Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=.

The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 1)

October
1895

Contents

In Gold Time.
Roberta Littlehale.

The Unturned Trump.
Barnes MacGreggor.

The Secret of the White Castle.
Julia Magruder.

Miss Wood,—Stenographer.
Granville Sharpe.

Her Hoodoo.
Harold Kinsabby.

In a Tiger Trap.
Charles Edward Barns.

The Red-Hot Dollar.
H. D. Umbstaetter.

5
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THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON, MASS.

Copyright, 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.

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Copyright, 1895, by The J. B. Williams Co.

The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 1)

A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

No. 1. OCTOBER, 1895. 5 cents a copy.
50 cents a year.

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

CONTENTS
Title Author Page
In Gold Time. ROBERTA LITTLEHALE. 1
The Unturned Trump. BARNES MACGREGGOR. 6
The Secret of the White Castle. JULIA MAGRUDER. 11
Miss Wood,—Stenographer. GRANVILLE SHARPE. 17
Her Hoodoo. HAROLD KINSABBY. 29
In a Tiger Trap. CHARLES EDWARD BARNS. 36
The Red-Hot Dollar. H. D. UMBSTAETTER. 42
Advertisements. 50

In Gold Time.

BY ROBERTA LITTLEHALE.

He was straight, and grizzled, and keen of eye. He had worked, and fought, and gambled his way through the lawlessness and passion of the State's early life into the decency and uprightness of a successful contractor.

His name was Bill Bowen.

As a civil engineer, I came more or less in contact with him, and rejoiced in the largeness of his mental mold, as well as in the business sense of security he let me enjoy.

One summer's night we took a drive to a distant town on the San Joaquin River. We were to look at stone for bridge building, and the blistering heat of the day made us willing to lose our sleep for the more comfortable traveling by starlight.

The horses jogged lazily through the coarse, thick dust on the river's levee, and the insects from the grain fields and the frogs from the sloughs had things wholly to themselves until Bill suddenly interrupted.

"Mrs. Chase is pretty enough yet to understand why she sent two fellows to the devil, isn't she?"

"What are you talking about?" I answered.

"Oh," said Bill, pulling himself up, "I forgot you didn't struggle with the rest of us through those groggy days."

I knew Bill well enough to let him relapse just so many minutes; then I said: "Judge Chase's wife is lovelier at sixty than most girls at sixteen, but I hadn't an idea she figured so romantically in the early days as to send anybody overboard."

"H'm," replied Bill reflectively.

The horses traveled on without attention, and I waited in patience.

"You know what it was like," he began at last. "Men with guns from all over the Union and gold the heaven we sweated for. Prayers, and court, and the gambling tables all running under one roof, and nary a woman's face showing up in the mass to give us courage. To be sure, there were vixenish ribs o' Satan who robbed, and killed, and drank with the worst of us; but until '51 we'd never the woman for reverence. Then, by degrees, the lawyers and a stray merchant or two aired their families, but things wasn't dizzy till pretty Grace Blanchard got out with her father.

"Understand, she carried herself as she'd ought to; but, understand, there was men among us as was born and bred to live with blood. The mass of us had to take out our satisfaction in looking at her; but for two the favor in old Blanchard's eyes was easy reading, and it wasn't long seeing the course the straw took.

"Ned Emory was a long, lean, blond fellow, with a blamed fine face and a way that made friends of the toughest. They said he looked a swell when he called at the Blanchards', but I never saw him but like the rest of us,—red-shirted and overalled, and an angle to his pistols that made him a joy.

"George Stokes—'Shorty,' we called him—was a man with an answer that ripped like a knife and a head that made success of everything, because it could work crooked as well as straight. He'd been on the bench, but he'd located a vein at Mariposa, and was overseeing up there in '52. Naturally, he lost opportunities, not being right on the spot, and the danger began.

"The Blanchard house was swelled larger than most of the cabins, and had two long windows that opened onto a porch. Things might never have been so bad but for those two lidless eyes in front.

"One fatal night Shorty Stokes rode into the settlement,—but I'm getting ahead of affairs."

Bill tossed his cigar into the tules, and hurried the horses into effort as the interest of his reminiscence swept him on.

"The girl carried herself after the fashion of high steppers, and neither fellow could swear where he stood. It was laughter and spirit for both of them, they said, and nip and tuck for the yielding. The pace was the sort that exhausts men, and Shorty's brain for lawyering cooked up a scheme for his rescue. He was for their going together some night before her, and, after a formal marriage proposal, each argue his claim and fitness for ten minutes by the clock, their honor at stake to stand by her decision.

"It got about afterwards that Emory wouldn't consent till he saw the devil to pay in Shorty's earnestness, and they swore with their fists in each other's to carry the thing through to the finish. The date and hour were arranged for the following Sunday night at eight, and they drank to it with gall in the cup.

"When the evening came the clock had already struck eight when Stokes reached the Blanchard house.

"The lights from the room fell over the porch, and from the shadow of the steps he saw the something that in all the world he couldn't bear to see,—Emory crossing the room to take Grace Blanchard in his arms; Emory with passion paling his face and Grace Blanchard in the beauty of a disturbing humility.

"He cursed as he watched them cling to each other, and he cursed his way back to the saloons and his Mariposa mining.

"The next day he turned up again in the settlement, with liquor enough aboard to put a wheel in his head, and, after a losing fling at the tables, he started to find Emory.

"After a little ineffectual riding, he leaped from the back of his vicious-eyed piebald at the corner that bulged thickest with saloons, and stood close to the stirrup with his hand on his hip. Some one who noticed him said his face had the steely intensity of a razor edge.

"Then out of the crowd, unconscious, with the music of love in his heart, swung Ned Emory. His hat was pushed back on his fair hair, and he was whistling the overflow out of his veins.

"In one instant a bullet rang through the air, followed by another. Emory fell in his own blood, and a horseman was riding off wildly and safe through the shower of bullets that rained around him. Every man with a cayuse tore in pursuit, but they only brought back eight half-dead horses. Stokes had staked relay beasts at different points along the road, and was then safe in the chaparral cañons toward the north.

"The gambling dens choked up with the crowds; gold-dust was heaped on gold-dust for the reward of the cowardly hound. Murders weren't rare then, but there was only one Ned Emory, remember.

"Four of us wouldn't drop the search. We let the blood-money men get out of the way, and then we worked as we'd toil for only our own.

"There was scarcely no scent to follow, for Stokes had bribed the greasers who furnished his horses; but we forced our way along on nothing. Day and night we rode with our eyes open, sometimes bullying and sometimes begging. It began to seem hopeless. The days were running into summer again.

"One afternoon, toward twilight, we rested on the crest of a mountain where the path took a sudden turn away from a two-hundred-foot precipice.

"We were torn with the snapping branches of the greasewood, and full of extremest dirt and disgust. Suddenly we heard the rustle of a step on the fallen leaves. Under a live oak, not thirty yards away, on the very edge of the cliff, stood Shorty Stokes. He had not heard us, and he stood looking at the moon which hung a sickle in the hot sky. The evening star was showing.

"The four of us were like stones. He could have got to Guinea before motion'd have come to us. Then, simultaneously with our steps forward, he turned and looked into our faces.

"It was a moment to test the nerve of any man. He stood it as we were used to seeing him face all things.

"'I suppose I'm the man you're after,' he said.

"He said it with the dignity of a parson.

"In a second he had thrown down his pistols. He unsheathed his knives and dropped them to the ground.

"'Take me,' he said.

"Four of us looked into the unflinching clearness of his eyes. As we hesitated, he spoke again.

"'Listen. It is not in excuse that I speak, nor in weakening. It is to tell you that those among you who are men will follow my steps under like circumstances.

"'Emory gave me his hand and his oath, in the manner of his frankness, to stand by an arranged agreement.

"'We were to meet at eight o'clock on that Sunday night. A—a beautifully good woman was to decide on our argument which man she would marry. In riding to meet my engagement I happened on an accident. Within half a mile of the settlement, close onto time, my piebald went back on his haunches and the groan of a man came up from the roadside. I found an overloaded miner, hurt in the leg, and the hope in my own heart aroused my sympathy. I mounted the man on my beast and headed him back toward camp.

"'Walk as I never walked, I reached the meeting place three minutes late. Ah—God—out in the darkness I saw Emory taking advantage of the delay.

"'None of you is so much a cur as to let the life run in a man who, under his honor, couldn't yield a rival three minutes' grace.

"'But, with the camp against me and Emory the friend of the sorriest, I couldn't face the music when the justice was done.

"'It is not mercy I ask. It is life hereafter. Come.'

"With a common impulse we started forward, only to halt in a frozen horror as Stokes' bronco threw up his head in alarm to watch with us the backward somersaulting of his master's body over the precipice.

"Though there was but one verdict, even Chase said as we rode down over the mountain that night, 'Emory might have given Shorty a few minutes' grace.'"

The Unturned Trump.

BY BARNES MACGREGGOR.

The ferry-boat, "Rappahannock," had an experience in the winter of 1873 that will never be forgotten by any of her passengers.

During one of her regular trips between New York and Brooklyn this boat suddenly quitted her respectable, though somewhat monotonous, career, and became a common tramp, without port or destination.

The day awoke in fog such as the oldest inhabitant had never seen. The East River was blocked with ice and soon became a shrieking bedlam of groping and bewildering craft, whose pilots could scarcely see their hands before their faces.

At half past nine the "Rappahannock" left Brooklyn, well laden with passengers, and started on her customary trip almost directly across the river—a very short and unusually easy voyage. Before even reaching the middle of the stream, however, the ice and fog had thrown her completely out of her course. Back and forth, up and down stream, the pilot vainly groped, amid the shrieking whistles, ringing of fog bells, and loud crash of ice boulders, until, in the confused clangor, he had entirely lost his bearings.

When, after long and perilous battling with ice jams and many hair-breadth escapes from collisions, he suddenly sighted the landing place on the New York side, he found it occupied by a sister boat, which had been driven there to avoid destruction. He backed out, only to be lost again, and for three hours this boat, now become a mere tramp, wandered aimlessly up and down the East River with its load of excited passengers, whose emotions ranged anywhere between the rage and impatience of the belated Wall Street speculator, to whom the delay might mean a loss of fifty thousand dollars, to the hysteria of a nervous little woman who had left her baby alone at home, and who begged the other helpless passengers for the love of heaven to help her set her feet once more on land.

Between these two extremes of impatience and excitement was a small proportion of passengers who remained calm, even endeavoring to while away the time by exchanging pleasantries and making wagers as to the time of their deliverance. Among these was a group of men in the cabin who, after having read and re-read the morning papers, were casting about for some other method of killing time. One suggested a game of cards.

"Cards!" laughed one of his companions in misery. "Who'd carry cards on a ferry-boat? Who, outside of a lunatic asylum, would start on a ten minutes' voyage provided with games to pass away the time?"

"Here is a euchre deck which is at your service."

The speaker, evidently a globe-trotter, drew from under the bench a traveling-bag, so much worn and embellished by tags, labels, and hieroglyphics that it resembled some old veteran just returned from the wars and still covered with surgeons' plasters. From this he produced a pack of cards and tendered it to the man who had suggested a game.

"Certainly, if you will join us; but what shall we do for a table?"

"Here is a camp-stool," said the man of the world. And in a moment four men were sitting around it, cutting for deal, which chanced to fall to the stranger.

The cards were distributed rapidly, and the dealer was about to turn the trump when a loud shriek pierced the air and a woman opposite suddenly sank fainting to the floor.

The tension among the passengers had become so great that a panic seemed imminent.

"Don't be alarmed, gentlemen; it is nothing serious," said the dealer calmly. "The lady simply caught sight of her own frightened face in the mirror, and the shock caused her to faint. It reminds me of a thrilling experience an American traveler had while bumping through Syria. But, pardon me, the game!"

Once more he made a movement to turn the trump, when one of the party exclaimed:—

"There can't be a better time or place than this for telling a thrilling experience."

"Yes," said another; "do give us some other kind of bumping than we are having here. Let's have the story before we begin the game."

The stranger leaned back, passed his cigar case, and, having lighted a weed himself, began:—

"It is an unwritten law among the wild Bedouins east of the Red Sea that if an infidel traveler is attended on his journey by one of the faithful he is safe from the attacks of Mohammedan robbers. As long as the 'Frank,' as all foreigners are called, is under the protection of the Star and Crescent, the rascal's hand is stayed, and as they meet, the villain, who would otherwise show no quarter, salutes with the grave suavity of a courtier. But let that same traveler become separated from the Arab guard that he has bribed to give him safe conduct through his own bandit-infested country, and he becomes legitimate prey. He will be plundered and perhaps killed, or, worse, if the robber thinks that cruelty will extort any secrets of hidden spoil, tortured or held for ransom, with each day's delay losing a few fingers, which are forwarded to the captive's friends to signify that the rascals mean business.

"The party in which this American was traveling had been entering Syria from the south, and were progressed some twelve days from the sacred base of old Sinai. At a place called Bir-es-Sheba, on the regular caravan route to and from Mecca from the north, they heard of some interesting archeological treasures just unearthed some two days' journey to the east, and, having made the detour, the party snugly encamped by the side of a beautiful stream under the shadow of the Tubal chain of mountains.

"The treasures were vastly exaggerated, as is the custom with everything oriental, and they soon determined to turn back to the caravan route and 'bump' on up into Syria—'bumping' being the familiar term for camel riding, and a very expressive word at that. But on the afternoon of the first resting-day some one suggested a jaunt to a famous old well, where it was said were some very ancient tumuli. But, knowing the Bedouins to be conscientious liars, and sick of this unrewarded chase for phantom treasures, the American begged to be left behind in charge of two tents, which were pitched side by side on the bank of the stream.

"This was at last agreed upon, the whole party except himself going off on their three days' trip, leaving their comrade stretched at full length on a rug, his _narghili_, or water pipe, lighted for company.

"This oriental atmosphere, gentlemen, is a powerful drug. Do what you will to fight against it, its subtle charm holds you captive. The man succumbed to its influences and went fast asleep.

"Out of this sweet, trance-like repose he suddenly bounded into the horrible consciousness of a torturing pain in one of his hands, as though some wild beast was crunching the bones. But, as he writhed to his knees to grapple with the foe, he saw instead three swarthy, evil-faced Bedouins bending over him with ghoulish glee. One had just cut off, with a hideous dirk-knife, the first three fingers of his left hand. In an instant it flashed upon him that these were to be sent to his friends with a demand for ransom. He was correct in this supposition, for no sooner had the bleeding hand been rudely bandaged than two of his captors set out upon this mission, leaving him in care of the third, who was heavily armed.

"No one knew better than the prisoner how impossible such a ransom would be. His fellow-travelers had brought as little money into Syria as would meet their actual necessities while there. He therefore began to cast desperately about in his mind for a loophole of escape before the fellows should return with these unsatisfactory tidings, which would result, no doubt, in further mutilations.

"As his gaze swept the tent for something suggesting a plan for deliverance, he saw it had been gutted of everything except two articles,—his light silk coat, which hung upon the partition between the two tents, and the tourist's shaving mirror which it concealed. The coat had been overlooked because it was as grimy as the tent wall itself.

"In moments like this one grasps at straws. As it is said a drowning person reviews his past experiences perfectly in a brief moment, so to this man, facing desperate odds, came a desperate suggestion.

"He called loudly on a supposed protector in the adjoining tent to come to the 'window,' and prove to his captor that he was under protection of a Moslem. As he spoke he slowly drew the coat from before the mirror in front of which the sheik was standing.

"No words can express the unutterable consternation pictured upon that blazing face, livid with fright and wonder, as for the first time it saw its own awful reflection, not knowing it was its own. One instant he stood stock-still, fascinated, horrified, overwhelmed; then collapsed, just as that lady did but a moment ago, and the American quickly possessed himself of his captor's arms and was master of the situation.

"And now, gentlemen," concluded the story teller, "we will have our game."

As he spoke he again reached forward to turn the trump. There was a quickly drawn breath of horror from those who observed him, for the first three fingers of his left hand were missing.

Before he could turn the card, a savage lurch of the boat, accompanied by the creaking of timbers, announced the arrival of the Rappahannock at her New York slip—and the trump was never turned.

The Secret of the White Castle.

BY JULIA MAGRUDER.

When I became the occupant of the Chateau Blanc, in the neighborhood of Fontainebleau, I found that my wish for a place of complete seclusion was likely to be realized to the full. I was not in a state of mind for society, and I had deliberately given myself three months in which to fight out a certain battle with myself, for which I needed solitude and reflection.

When the old woman who acted as keeper and caretaker of the place took me through it, on a tour of inspection, there were three things which, in spite of my preoccupation with my own affairs, struck me very forcibly. The first was the forlorn remnants of the body of a white swan, which must once have been a creature of splendid size and shape. My informant told me that this swan had been a great pet of the former owner of the chateau, until some accident had killed it; after which it had been stuffed and fastened in its place upon the surface of the little lake under his window. There it was still—what remained of it—a mass of weather-beaten and dirty feathers.

Another thing that compelled my strong attention was a certain picture which hung in the bedroom of the late owner, and which I was informed was his own portrait, painted by himself. This room, by the way, was sinister and mysterious in its effect beyond any I had ever entered. One reason for this was the fact that all the furniture, which was elaborately carved and which must once have been of beautiful polish and color, had been ruthlessly covered with a coat of black paint,—the bed, the table, chairs, wardrobe, chests of drawers, and even the great leather easy-chair which was placed just under the picture, facing the opposite wall.

It was a wretched piece of work, that picture, representing a man dressed in some sort of court dress of the last century, and it would have seemed ineffectual and amateurish to the last degree but for the truly marvelous expression of the eyes, which were fixed on a certain spot in the wall opposite with an earnestness and intensity which made me feel that there was some hidden significance in this look. The man not only looked at the spot himself, but he compelled me to do the same, and forced me, by the insistent command of his eyes, to look again and again.

And yet there was nothing to see. The wall was perfectly bare in that place and covered with a meaningless sort of wallpaper, which gave me no encouragement whatever.

Another thing that I noticed specially, with a feeling of being imperiously directed to do so, was a large rusty key that hung on the wall directly under the picture. When I inquired of the old woman what this key belonged to she answered that she had never known, but that it had been hung there by the late proprietor and had been undisturbed since his death. That event had occurred a great many years ago, and it was owing to the provisions of the will left by him that no one had ever occupied the house in the interval. The prescribed time had only just expired, and I was the first person to rent the chateau, the revenue from which was to go to a nephew, who lived abroad.

The somberness of the black chamber suited my frame of mind, and I decided on taking it for my room. Besides this, the picture, the key, and the white swan all interested me, and, as it was the first time that an outside interest had made any headway against the melancholy of my own thoughts, these objects, far from cheerful as they were in themselves, afforded a grateful diversion.

So continually did I wonder why the picture looked always and could compel me to look at that one spot, and why the key had been hung in that place and had kept its position so many years undisturbed, as if some ghostly guardian watched over it, and why, ever and always, the old white swan compelled me, as if by some irresistible power, to connect it with these other things, that I kept myself awake at night, weaving all sorts of stories concerning these objects, and spent half my days in looking from the picture to the wall, and back again to the key, and then out of the window at the battered effigy of a noble bird beneath it, until the confusion of mind thus produced seemed likely to drive me crazy.

I expended all the ingenuity of which I was master in questioning the old woman, who had lived here in the time of the former owner, but the satisfaction of my curiosity in that direction was rather meager.

She told me that her former master had had a wife whom he adored, fair as an angel, and gifted with a divinely beautiful voice, such as none had ever heard, before or since. This young wife had been snatched from him by a sudden and frightful death. The fever which seized her had been so contagious, the woman said, that every one had fled the premises, except one woman servant and the master himself. These, with the help of the doctor, had nursed the young wife through her brief illness until its end.

My informant had heard it said that the circumstances of her death were very peculiar,—that, in her delirium, on the very last night of her illness, those who had ventured to linger about the premises had heard her singing more gloriously than ever in her life; that it had reminded them of the great white swan, which but the night before had sung its last sweet song on the lake, in the moonlight, and had been found dead in the morning.

The woman who had remained to help the master in his last sad ministrations to his dying and dead wife had gone away the day after the funeral, and had never been heard of since.

That funeral, in the quaint old church but a few paces from the house, had been, from the woman's account, a melancholy affair enough. Scarcely any one dared to come to it, so malignant had been this fever, and it was feared that the few men who were willing to act as pall-bearers would not be equal to the task; but the poor lady had always been slight and fairy-like in figure, and so wasted was she from this consuming fever that the bearers declared that her weight was scarcely more than that of an empty coffin. The woman further said that, as the small funeral cortege was leaving the church, it had surprised every one to see the husband, who was directly behind the coffin, pause abruptly under a statue of the Virgin, and single out, from the great bunch of white ribbons which hung there, the long strip which his young wife had placed there on the day of her marriage to him, less than a year before. It was an old custom connected with this church. Every girl ever married there had conformed to it, and some of the ribbons were yellow with time and almost dropping to pieces. The longest and freshest bit of all had been put there by the beautiful and beloved young creature now lying dead in the flower of her youth and loveliness.

No one ever knew, the woman went on to say, how the master spent his days after the funeral was over. He had forbidden every servant to return, and turned a deaf ear to the rings and knocks of visitors. Months had passed, and no one held speech with him. They knew he was alive, because people who had looked through the palings had seen him walking in the garden, and one person reported having seen him carry from the house the stuffed body of the great swan and fasten it in its place on the lake, where it could be plainly seen from his window. He must have embalmed or stuffed it himself, the old woman said, for he was known to have remarkable knowledge and skill in such strange arts, and had once had a great room filled with birds and beasts, which he had preserved by methods studied in foreign lands.

As was inevitable, after hearing all this, my interest in the picture, and swan, and the key deepened sensibly. There was certainly a spell of the supernatural about these things for me. I had only to stand near the spot on which the eyes of the picture were fastened to experience the strangest, the most overwhelmingly significant sensations I had ever known. The spot was haunted by a _presence_ for me, and as often as I stood there I would feel my heart throb and cease throbbing, my breath pant and cease panting, my very flesh turn cold and moist with consciousness and apprehension. I tried to account for all this on natural grounds, but I found it was quite impossible to do so.

One day—it was the 19th of August—a hot, sultry, close, indescribably gloomy day, when the heavy clouds that lowered seemed only to darken the whole earth without giving forth one drop of moisture, the old woman came to my room and chanced to mention that it was the time of the death of the young mistress of the Chateau Blanc. She had died, it appeared, just at midnight between the 19th and 20th of August. After giving me this information, she said good-evening and left me to the reflections which it aroused.

I can scarcely call them reflections. They took the form, rather, of a sort of compulsion that was laid upon me to obey a certain force by which I felt myself suddenly dominated.

It was the picture that did it; this was certain, for, as often as I faltered, one look into that insistent, commanding, coercing face compelled me to go on. In obedience to its bidding, I did as follows:—

I went to an old desk in the room, and took from it some simple carpenters' tools, with which I deliberately cut through, first, the wall-papering, and then a thin boarding, which covered all the space between a door and window opposite the picture. When this was done I saw—I cannot say whether most to my satisfaction or my horror, that I stood opposite a door,—a regular, ordinary door, with panels, hinges, and, more than all, a keyhole. I glanced at the picture. It seemed to me that the canvas positively lived with expression.

The eyes commanded me to get the rusty key. I got it, fitted it in the lock, in which it turned with difficulty, and then, with my heart almost choking me with its throbs, my knees shaking under me, my body covered with a cold sweat, and my tongue dry in my mouth, I opened the door.

As it creaked on its rusty hinges, I saw, by the light of the candle which I held in my hand, a mass of cobwebs, heavily weighted with the dust of years, and, through these, a woman's figure.

It was clad—for I obeyed the eyes, which commanded me to examine it, though my heart was cold with terror—in what I made out to be a white silk gown, above which was the face, withered and awfully livid, as I had heard the faces of embalmed corpses appear years after death. Still, it was recognizable as a real human face, and was surrounded by masses of yellow hair, which, even through the dust and cobwebs, gleamed with the brightness of gold. The hands held something in their shrunken fingers,—a white ribbon, with the date of her marriage and death upon it, her husband's name and her own, and these words, which, under the compelling eyes of the picture, I laboriously studied out:—

"I have been able to keep you near me, even in death. I have never been separated from you, or from what was you to me once. But when death shall come to me you will have no power over my body, and they will take me from you. That I am unable to help. I think only of this: you cannot suffer for it, since you have so long ceased to be, and by that time my suffering also will be over. I shall put my spirit into the eyes of my picture, which will watch over you still."

I looked from the paper to the picture. It seemed dull and inexpressive,—mere canvas and paint. The power of the eyes was gone. Their spell over me was broken.

Suddenly I felt within me a long-absent yearning for human companionship,—for life and love. I had come to this place impelled by a morbid and unhealthy desire for solitude, and my experiences here had made me more morbid and unhealthy still. They had culminated now in this awful revelation of disappointment and death, which threw into brilliant contrast the bright possibilities which still remained to me, and I resolved to go back into the world and do my best to deserve and win these.

Miss Wood,—Stenographer.

BY GRANVILLE SHARPE.

It was Detective Gilbert who told the story to a group of boarders seated on the piazza of one of the quaint old Rhinelander houses. These dwellings, though situated on West Eleventh Street, in the very heart of New York, present an almost rural spectacle, with their green lawns, wide piazzas, and vine-covered balconies.

"It was one day about two years ago," said Mr. Gilbert, "that I received a card on which was engraved the name, 'Miss Julia Wood.' The name was a familiar one. When my wife was living Miss Wood had been an intimate friend of hers and a frequent visitor to our house. Since then I had lost trace of the girl, and knew only that, owing to her father's death and the straitened circumstances of herself and her sister, she had taken up the study of stenography and typewriting, with the idea of earning her living. So when she rose to meet me in the reception-room I was startled by her changed appearance and the haggard, anxious expression of her face."

"'Mr. Gilbert, I am in great trouble,' she exclaimed, as I shook hands with her, and then, without further preliminaries, she stated her case.

"'You know, Mr. Gilbert, that for over a year I have been studying stenography and typewriting, and you can understand that lately I have been very anxious to find a place. At first, I supposed that this would not be difficult, but I soon discovered that my lack of practical experience stood in the way of my getting anything at all. In fact, it was not until this week that even a temporary opening presented itself.'

"Here Miss Wood paused for a moment, as if to summon all her strength, and then continued:—

"'About eleven o'clock yesterday morning, my teacher, Mr. Lacombe, came to the door of the practice room, where I was at work, and, calling me to one side, said:—

"'"Miss Wood, didn't you tell me that you understood the deaf and dumb alphabet?"

"'"Perfectly," I answered.

"'As you know, Mr. Gilbert, my little sister Helen is deaf and dumb, and that is why I understand the sign-language almost as well as I do spoken English.

"'"I thought so," said Mr. Lacombe, "and am glad, for your sake, that you do, for I've just had an application from a lady who wants a deaf and dumb stenographer."

"'"But I am not deaf and dumb," I protested.

"'"No, but you understand the sign-language, and that is the main point. You see, this woman wants some notes taken from a deaf and dumb relative, who uses, of course, the deaf and dumb alphabet, and she thinks, I suppose, that a person who understands the sign-language must be a deaf mute, also. She says that this relative of hers is ill; possibly hasn't long to live. So no doubt you're wanted for some sort of an _ante mortem_ examination; one, maybe, that's connected with some family scandal or secret that they don't want to leak out. Just a matter for discretion, that's all.

"'"Of course I don't want to urge you into this against your will," he added, "but I know how much you want a position and a chance for practical experience. Besides, this engagement is only for a week, perhaps even less, and the salary is fifty dollars and all expenses paid. The main question is whether you care to be deaf and dumb for that time."

"'For just a moment I hesitated. Certainly the conditions were very queer. Still, there was the money,—how much fifty dollars would mean for my poor little sister! There was the experience, and there was, yes—I must confess it—there was the charm of adventure. You know you always said that I was of an adventurous disposition, and that spirit has grown since I have been thrown upon my own resources, and have made up my mind that I must make my own way in the world, as if I were a man. As for acting the part of a deaf mute, that seemed a simple matter to me, who know so well the habits of the deaf and dumb, through constant association with poor little Helen.

"'Money, experience, and adventure! The combination was too much for my prudence. In less time than it would take to buy a handkerchief I had accepted the position. Forty-five minutes after the time that I walked into Mr. Lacombe's office I sat on a Southern-bound train, rushing towards a place I'd never heard of before, the companion of a woman who was an utter stranger to me, and bound on an errand of which I knew practically nothing.

"'You see, in the rush of preparation I'd no chance for reconsidering my decision. Indeed, when I was led into Mr. Lacombe's inner office and introduced to my prospective employer, Mrs. Westinghouse, by means, of course, of pencil, and paper, and gestures, I hardly noticed in my excitement what manner of woman she was. I had enough to think of in keeping to the character I had assumed and in preparing in half an hour's time for a week's journey; for almost the first demand made by the strange woman was that I should go with her upon the noon train. The invalid had no doubt only a few days left to live, she explained, and every minute was precious.

"'Upon reading my pencilled explanation that I must go home to say good-by to my sister and get a few articles for my trip, she thrust a ten-dollar bill into my hand, telling me to use that to buy whatever I needed. Mr. Lacombe, she signified, could explain matters to my sister, and with that she hurried me down the stairs and into a cab waiting below. In this I was whirled away, first to a big department store and then to the railroad station, arriving just in time for the noon train, so it wasn't until I was seated in the local express and had actually started that I had a chance to review the situation and to examine my companion.'

"'What sort of a woman was she?' I interrupted.

"'Oh, she appeared perfectly respectable, and tried to make herself agreeable by keeping me busy answering questions on my pad, but something in her cold gray eyes, or, perhaps, in her high metallic voice, chilled my ardor. For the first time I realized my position. Here I was about to enter into the lives of unknown people, under an assumed character, and one that might involve me in matters of a secret, perhaps a dangerous nature. By this time, however, it was too late for me to retreat. All that I could do was to vow, as I did with all my heart, that no matter what I learned while with these people I would make no use of it.

"'Upon leaving the train, after a ride of about two hours and a half, I found myself in Rockwood, a desolate little way station in the most dreary section I had ever seen. The only sign of life was a top carriage, drawn by a pair of lean horses and driven by the son of my companion, a man about thirty years of age. He had handsome features, but, somehow, his bloodshot eyes and dissipated look impressed me even more unfavorably than had his mother's appearance. I was directed to take the back seat, and Mrs. Westinghouse sat in front beside her son.

"'As we drove off the young man put a question at once which I did not hear, but his mother in her usual voice assured him that I was a deaf mute and had been secured at a large salary for that reason. Then they proceeded with their conversation without restriction, but the road was so stony and our speed so great that I caught only a little of it. What I heard did not serve to make me feel any easier. They spoke of some person, who appeared to be a relative, with the most dreadful epithets, and appeared to be planning some way to bring him to terms, should he prove obstinate after they arrived with the stenographer. Before we had gone a mile I was not only sick of my bargain, but ready to jump from the carriage to escape it.

"'The aspect of the country, also, was enough to make the most hilarious person feel melancholy. It was rocky, sterile, and almost uninhabited. The few farmhouses we passed were, all save one, untenanted and falling to pieces. The fields were covered with a thick growth of bayberry bushes or stunted firs.

"'The house was, as nearly as I can judge, about three miles from the station. It had once been a fine mansion, but showed signs of neglect and age. The paint was worn off in patches; the floor of the piazza was rotten. The inside of the house, however, was fairly comfortable, the furniture being extremely old-fashioned and quaint.

"'I could hardly touch a mouthful of supper, and soon excused myself from the table. Wandering around the piazza which skirted the house, I came upon a rear view of the premises. Here I had another surprise, for, detached from the main house and several yards away, stood a long, low brick building with a huge chimney, like a smoke-stack, proceeding from it. Its windows were close against the roof, and probably about twelve feet from the ground, while the only entrance seemed to be by way of a rough bridge extending from a curious door on a line with these windows to a window in the second story of the dwelling-house.

"'While I stood gazing at this remarkable building I noticed that Mrs. Westinghouse had followed me. I could no longer restrain my curiosity, but pointed to the mysterious building and raised my eyebrows. With an impatient gesture, as though she resented my inquisitiveness, the lady caught up my writing-pad and scribbled: "It is my brother's laboratory; he is a metallurgist. We wish you to come and take a dictation from him."

"'Then, leading me upstairs, she unlocked a door and ushered me into a large apartment, in which, at that moment, I saw only one object,—a man stretched upon a couch. The coverings, thrown away from the neck and face, revealed both to be shockingly emaciated; the eyes were wild and staring, the lips drawn away from the teeth, which were white and even. But there was strength even in that dying despair—at the first glance I saw that. There was a look of dogged endurance in every line and feature.

"'"Now, Alfred," wrote Mrs. Westinghouse upon my pad and signifying to me that this was my introduction, "here is Miss Wood, a deaf and dumb stenographer we have brought from New York, so there's no longer any reason for your keeping your precious secret. She understands the signs, and can put your words on paper as fast as you can give them to her." Then, passing the pad to the invalid, she turned to her son. "Victor, love," she said, "the writing paper, pencils, and a little table for Miss Wood."

"'"Here they are," said the young man, rolling the table towards me with an ingratiating leer.

"'I glanced at the invalid. He gave no sign of having read his relative's communication, but lay quite still and breathed softly in gasps. I should not have been surprised to have seen him drawing his last breath at any moment.

"'The woman stood looking at him appealingly until she caught his eye; then she covered her face with her handkerchief, pretending to be overcome by emotion. A moment later she turned aside to Victor and hissed, "Oh, is it too late? If I only knew some torture that would wring from him that secret which would bring us millions."

"'Then, controlling herself, she went on more calmly: "Sit down, Miss Wood, and take the dictation."

"'I saw Victor looking at me and had the presence of mind to remain perfectly quiet, without noticing what she said, for, indeed, I had now begun to feel that I was among desperate people, and that it would be best for my well-being to carry out my role as I had begun it. Apparently satisfied that I was as unfortunate as I claimed to be, she signified by motions that I was to seat myself and write as soon as her brother should dictate.

"'I did so, but while Victor had been occupied in arranging my utensils and Mrs. Westinghouse was absorbed in her pretended emotions the man on the bed had turned his eyes and looked straight into mine. The effect was tremendous. I felt calmed. There was almost an understanding between us. At least, there was sympathy.

"'As I seated myself and caught up my pencil, he raised his white hands and began to sign to me:—

"'"Show no fright at whatever I say. Pretend to take notes, or you will betray yourself."

"'Acting on his suggestion, I began tracing disjointed sentences upon the paper.

"'Then, after allowing me a few moments to recover from the effects of this startling communication, he went on:—

"'"This is no place for you. These people are desperate characters, and if they suspected what I am saying might injure you."

"'Again a pause, during which I shaded my face with one hand and scrawled senseless marks over the paper with the other. Beneath my lowered lids I could see that two pair of eyes, one bloodshot and the other steely gray, were watching me from a shadowy recess on the other side of the bed. I realized that the slightest expression of my real feelings might prove fatal. I set my teeth hard. My old adventurous spirit returned. As mechanically as though I were taking a school dictation, I followed the movements of the trembling white hand and traced those meaningless marks.

"'Apparently, mother and son were satisfied with their scrutiny, for they soon retired to the other end of the long room. As they went, I heard her murmur to Victor:—

"'"Come; the old miser won't forget his own flesh and blood. At any rate, that girl shall stay in the house until her notes are written out in plain English and the experiments made. I gave that foolish teacher of hers a wrong address."

"'At this she turned on me suddenly, and nothing on earth could have prevented my face revealing the fright that was on me. I could hide my terror only by sneezing violently into my handkerchief.

"'As soon as they had withdrawn to the farther end of the room the invalid hastened to communicate as rapidly as possible the state of affairs in this strange household. The woman, Mrs. Westinghouse, was, so he said, his sister-in-law, the widow of his only brother, and Victor was, of course, his nephew. On the death of his brother, the man who now lay dying had invited the widow and her son, then a handsome lad, to make their home with him, and, indeed, had treated Victor as his adopted son and probable heir. About three years ago, however, Victor, who had acted as his uncle's assistant in the laboratory, had repaid his generosity by attempting to steal from him the secret which he had spent years in perfecting. Failing in this, he had forged his benefactor's name for a sum amounting to a large share of his fortune, and had applied the proceeds to the payment of gambling debts. Since then, Mr. Westinghouse, though allowing Victor to go free, had refused to see either him or his mother, and it was only now, when he was on his death-bed, that they returned, uninvited, with the hope of extracting from the sick man the only wealth remaining to him,—his recent discovery.

"'At this point the invalid stopped abruptly, and looked once more deep into my eyes. Then, with a sigh that seemed one of satisfaction, he continued:—

"'"They think, because they hold me as prisoner here upon my death-bed, have deprived me of society, and spirited away my faithful man-servant, the only person who understood my sign-language, that they can force my secret from me. But your face tells me that I can trust you, that you are not their accomplice."

"'"Indeed I am not," I signed hastily. "I came here ignorant of what I was to do, and now they say that I must stay until the notes are written out and the experiment is made. If it fails it is likely to go hard with both of us."

"'The invalid received my communication quietly, without asking how I gained my knowledge. Then, after asking and receiving answers to several questions in regard to my history, he nodded as if satisfied, and signed me to take down with extreme accuracy what he should give me. He then dictated by means of the sign alphabet what seemed like a technical article, many words of which he was obliged to spell for me, and including the finest weights and measures relating to metallurgy. After he had completed it he asked me to read it to him by signs, so that he could be sure that it was correct. When I had done so he looked up, smiled faintly to see that mother and son had left the room, and beckoned me to him. He took my hands, clasped them in his, and then signed: "Swear that you will never permit that paper to fall into the hands of Mrs. Westinghouse or her son."

"'In my fright I took the oath.

"'"Guard it well," he signified, "for it is a fortune beyond your dreams. Now sit down and take a bogus paper, which you must give to Mrs. Westinghouse. But first conceal this paper in your dress."

"'I did so. He then dictated another paper, different in every way from the first as to its methods; and then motioned that I must write out the second paper as soon as possible, give it to Mrs. Westinghouse, and then effect my escape before the fraud was discovered.

"'As I looked at him doubtingly, he added: "Trust me. I will provide the way."

"'"But you?" I said.

"'He tried to laugh. "I shan't live twenty-four hours," he said.

"'I asked if they were to blame. He shrugged his shoulders. "Her son's treachery robbed me of health and fortune. And now in their fiendish greed to inherit the secret they have locked me in this room and tried to wring it from me by their soft words and wheedling caresses. But they shall not succeed. They shall never know this."

"'As he spoke he drew from under his pillow a small blade in a sheath. It was a bright brownish yellow; the edge was sharp as a razor. He handed it to me, signifying that I was to keep it.