to the sunny south of France. Randolph Mason sat in an
invalid chair close up to the rail of the deck; he was grim, emaciated,
and rigidly ugly. His body was exhausted, worn out utterly long ago,
but the fierce mysterious spirit of the man was tireless and wrought on
unceasingly.

For a time he was silent, his eyes wide, and his jaw set like a wolf
trap. Suddenly he clutched the rail and staggered to his feet.

"Parks," he muttered,--"Parks, this ship is worth a million dollars.
Come with me to the cabin and I will show you how it may be wrested
from the owners and no crime committed; do you understand me, Parks? no
crime!"

_Note.--For the purpose of a complete demonstration, two situations are
here combined. In the first, the crime of robbery was committed, but
in such a manner as to completely evade an inference of the _animus
furandi_, although it was in fact present and obtained. In the second,
there was no robbery, the _animus furandi_ being entirely absent,
although it apparently existed in a conspicuous degree._


THE END.





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