Chapter I: Part 1

The Black Cat

March 1896.

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

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

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

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The Black Cat

A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

No. 6. MARCH, 1896. 5 cents a copy,
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Copyright, 1895, by the Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights
reserved.

Eleanor Stevens’ Will.

BY ISABEL SCOTT STONE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman was Eleanor Stevens!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To Let.”

BY ALICE TURNER CURTIS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The house is still to let.

Of Course—Of Course Not.

BY HARRY M. PECK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please do,” answered the girl.

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

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

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

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She waited a moment, and then replied firmly:

“No; there’s no one else.”

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

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

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

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

“And so endeth the first lesson.”

* * * * *

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

The Marchburn Mystery.

BY A. MAURICE LOW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How was he dressed?”

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