"I guess not."
"I hope-- I hope there is nothing wrong," she went on falteringly.
"Wrong?" I queried. I did not quite understand her.
"Yes, sir."
"Not exactly. What makes you think so?"
"Because he drinks so," she replied.
"I wish to get some information from him; that is all," I returned.
As I concluded a heavy step sounded in the hall, and an instant later
Sammy Simpson appeared. He had evidently been imbibing freely, for his
voice was thick and his sentences muddled.
"Hello!" he cried. "You here already, eh! What brought you? Want to
find out all about Chris Holtzmann?"
"Yes."
"Thought so. Saw it in your eye. Yes, sir, your optic betrayed you.
Sit down. Mag, give Mr. What's-his-name a chair. I'll sit down
myself." And he sank heavily down on a low bench, threw one leg over
the other, and clasped his hands on his knee.
"I want to see those documents you took from Mr. Holtzmann's safe," I
began boldly.
He started slightly and stared at me.
"Who said I took any document out of his safe?"
"Didn't you say so? I mean the ones relating to Holtzmann's affairs in
Brooklyn."
"Well, yes, I did."
"I want to see them."
"Again I ask, what is there in it?" he exclaimed dramatically.
"If they really prove of value to me, I will pay you well for all your
trouble," I replied.
"Is that straight?" he asked thickly.
"It is," I replied, and, I may as well add, I was thoroughly disgusted
with the man.
"Then I'm yours truly, and no mistake. Excuse me till I get them."
Be rose unsteadily and left the room. Hardly had he gone before his
wife hurried to my side.
"Oh, sir, I hope you are not getting him into trouble?" she cried. "He
is a good man when he is sober; indeed he is,"
"I am not going to harm him, madam. A great wrong has been done, and I
only want your husband to assist me in righting it. He has papers that
can do it."
"You are telling me the truth?" she questioned earnestly.
"Yes, ma'am."
"I think I can trust you," she said slowly. "You look honest. And
these papers-- ought you to have them?"
"Yes. If your husband does not give them up, he will certainly get
into great trouble."
"You are young, and you don't look as if you would lie. If Sam has the
papers, he shall give them to you. He's coming now."
"Here's all the evidence in the case," said Sammy Simpson, on
returning. He held a thick and long envelope. "What's the value to
you?"
"I can tell better after I have examined them," I returned.
"Will you give them back if I let you see them?"
"Yes."
He handed the precious papers to me and then sat down.
Oh, how eagerly I grasped the envelope! How much of importance it
might contain for me!
There were three letters and four legal papers. Like Nicholas Weaver's
statement, all were badly written, and I had a hard job to decipher
even a portion of the manuscript.
Yet I made out enough to learn that Aaron Woodward was the forger of
the notes and checks that had sent my father to prison, and that the
death of a relative in Chicago was only a pretence. The work had been
done in Brooklyn through that branch of Holland & Mack's
establishment. Chris Holtzmann had helped in the scheme, and John
Stumpy had presented one of the checks, for which service he had
received six hundred dollars. This much was clear to me. But two other
points still remained dark.
One was of a certain Ferguson connected with the scheme, who seemed to
be intimate with my father. He was probably the man my father had
mentioned when we had visited him at the prison. His connection with
the affair was far from clear.
The other dark point in the case was concerning Agatha Mitts, of 648
Vannack Avenue, Brooklyn. She was a boarding-mistress, and the three
or four men had stopped at her house. But how much she knew of their
doings I could not tell.
"Well, what do you think?" muttered Sammy Simpson. "Mighty important,
I'll be bound."
"Not so very important," I returned, as coolly as I could. "They will
be if I can get hold of other papers to use with them."
"Exactly, sir; just as I always said. Well, you can get them easily
enough, no doubt."
"I don't know about that," I said doubtfully.
"No trouble at all. Come, what will you give?"
"Five dollars."
"Ha! ha! They're worth a million." He blinked hard at me. "Say, you're
a friend of mine, a good boy. Meg, shall I give them to him?"
"You ought to do what's right, Sam," replied his wife, severely.
"So I ought. You're a good woman; big improvement on a chap like me.
Say, young man, give my lady ten dollars, keep the papers, and clear
out. I'm drunk, and when Sammy Simpson's drunk he's a fool."
I handed over the money without a word. Perhaps I was taking advantage
of the man's present state, but I considered I was doing things for
the best.
A minute later, with the precious papers in my pocket, I left.
CHAPTER XXX
THE TRAIN FOR NEW YORK
Down in the street I hesitated as to where to go next. I felt that the
case on hand was getting too complicated for me, and that I needed
assistance.
I did not relish calling on the police for help. They were probably on
the watch for me, and even if not, they would deem me only a boy, and
give me scant attention.
My mind reverted to the adventure earlier in the day, and I remembered
Mr. Harrison's kind offer. I had done his little daughter a good turn,
and I was positive the gentleman would assist me to the best of his
ability.
I decided to call on him at once. I had his address still in my
pocket, and though I was quite tired, I hurried along at a rapid rate.
On the way I revolved in my mind all that had occurred within the past
two hours, and by the time I reached Mr. Harrison's place I had the
matter in such shape that I could tell a clear, straightforward story.
I found the gentleman in, and pleased at my return.
"I was afraid you had gotten into more difficulties," he explained,
with a smile.
"So I did but I got out of them again," I replied.
Sitting down, I gave him the particulars of my visit to Chris
Holtzmann and to Sammy Simpson, and handed over the documents for
inspection. Mr. Harrison was deeply interested, and examined the
papers with great care. It took him nearly an hour to do so, and then
he plied me with numerous questions.
"Do you know what my advice is?" he asked, at length.
"No, sir."
"I advise you to have both Holtzmann and Woodward arrested at once.
They are thorough rascals, and your father is the innocent victim of
their cupidity."
"But how can I do that? No one knows me here in Chicago."
"Hold up, you make a mistake. I know you."
"Yes, but you don't know anything about me," I began.
"I know you to be a brave fellow, and brave people are generally
honest. Besides, your face speaks for itself."
"You are very kind."
"I have not forgotten the debt I owe you, and whatever I do for you
will never fully repay it."
"And you advise me--"
"To put the case in the hands of the police without delay. Come, I
will go with you. Perhaps this Holtzmann may be frightened into a
confession."
"I trust so. It will save a good deal of trouble."
"Woodward can be taken into custody as soon as the necessary papers
are made out," concluded. Mr. Harrison.
An instant later we were on the way. I wondered what had become of
John Stumpy. It was strange that he had not turned up at the Palace of
Pleasure. Perhaps Mr. Aaron Woodward had intercepted him and either
scared or bought him off.
The fellow held much evidence that I wished to obtain, for every
letter or paper against Mr. Woodward would make my father's case so
much stronger, and I determined with all my heart that when once
brought to trial there should be no failure to punish the guilty, so
that the innocent might be acquitted.
At the police station we found the sergeant in charge. Mr. Harrison
was well known in the locality, and his presence gained at once for us
a private audience.
The officer of the law gave the case his closest attention, and asked
me even more questions than had been put to me before.
"I remember reading of this affair in the court records," he said.
"Judge Fowler and I were saying what a peculiar case it was. Chris
Holtzmann claims to keep a first-class resort, and I would hardly dare
to proceed against him were it not for these papers, and you, Mr.
Harrison."
"You will arrest him at once?" questioned the gentleman.
"If you say so."
"I do, most assuredly."
"You are interested in the case?" queried the sergeant, as he prepared
to leave.
"Only on this young man's account. He saved my little daughter from a
horrible death this morning."
"Indeed? How so?"
"There was a mad bull broke into my back garden from the street, and
was about to gore her, when this young man, who had been driven into
the garden in the first place, came between and drove the bull out."
"Oh, I heard of that bull."
"What became of him?" I put in curiously.
"He was killed by a couple of officers on the next block. He was
nearly dead before they shot him, having received a terrible cut
between the eyes."
"Given by this young man," explained Mr. Harrison.
"You don't mean it!" cried the officer, in admiration. "Phew! but you
must be strong!"
"It was more by good luck than strength," I returned modestly.
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Harrison. "My wife witnessed the whole
occurrence, and she says it was pure bravery."
Five minutes later a cab was called, and we all got in. I was not
sorry to ride, for my long tramp from one place to another on the
stone pavement had made me footsore. I did not mind walking, but the
Darbyville roads were softer than those of Chicago.
It did not take long to reach the Palace of Pleasure.
"Just wait in the cab for a minute or two," said the sergeant to me.
"If he sees you first, he may make a scene."
"Most likely he's gone out," I returned.
The sergeant and Mr. Harrison left the carriage and entered the
building.
I awaited their return impatiently. Would they get their man? And
would Mr. Aaron Woodward be along?
Five-- ten minutes dragged slowly by. Then the two returned.
"He's not in the place, and no one knows where he has gone," said the
officer.
"He can't be far off," I replied. "No doubt he and Mr. Woodward have
gone off to look for me."
"And where?" put in Mr. Harrison. I thought a moment.
"The depot!" I exclaimed. "He spoke about looking for me there."
"Then we'll be off at once," returned the sergeant.
As he spoke, a familiar figure came shambling around the corner. It
was Sammy Simpson.
"Hello, you!" he cried, on catching sight of me. "I want those papers
back."
"Why do you want them back?" I asked.
"You didn't pay the value of 'em, didn't pay enough," he hiccoughed.
"I paid all I agreed to."
"Can't say anything about that. But 'tain't enough." He glared at me.
"Holtzmann said he'd pay me a hundred dollars. Yes, sir, ten times as
much as you."
"When de you see Holtzmann?" I cried, in great interest.
"Saw him about half an hour ago. He came to see me-- came to see Sammy
Simpson-- climbed the stairs to my abode. Wanted the papers-- said I
must have 'em. Went wild with rage when I let slip you had 'em. So did
the other gent."
"Who? Mr. Woodward?"
"That's the identical name. Yes, sir-- the correct handle. And they
wanted the papers. Offered a hundred dollars for 'em. Think of it.
Here's the ten dollars-- give 'em back."
Had Sammy Simpson been sober he would not have made such a simple
proposition.
"No, sir," I replied decidedly. "A bargain's a bargain. I've got the
papers, and I intend to keep them."
"No, you don't."
"What's that?" broke in the sergeant of police.
"I want those papers."
"Do you know who I am?"
"No, and don't care."
"I am sergeant of police, and I want you to behave yourself, or I'll
run you in," was the decided reply.
At the mention of an officer Sammy Simpson grew pale.
"No, no, don't do that. I've never been arrested in my life."
"The papers are in the hands of the proper parties," went on the
sergeant.
"Then I can't have 'em back?"
"No; and the less you have to do with the whole matter, the better off
you'll be. Where has Holtzmann gone?"
"To Brooklyn."
I was astonished. To Brooklyn, and so soon!
"You are sure?" I queried.
"Yes; he and the other gent intended to take the first train."
Here was indeed news. This sudden and unexpected departure must
portend something of importance.
"We must catch them!" I exclaimed.
"Do you know anything about the trains?" asked Mr. Harrison.
"No."
"Jump in, and we'll be off to the depot," said the sergeant.
In an instant we had started, leaving Sammy Simpson standing in the
middle of the pavement too astonished to speak. It was the last I ever
saw of the man.
We made the driver urge his horse at the top of his speed. I
calculated that the pair would take the same line that had brought me
to Chicago.
I was not mistaken; for when we reached the depot a few questions put
by the sergeant revealed the fact that the two men had purchased
tickets for New York but a minute before.
"And when does the train leave?" I asked.
"Her time's up now."
At that instant a bell rang.
"There's the bell."
"We must catch her," I cried, and ran though the gate and on to the
platform.
But the train was already moving. I tried to catch her, but failed;
and a minute later the cars rolled out of sight.
Mr. Aaron Woodward and Chris Holtzmann had escaped me.
What was to be done next?
CHAPTER XXXI
IN THE METROPOLIS
I was thoroughly chagrined when I stood on the platform and saw the
train roll away. Now that I had Mr. Harrison and the sergeant of
police with me I had fondly hoped to capture the two men, even if it
was at the last minute.
But now that chance was gone, and as I turned back to my two
companions I felt utterly nonplussed.
One thing was perfectly clear in my mind. The two men had gone to
Brooklyn to see Mrs. Agatha Mitts. No doubt they thought that now I
had the papers Sammy Simpson had stolen in my possession I would
follow up the train of evidence by calling on the woman-- a thing I
most likely would have done. They intended to head me off, and by this
means break down my case against them at its last stage.
Yet though I was disappointed I was not disheartened. I was fighting
for honor and intended to keep on until not a single thing remained to
do. My evidence against Woodward and Holtzmann was gradually
accumulating, and sooner or later it must bring them to the bar of
justice.
"Well, they're gone," I exclaimed, as I joined the others. "That is,
if they were on that train."
"We'll ask the gateman and make sure," said the sergeant.
This was done, and we soon learned that beyond a doubt Mr. Woodward
and Chris Holtzmann had been among the departed passengers.
"My work in Chicago is at an end," remarked the sergeant, as we stood
in the waiting-room discussing the situation.
"And so is mine," I replied. "I've got the papers, and now the two men
are gone, there is no use of my remaining."
"What do you intend to do?" asked Mr. Harrison.
"Follow them to Brooklyn."
"To Brooklyn? It's a good distance."
"I can't help it; I must go. As for the distance, it is not many miles
from my home."
Mr. Harrison mused for a moment.
"I have an idea of going along with you," he said at length.
"Going along with me!" I repeated, astonished by his offer.
"Yes; I intended to take a trip to New York, on special business next
week, but I can go to-day instead. You no doubt need help, and I want
to give it to you."
"You are very kind," I replied.
"I would like to see you and your family get your rights," he went on.
"I wonder when the next train leaves."
"I'll find out at the ticket office," I replied.
I walked over to the box, and at the window learned that the next
train would not start for two hours and a half.
"That will give me time to go home, pack my valise, and arrange my
affairs," said Mr. Harrison. "Come, you can go with me, and we can
dine together."
"Thank you," was my answer.
"And you, sergeant. I will be pleased to have you, too," continued Mr.
Harrison, turning to the officer.
"You're kind, Mr. Harrison, but duty calls me elsewhere. I'll have to
return to the station. But you've forgotten one thing."
"What?"
"That you can telegraph to New York and have the two men arrested as
soon as they arrive."
"That's so! What do you say, Strong?"
I thought for a moment. It would be the simplest way to do, but would
it be the best?
"Don't you think we had better let them go ahead?" I returned. "We
know exactly where they are going, and by following them up may gain
some additional information."
"I don't know but what you are right," replied Mr. Harrison.
"Then, in that case, my duty here is at an end," said the sergeant.
"I'm very much obliged for the trouble you've taken. Are there any
charges to pay?"
"None at all. Good day. Hope you will meet with success in the
future."
"Thank you. If we do, I'll write you."
"Now we'll jump into a cab at once," said Mr. Harrison, when we were
alone.
A minute later we were whirling along in the direction of his mansion.
"I hope you are not taking too much trouble on my account," I
observed.
"I don't consider it too much," he replied. "Even if I had no business
of my own to call me to New York I would go along if I thought I would
be of service to you. You saved my little girl's life, and that debt,
as I have told you before, I can never repay you."
We soon reached Mr. Harrison's mansion. Of course Mrs. Harrison was
surprised at her husband's sudden determination, but when the
situation was explained to her, she urged him to do his best for me.
The dinner served was the most elegant I had ever eaten, and despite
the excited state of mind I was in, I did ample justice to it. Little
Millie was present, and during the progress of the meal we became
great friends.
But all good things must come to an end, and an hour later, each with
his handbag, we entered the cab and were off.
On the way we stopped at Mr. Harrison's office, where that gentleman
left directions concerning things to be done during his absence.
Evidently he was a thorough business man, and I could not help but
wonder what he was worth when I saw him place several hundred dollars
in bills in his pocketbook.
Arriving at the depot, we found we had just five minutes to spare.
This Mr. Harrison spent in the purchase of a ticket for himself-- I
had mine-- and in getting parlor-car seats for both of us.
It was a novelty to me to have such a soft chair to sit in, and I
thoroughly enjoyed it.
As we rode along, my kind friend questioned me closely about myself,
and I ended by giving him my entire history.
"You've had rather a hard row to hoe, and no mistake," he said. "It is
a dreadful thing to have one's family honor assailed. Many a man has
broken down completely under it."
"It is so with my father," I replied. "He used to be as bright as any
one, but now he doesn't have much hope of any kind left."
In the evening another surprise awaited me. Instead of remaining in
the comfortable chair, Mr. Harrison bade me follow him to the
sleeping-car, and I was assigned as soft a bed as I had ever occupied.
I slept "like a top," resolved to get the full value of so elegant an
accommodation. When I awoke, it was broad daylight.
I climbed down from my bed and made my toilet leisurely. When I had
finished, Mr. Harrison appeared, and together we had breakfast, and,
five hours later, dinner.
It was six o'clock in the evening when we rolled into the station at
Jersey City, and alighted. I was a little stiff from the long ride,
but not near as much so as I would have been had I travelled in the
ordinary cars.
"We'll cross the ferry at once," said Mr. Harrison. "The sooner we get
to New York, the better."
"And the sooner we get to Brooklyn, the better," I added. "Do you
think it will be advisable for me to hunt up Mrs. Agatha Mitts
to-night?"
"I think it would. Even if you don't call on her, you can find out
about her and see how the land lies. We will find a hotel to stop at
first."
We were soon in New York and on our way up Broadway. Opposite the
post-office we found an elegant hotel, where Mr. Harrison hired a room
for himself.
He insisted on my having supper with him. Then leaving our handbags in
his room, we started for the Fulton Street ferry to Brooklyn.
It was now growing dark, and the streets were filled with people
hurrying homeward. I tried to keep as close to Mr. Harrison as
possible, but something in a window attracted my attention, and when I
looked around he was gone.
I supposed he had gone on ahead and hurried to catch him. But in this
I was mistaken, for in no direction could I catch sight of the
gentleman.
Deeply concerned, I stood on the corner of a narrow street or alley,
undecided what to do. Should I go on to Brooklyn or retrace my steps
to the hotel?
I had about made up my mind to go on, when a disturbance down the
alley attracted my attention.
Straining my eyes in the semi-darkness, I discovered several
rough-looking young fellows in a group.
"Give it to him, Bandy; hit him over the head!" I heard one of them
exclaim.
"Fair share of plunder, Mickey," cried another.
And then I saw a helpless young man in their midst, who was being
beaten and no doubt robbed.
I did not give thought to the great risk I ran, but hurried at once to
the scene.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"Help me! help me!" called out the young man, in a beseeching voice.
I stared at him in amazement. And no wonder. The young man was Duncan
Woodward.
CHAPTER XXXII
A NIGHT AT THE HOTEL
"Duncan Woodward!" I exclaimed. "Is it possible?"
He gave me a quick look of wonder. "Roger Strong!" he gasped. Oh, save
me, Roger! These rowdies want to kill me!"
Even as he spoke he received a cruel blow in the side.
"I'll help you all I can," I replied promptly.
I knew it would be a waste of words to try to argue with the gang of
toughs, so I simply went at them in a physical way.
I hit out right and left with all my might, and as quickly as I could,
repeated the blows.
The suddenness of my attack disconcerted the three footpads, and when
Duncan recovered sufficiently to lend a hand, one of them took to his
heels and disappeared up the alley.
The two remaining ones stood their ground, and called on their
companions to come back and bring "Noxy an' de rest."
I received a blow in the shoulder that nearly threw me over on my
back. But I straightened up, and in return gave my assailant a hard
one in the nose that drew blood.
"Duncan, you clear out to the street," I whispered. "I'll come after."
The young man followed my advice, first, however, stopping to pick up
several things he had dropped or that had been taken from him.
When he was twenty or thirty feet away I started after him. As I did
so, I noticed he had left a large note-book lying on the ground. I
took it up, and hurried on. For a moment more we were safe upon the
street again, and the two toughs slunk away up the alley.
Then, for the first time, I noted something about Duncan that I
thought shameful beyond words.
He had been drinking heavily. The smell of liquor was in his breath,
and it was with difficulty that he kept from staggering.
"You're my best, friend," he mumbled. "My enemy and my friend."
"What are you doing in New York, Duncan?" I asked.
"Come on important business, Roger. Say, take me to the hotel, will
you? That's a good fellow."
"Where are you staying?"
"Staying? Nowhere."
"Then why don't you take the train to Newville and go home?"
"Can't do that."
"Why not?"
"The old gent would kill me. He says I spend too much money. Well,
maybe I do."
"You've bean drinking, Duncan."
"So I have, Roger. Take me to a hotel."
"Will you promise to go to bed and not to drink any more if I do?"
"Yes. I've had enough."
"Then brace up and come with me."
Not without a good deal of difficulty did I manage to make him walk
several blocks to a good though not stylish hotel. Here I took him
into the office and explained the situation to the clerk in charge,
who promptly assigned us to a room on the third floor.
The charge was three dollars, which Duncan with some difficulty
managed to pay; and then we took the elevator to the third floor.
The room was a good one, with a soft bed. No sooner did Duncan reach
it than he sank down, and in five minutes he was fast asleep.
I was in a quandary as to what to do. I did not care to leave him in
his present state, and at the same time I was anxious to find Mr.
Harrison and visit Mrs. Agatha Mitts in Brooklyn.
I wondered if my kind friend from Chicago had gone on without me,
until I suddenly remembered that the Brooklyn address was in my
pocket, and that he probably did not remember the street and number.
This being the case, he had no doubt returned to the hotel and was
awaiting me.
I looked at Duncan, and made up my mind that he would sleep several
hours, if not longer, without awaking.
Making him as comfortable as possible on the bed, I left the room,
locking the door behind me.
Down in the office I explained the situation to the clerk when I left
the key, and he promised to attend to matters if anything unusual
happened.
I was not very well acquainted with New York City, and in trying to
find my way to the hotel at which Mr. Harrison was stopping, I nearly
lost my way.
But several inquiries, made here and there, set me right, and at
length I reached the large, open corridor.
As I was about to step into the office, a well-known voice hailed me.
"Well, here you are at last." Of course it was Mr. Harrison.
"Yes, sir."
"Did I lose you, or vice versa?" he went on.
"I don't know. I'm sure it wasn't intentional, anyway."
"Have you been over to Brooklyn?" he continued curiously.
"No, sir."
"I thought you had; it is so long since we parted."
"I've had quite an adventure in the meantime."
"Indeed? You didn't meet Chris Holtzmann or this Aaron Woodward, did
you?"
"I met Mr. Woodward's son," I replied, and in a brief way I related my
adventures. Mr. Harrison listened with deep interest.
"It is too bad that the son has started in such a wrong path," he
said. "I trust it teaches him a lesson to let liquor alone. What do
you intend to do now?"
"I suppose I had better go back and stay all night with him. It is now
too late to go to Brooklyn."
"I think you are right. I can call for you at, say, eight o'clock in
the morning."
This was agreed upon, and as it was then after nine o'clock, I hurried
back to Duncan at once. I found him still sleeping, and I did not
disturb him. There was a lounge in the room, and throwing off my coat,
vest, and shoes, I made my bed upon this.
For once I found it difficult to sleep. It seemed to me that my
adventures must soon come to an end. Was it the foreshadowing of
coming events that disturbed me? I could not tell. I wondered how all
were at home; my sister Kate, Uncle Enos, and the Widow Canby, and I
prayed God that I might be permitted to bring good news to them.
About midnight I fell into a light doze. Half an hour later I awoke
with a start. Some one was talking in the room. Sitting up, I listened
intently. It was Duncan, muttering in his sleep.
"Lift the spring, Pultzer," he said in a whisper. "Hist! don't make so
much noise, the old gent may hear you." He paused for a moment. "There
wasn't any money. But I've got the papers, yes, I've got the papers,
and when I find out their true value the old gent shall pay me to keep
quiet."
I could not help but start at Duncan's words. Like a flash of
lightning came the revelation to me. He had entered his father's
library and taken the papers which Mr. Woodward had accused me of
stealing.
It was as clear as day. It explained why Pultzer, accompanied by
another, who must have been of the party, had been out so late the
night of the robbery. They had helped Duncan in his nefarious work,
hoping they would be rewarded by the finding of a sum of money.
Evidently the Models were a bad set, and I was thoroughly glad Dick
Blair had turned his back upon them.
I waited with bated breath for Duncan to continue his speaking, but
was disappointed. He turned over on his side and dreamed on, without a
word.
At length I fell asleep. When I awoke it was daylight. I jumped up and
looked at Duncan. He was just stirring, and a moment later he opened
his eyes.
"Where am I?" he asked, with a puzzled look at me.
"You're all right, Duncan," I replied. "Don't you remember?"
"Oh, yes, I do now. How my head hurts. Is there any water around?"
I went over to the faucet and drew him a glass. He sat up and gulped
it down.
"Have we been here all night?"
"Yes."
"You saved me from those toughs that wanted to rob me last night?"
"Yes."
"I'm not dreaming?"
"No, you're not," I laughed. "I was just in the nick of time."
"I know it all. You saved me, brought me to this place, and put me to
bed. Roger, you're a better fellow than I thought you were. You're a
better fellow than I am."
"You ought to turn over a new leaf," I said.
"Don't preach, Roger."
"I'm not preaching. I'm only telling you something for your own good."
"I know it. I don't blame you. I've been doing wrong-- sowing my wild
oats. But they're all gone now. Just let me get straightened out and
I'll be a different fellow, see if I'm not."
"I hope so with all my heart. What brought you to New York?"
He started.
"I-- I came-- I don't care to tell," he stammered.
"Were you going to Brooklyn?" I questioned, struck by a sudden idea.
"Why, how did you know?" he exclaimed.
"You have certain papers," I continued.
"Yes, I--" he felt in his pockets. "Why, where are they?"
"Are they in this?" I asked, suddenly remembering the note-book I had
picked up, and producing it.
"Yes, yes, give them to me."
"I think I had better keep them," I replied decidedly.
CHAPTER XXXIII
IN BROOKLYN
I fully understood the value of the papers that were contained in the
note-book. Mr. Aaron Woodward would not have persecuted me so closely
had he not deemed them of great importance.
And when I told Duncan I would keep them, I meant what I said. It
might not be right legally, but I was sure it was right morally, and
that was enough to quiet my conscience.
"Better keep them?" repeated Duncan, as he sprang to his feet.
"Exactly."
"You have no right to do that."
"I don't know about that. I was arrested for having them, and what's
the use of my having the name without the game?"
Duncan sank down on the edge of the bed again.
"If you had spoken to me like that yesterday, I'd have wanted to punch
your head," he said. "But you're a good fellow, Roger, and I don't
blame you for acting as you do. Do you know what the papers contain?"
"I think I do."
"They concern my father's affairs," he went on uneasily.
"And my father's as well," I added.
"Not so very much."
"I think so."
"Let me show you. Hand the papers over."
"Excuse me, Duncan, if I decline to do so. You, aided by Pultzer and
others, stole them from your father's library, and then threw
suspicion on me."
"I didn't throw suspicion on you. My father did that himself."
"You had nothing to do with that handkerchief?"
"I took the handkerchief by accident."
"Then I beg your pardon for having said so," I said heartily.
"Never mind, let that pass. I'll tell you what I'll do. Give me the
papers and I will restore them to my father and tell him the truth."
"I must decline your offer."
"Why? Don't you believe I'll confess? If you don't I'll give you a
written confession."
"No, it isn't that. I am going to keep the papers because they are
valuable to me."
"What do you mean by valuable?" asked Duncan, his curiosity
increasing.
"Just what I say."
"What will the old gent say when he hears of it?"
"I don't care what he says. He'll hear of a good deal more before
long."
"How about the robbery at the Widow Canby's?"
"That will be straightened out, too."
There was a knock on the door, and, opening it, I was confronted by
one of the servants.
"Mr. Strong here, sir?" he asked.
"That's my name."
"A gentleman below to see you, sir. Gave his name as Mr. Harrison."
"Tell him I will be down in a minute," I said.
"Now I'm ready to leave you," I went on to Duncan, when the servant
had departed. "I advise you to take a good wash, get your breakfast,
and take the first train home. Good-by."
"Yes, but, Roger--"
"By doing that you may be doing your father a greater service than in
any other way. You say you will turn over a new leaf, and I hope you
will. If all goes as it should you will have a hard trial to stand
before long. But do as I did when things went wrong in our family,
bear up under it, and if you do what's right somebody is bound to
respect you."
And, without waiting for a reply, I caught up my hat and hurried from
the room.
I found Mr. Harrison waiting for me in the parlor.
"I thought I'd come over early," he explained. "I know young blood is
impatient, and I half expected to find you gone."
"I didn't want to make a call before folks were up," I answered.
"Besides, I have made quite an important discovery since we parted."
"Indeed."
"Yes. Come away from this place and I'll tell you. I don't want to
meet Duncan Woodward again."
And as we walked away from the hotel I related the particulars about
the note-book.
"You are gathering evidence by the wholesale," laughed Mr. Harrison.
"You'll have more than enough to convict."
"I don't want to make a failure of it," I said firmly. "When I go to
court I want a clear case from start to finish."
"Good! Strong, I admire your grit. Come in the restaurant, and while
we have a bit of breakfast let us look over the papers. I declare, I
was never before so interested in some one else's affairs."
And as we waited for our rolls, eggs, and coffee, we read the papers
through carefully.
They gave much information, the most startling of which was that John
Stumpy and Ferguson were one and the same person.
"That explains why Mr. Woodward made so many slips of the tongue when
addressing him," I said.
"Here is another important thing," remarked Mr. Harrison; "a letter
from this John Woodward stating that Mrs. Agatha Mitts knows of the
forgeries. Now, if you can get this woman to testify against the two
culprits, I think you will have a clear case."
"And that is just what I will force her to do," I said, with strong
determination.
I could hardly wait to finish breakfast. Fortunately it did not take
Mr. Harrison long to do so, and, five minutes later we were on our way
to the ferry. The trip over the East River, near the big bridge, did
not take long, and we soon stood on the opposite shore. Vannack Avenue
was pretty well up town, and we took the elevated train to reach it.
"There is No. 648," said Mr. Harrison, pointing to a neat three-story
brick building that stood in the middle of the block; "let us walk
past first, and see if there is any name on the door."
We did so, and found a highly polished silver plate bearing the
words:--
MRS. AGATHA MITTS
Boarding
"Perhaps it would be a good plan to find out something about the woman
before we call on her," suggested my companion, after we had passed
the house.
"There is a drug store on the corner," I said. "We can stop in there.
No doubt they'll think we are looking for board."
"An excellent idea."
We walked down to the drug store. On entering, Mr. Harrison ordered a
couple of glasses of soda water and then called the proprietor aside.
"Can you tell me anything about the lady that keeps the boarding-house
below here?" he asked.
"Which one?"
"Mrs. Agatha Mitts."
"I've heard it's a very good house," was the noncommittal reply.
"You know the lady?"
"She comes in here once in a while for drugs."
"May I ask what kind of a woman she is?"
"Well, she's good enough in her way, though rather eccentric. I
understand she furnishes good board, however. She has kept the house
for many years."
"Has she many boarders?"
"Eight or ten. She used to have more. But they were rather a lively
set and hurt the reputation of the place."
Mr. Harrison paid for the soda, and a second later we quitted the
place.
"Not much information gained there," said my Chicago friend, when we
were once again on the street.
"One thing is certain," I replied. "She is the right party. It would
never have done to have tackled the wrong person."
"I guess the best thing for us to do is to call on the woman without
waiting further."
"So I think."
"She may be a very hard person to manage. Strong, you must be careful
of what you say."
"I shall, Mr. Harrison," I replied. "But that woman must do what is
right or go to prison."
"I agree with you."
Ascending the steps of the house, I rang the bell. A tidy Irish girl
answered the summons.
"Is Mrs. Agatha Mitts in?" I asked.
"Yes, sir."
"We would like to see her."
"Will you please step into the parlor?" went on the girl, and we did
so.
"Who shall I say it is?"
"Mr. Harrison," put in my Western friend.
"Yes, sir."
The girl disappeared. My heart beat strongly. It seemed to me as if
life and death hung upon the meeting that was to follow.
CHAPTER XXXIV
MRS. AGATHA. MITTS
I could not help but wonder, as I sat in the parlor with my friend Mr.
Harrison, waiting for the appearance of Mrs. Agatha Mitts, what kind
of a person the keeper of the boarding-house would prove to be.
For some reason the name suggested to me a tall, gaunt female with
sharp features; and I was taken by surprise when a short, dumpy woman,
with a round face, came wobbling in and asked what was wanted.
"This is Mrs. Agatha Mitts?" asked Mr. Harrison, as he arose.
"Yes, sir. And you are Mr. Harrison, I suppose. I don't remember you."
"I didn't think you would," laughed my friend from Chicago. "I am from
the West, and have never before been in Brooklyn."
"Yes? Then your business with me is-- ? Perhaps you desire board?" and
she smiled; first at him and then at me.
"No; we do not wish board," was the quiet reply. "We come to see you
on business."
"And what is it?"
"We would like to see you privately."
"Certainly. Pray take a seat. I will close the doors."
She shut the folding doors leading to the sitting room, and then the
door to the hall.
"Now I am quite at your service," she said, and peered at us rather
sharply.
There was an awkward pause for a moment, and then Mr. Harrison went on
bluntly:--
"Has Mr. Aaron Woodward or Chris Holtzmann been here since yesterday,
madam?"
Mrs. Mitts started at the mention of the two names. Then she recovered
herself.
"Whom did you say, sir?" she queried innocently.
Mr. Harrison repeated his question.
"Why, I really haven't heard of those two gentlemen in so long a time
I've nearly forgotten them," she said sweetly.
"They weren't here yesterday?" I put in.
"No." And this time her tone was a trifle cold.
"Do you expect them to-day?" I went on.
"No, I don't." She paused a second. "Is that all you wish to know?"
"No, ma'am," I replied promptly. "There is a good deal more I wish to
know."
"Who are you, if I may ask?"
"My name is Strong."
She looked puzzled for a moment.
"I don't recognize the name," she said, and then she suddenly turned
pale.
"I am the son of Carson Strong, who was sent to prison for alleged
forgery and the passing of worthless checks," I continued. "I suppose
you remember the case."
"Har-- hardly," she faltered. "I-- I heard something of it, but not
the particulars."
"That is strange, when you were so interested in it."
"I?" she repeated, in pretended surprise.
"Yes, madam," said Mr. Harrison. "You were very much interested."
"Who says so?"
"I say so," said I.
"You! You are only a boy."
"I suppose I am, but that doesn't make any difference. You know all
about the great wrong that has been done, and--"
"It is false! I know nothing!" she cried in anger.
"You know all, and we want you to tell as all you know before we leave
this house."
Mrs. Agatha Mitts arose in a passion.
"I want you to get out of my house at once!" she ejaculated. "I won't
stand your presence here another minute."
"Excuse me, madam; not so fast," said Mr. Harrison, calmly. "My young
friend Strong is quite right in what he says."
"I don't care what you think about it," she snapped.
"Oh, yes, you do. Perhaps you don't know who I am," went on my Western
friend, deliberately.
The sly insinuation had its effect. Evidently the woman had a swift
vision of a detective in citizens' clothes before her mind's eye.
"You come in authority," she said faintly.
"We won't speak about that now," said Mr. Harrison. "All we want you
to do is to make a complete confession of your knowledge of the
affair."
"I haven't any knowledge."
"You have," I said. "You know everything. I have papers here belonging
to Woodward, Holtzmann, and Ferguson to prove it. There is no use for
you to deny it, and if you insist and make it necessary to call in the
police--"
"No, no! Please don't do that, I beg of you," she cried.
"Then will you do as I wish?"
"But my reputation? It will be gone forever," she moaned.
"It will be gone anyway, if you have to go to prison," observed Mr.
Harrison, sagely.
"And if I make a clean confession you will not prosecute me?" she
asked eagerly.
"I'll promise you that," I said.
"You are not fooling me?"
"No, ma'am."
She sprang to her feet and paced the room several times.
"I'll do it," she cried. "They have never treated me right, and I do
not care what becomes of them so long as I go clear. What do you wish
me to do, gentlemen?"
I was nonplussed for an instant. Mr. Harrison helped me out.
"I will write out your confession and you can sign it," he said. "Have
you ink and paper handy?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Mitts brought forth the material, and we all sat down again.
"Remember to give us only the plain facts," I said.
"I will," she returned sharply.
In a rather roundabout way she made her confession, if it could be
called such. It filled several sheets of paper, and it took over half
an hour. It contained but little more than what my readers already
know or suspect. She knew positively that Mr. Aaron Woodward was the
forger of the checks, Holtzmann had presented them, and Ferguson had
so altered the daily reports that my father had unwittingly made a
false showing on his books. About Weaver she knew nothing.
When once explained the whole matter was as clear as day.
When he had finished the writing, Mr. Harrison read the paper out
loud, and after some hesitation the woman signed it, and then we both
witnessed it.
"I guess our business here is at an end," said my Western friend.
"I think so," I replied. "But one thing more, Mrs. Mitts," I
continued, turning to her. "If Mr. Woodward or Chris Holtzmann calls,
I think you will find it advisable to keep this affair a secret."
"I will not be at home to them," she replied briefly.
"A good plan," said Mr. Harrison. "Now that you have done the right
thing, the less you say about the matter the better for you."
A few minutes later, with the paper tucked safely in my pocket, we
left the house. Mrs. Mitts watched us sharply from behind the
half-closed blinds.
In half an hour we were down town and across the ferry once more.
"I suppose you wish to get home as soon as possible," said Mr.
Harrison, as we boarded a street-car to take us to his hotel.
"Yes, sir. My sister and the rest will be anxious to hear how I've
made out, and besides I'm anxious to learn how things have gone since
I have been away."
"I've no doubt of it."
"What do you intend to do?"
"I hardly know. I have some business, but I am quite interested in
your case, and--"
"Would you like to go along! You'll be heartily welcome, sir."
"Thank you, I will. I want to see how this drama ends," said Mr.
Harrison.
A little later I procured my valise, and we set out for Darbyville.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE WIDOW CANBY'S MONEY
I am sure my readers will well understand why my thoughts were busy as
the train rolled on its way to Newville. I could hardly realize that I
held the proofs of my father's innocence in my possession; and I was
strongly tempted several times to ask my kind Western friend to pinch
me to make sure that I was really awake, and was not merely dreaming
my good fortune.
Mr. Harrison probably guessed what was passing in my mind, for he
placed a kindly hand upon my shoulder, and said, with a smile:--
"Does it seem almost too good to be true?"
"That's just it," I returned. "The events of the past week have so
crowded on each other that I'm in a perfect whirl."
"You will have a little more excitement before it is over."
"I suppose so. But now that I know it is all right I shall not mind
it. I wonder if I couldn't send my father the good news by telegraph?"
"You can easily enough. But don't you think you had better wait until
all is settled? You might raise false hopes."
"No fear; Aaron Woodward is guilty beyond a doubt. But I will wait if
you think best."
It was not long before the train rolled into Newville. On alighting
Mr. Harrison insisted on hiring a cab, and in this we bowled swiftly
on our way to Darbyville. As we passed out of the city and up on the
country road I wondered how matters had progressed during my absence.
Had the merchant returned home?
At Darbyville a crowd of men gazed at us with curious eyes. Among them
was Parsons the constable and others who knew me.
"Hello, you back again?" shouted Parsons.
"Yes, indeed," I replied. "I suppose you didn't expect me so soon?"
"I'll allow as how I didn't expect you at all," he returned, with a
grin.
"Well, you were mistaken. I'm back, and back to stay," said I.
My heart beat high as we turned into the side road that led to the
Widow Canby's house. I strained my eyes to catch sight of the first
one who might appear. It was my Uncle Enos. He was doing a bit of
mending on the front fence. As soon as he saw me he threw down his
hammer, and ran toward us.
"Well, well, Roger, struck port again, have you? Glad you're back."
And he shook my right hand hard.
"My friend, Mr. Harrison, from Chicago," said I. "This is my uncle,
Captain Enos Moss."
They had hardly finished hand-shaking, when Kate and the Widow Canby
came out of the house.
"Oh, Roger, I'm so glad you're back!" cried Kate. And then she looked
earnestly into my eyes. "Did you-- did, you--"
"Yes, Kate, I've succeeded. Father's innocence can be proven."
"Oh, thank God!" cried my sister, and the tears of joy started from
her eyes. I felt like crying, too, and soon, somehow, there was hardly
a dry eye in the group.
"You must have had a hard time of it," sail the Widow Canby.
"My kind friend here helped me a good deal," I said.
Mr. Harrison was introduced to the others, and soon we were seated, on
the piazza, and I was relating my experiences.
The interest of my listeners grew as I went on. They could hardly
believe it possible that Mr. Aaron Woodward, with all his outward show
of gentlemanliness, was such a thoroughly bad man. When I came to
speak of John Stumpy, alias Ferguson, Kate burst out:--
"I declare, I've almost forgotten. I've got good news, too. This very
morning I went hunting again and picked up the paper that was lost. I
was trying to read it when you drove up. Here it is."
And my sister handed over Nicholas Weaver's dying statement.
"It is hardly of use now," I said. "Still, it will make the evidence
against Mr. Woodward so much stronger."
"I've discovered that this Nick Weaver was a chum of Woodward's," said
Uncle Enos.
"A chum?"
"Yes. He came from Chicago."
"From Chicago!" I ejaculated.
"Exactly."
Meanwhile Mr. Harrison was examining the statement, which Kate had
produced from her dress pocket.
"I see it all," he cried. "Nicholas Weaver was the man who helped
Holtzmann concoct the scheme whereby a relative in Chicago was
supposed to have died and willed Aaron Woodward all his money."
"I see. But why did he leave the statement?" I asked.
"Because, he says here, Woodward did not treat him right. This
Ferguson or Stumpy was a friend to Weaver, and the paper was gotten up
to bring Woodward to terms."
That explanation was clear enough, and I could easily understand why
John Stumpy had come to Darbyville, and how it was the merchant had
treated him with so much consideration.
"And there is another thing to tell you, Roger," put in the Widow
Canby. "Something I know you will be greatly pleased to hear."
"What is it?" I asked, in considerable curiosity.
"I have evidence to show that this John Stumpy was the man who robbed
me of my money. Of course I knew it was so when Kate and you said so,
but outsiders now know it."
"And how?"
"Miles Nanson saw the man running from the house. He was hurrying to
get a doctor for his wife, who was very sick, and he didn't stop to
question the fellow."
"But why didn't he speak of it before?" I asked. "He might have saved
us a deal of trouble."
"He never heard of the robbery until last night, his wife has been so
sick. He can testify to seeing the man."
"I'm glad of that," I said. "But unfortunately, that doesn't restore
the money."
"No, I suppose not. This Stumpy still has it."
"No; he claims to have lost it," I returned, and I related the
particulars as I had overheard them in the boarding-house on the
opposite side of the Pass River.
"I wish I could find it-- the money, I mean-- as I did the papers,"
put in Kate.
"Where did he jump over the fence?" I asked suddenly.
"Down by the crab-apple tree," said Uncle Enos.
"Have you looked there?" queried Mr. Harrison.
"No," said Kate; "you don't think--" she began.
"There is nothing like looking," said my Western friend, slowly.
"I guess you're right," I replied, "and the sooner the better."
In a minute I was out of the house. Kate was close on my heels, and
together we made our way to the orchard, followed by the others.
"Now, let me see," I went on. "If he went over the fence here he must
have vaulted over. I'll try that, and note how the money might have
dropped."