Chapter II: Part 2

That was all the light Wright could throw upon the affair. Coroner and jurymen plied him with questions; but he could tell them nothing. He did not know the color of the man’s eyes, whether he wore a beard, what kind of hat he wore; in fact, he could furnish nothing which would serve as an identification. He thought he might know the man if he were to see him again; but he was not absolutely sure as to that. There was no reason to think that Wright was not telling the truth, and it was almost impossible that he could have committed the murder, but the jury, in rendering their verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown, censured Wright for having remained silent for more than twelve hours, and the coroner privately suggested to the police that they keep an eye upon Wright.

As soon as the verdict had been rendered, Detective Sergeants Johnson and Richardson, who had been detailed by Superintendent of Police Walton to attend the inquest, reported to him for further instructions. They briefly repeated the testimony and especially the startling evidence of Wright. When they had finished the chief said:

“What do you make of it?”

“The man in the brown overcoat is the murderer,” said Johnson.

“The man in the brown overcoat had nothing to do with it; but Wright knows a great deal more than he has told,” was Richardson’s analysis.

Walton looked out of the window a couple of minutes without speaking. “The person who committed the murder,” he said, as if he were talking to himself more than to his listeners, and without looking at either, “was expected to call at the office that evening by Marchburn, who came back about the time the clerks were preparing to leave, on purpose to keep his appointment. All the doors were locked. Either the visitor must have had a duplicate key, or else Marchburn left one of the doors open, or they had a private signal. Any one of a dozen persons might have been able to open the door with a duplicate key; but I don’t see anything to point in that direction. Marchburn would hardly be likely to leave the door open for his expected visitor, so it is evident the doors were kept locked, and when the prearranged signal was given Marchburn opened the door to his murderer. Who was the murderer and what was the motive? It was not money, because no valuables were taken, and the clerks say that neither papers nor anything else were disturbed. The murder was either the result of a sudden burst of passion, or else it was premeditated, and something forced the murderer to do then what had long been contemplated. There was a very strong motive. Find the motive and you find the—”

“The murderer,” interrupted Richardson.

“The murderess,” continued the chief as calmly as if he had not heard the interruption.

“A woman?” cried his listeners simultaneously.

“Certainly, a woman; it is a woman’s crime. From the time when Rogers and Harding left until the discovery of the body was a scant hour. To avoid all possible risks of interruption, Marchburn did not arrange the interview until after five, so that between that hour and six he was shot. At six he was dead, and the doctor testified he must have been dead between fifteen and thirty minutes when he was called in. So that fixes the time of the shooting between half past five and six. Marchburn expected a woman to call upon him that night, because he would not have made such careful preparations for secrecy if his visitor had been a man. He did not want his clerks to see his caller. The time between her calling and the shooting was too short for them to have quarreled; but it was long enough for her to have made her demand and to have been refused by Marchburn. Then she shot him.”

“But the young man in the brown overcoat?” asked Johnson.

“If the coroner had the slightest sense,” sneered the chief, “he would have asked Wright if the ‘young man’ looked as if ‘he’ were disguised, and Wright’s answer would have shown whether he is merely a thick-skulled idiot or whether he has a hand in this affair. But I’m glad the question was not asked, as the woman will think her disguise has shielded her. But Wright has given himself away by his answers. He says ‘the young man’ had a handkerchief wrapped around his right hand, and was holding it with his left, as if it hurt him. Isn’t that a woman’s attitude? A man would have shoved his hand in his pocket and held it there—at any rate, until he was in the street, where no one would have noticed it or paid any attention to him. But the woman doesn’t know how to use her pockets; her hand hurts her, and she holds it out in full view, instead of hiding it, as a man would have done. I’ll stake my reputation that the young man in the brown overcoat is a woman, and that the woman is the murderer of Mr. Marchburn.”

The superintendent rapidly outlined his plans. “I want you,” he said to Richardson, “to look up Marchburn’s past record in the West. Look for the woman there, or for the chapter in his life in which the woman figures. It’s there, although it may be difficult to find. Johnson, you look up his record from the time he came to New York to the day of his death. See if there is any woman entanglement here. Keep your eye upon Wright. I can’t quite size that man up. Look for the brown overcoat. Now, Richardson, you’d better start right in, and wire me just as soon as you strike anything.”

In a few moments Johnson went back. “There is one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “Why did the woman get in the elevator at the tenth instead of the eleventh story?”

“Easy enough to explain, and another indication that we are dealing with a woman and not a man. When she left the office her natural impulse was to walk down the stairs, to avoid meeting any one, instead of courting observation, as a man would have done under the circumstances. She walked down one flight; she heard the cleaners moving about and dreaded meeting them, and rang for the elevator as being less dangerous. Remember we are dealing with a woman of no ordinary caliber,—one who is not a seasoned criminal, and who thinks quickly.”

From Johnson’s report next morning the superintendent learned that Marchburn had moved to New York from the West five years before his murder; that his only child, Lucille, was twenty years old; that father and daughter were very much attached to one another. Marchburn’s tastes were all domestic; he seldom stayed out late at night, unless in company with his daughter; he was a regular church attendant, and contributed liberally to its support and to charities. His business was extremely profitable, his fortune being considered very large.

Walton read the report through and felt annoyed. It was not what he wanted. He felt that he was right in charging a woman with the crime; but how was he to find a woman who left no traces behind her? Besides, the papers were growing impatient, clamoring for an arrest, and indulging in satirical flings at the impotence of the police. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. “I ought to have thought of that before,” he said to himself. “Rogers or Harding might know,” and the superintendent, once more the cold, impassive man of affairs, walked quietly out of his office.

Superintendent Walton went briskly down town, thinking deeply as he walked, and yet noticing everything that went on around him. As he turned the corner of Silver Lane his eye fell upon a portly, well-groomed man who was walking in front of him. Walton was noted for never forgetting a man or woman he had once known, and there was something about this man which seemed familiar. Quickening his pace a little, the detective pushed ahead until he came opposite a money-changer’s window, and appeared to be intently gazing at the piles of gold and silver; but out of the corner of one of his eyes he was carefully watching for the man whom he hoped would soon pass. The superintendent looked up and saw a well-preserved man of about sixty, with florid complexion and carefully trimmed whiskers. He looked like any one of hundreds of prosperous business men. Still trying to fit the face to a name, Walton followed the man into Wall Street, and as he passed the sub-treasury he saw Brixton coming down the steps. The sight of the government agent was like a flash in the dark, and the object he was groping for was instantly made plain. The superintendent determined to take desperate chances. “By gad,” he muttered, “I’ll risk it. If he’s the man his voice will give him away.” Quickening his walk, he stepped up to the man, and, tapping him on the shoulder, said very quietly:

“I want you, John Marsh.”

With perfect composure he began, “Excuse me, sir, I do not know you—” but in the first three words his deep voice broke into a theatrical falsetto.

Walton smiled triumphantly. “Perhaps not; but I know you, Marsh,” he said, with his hand still on the man’s arm.

“This is the second time you have called me by that name. My name is not Marsh. Pardon me if I say good-morning,” said the other in perfectly modulated tones, and made a movement as if to continue on his way.

But Walton was not to be shaken off so lightly. “Wait a minute,” he said, and his voice was as pleasant and his manner as polite as that of the man whom he was addressing. “Perhaps when I tell you that I am Superintendent of Police Walton, who was chief of the detective bureau when we last met, you may remember me.”

“My dear sir, this is incomprehensible. I never had the pleasure of meeting you before, and, as I have to attend a very important meeting of the directors of my bank I must beg to be excused. If you really are the chief of police, I think, instead of wasting your time with reputable business men, you could better afford to devote a little of your leisure to finding the murderer of my dear old friend, Lawrence Marchburn.”

“You were acquainted with Mr. Marchburn?”

“Sir, I decline to submit to this impertinence any longer. If you attempt to stop me further I shall call an officer.”

“I think not,” said Walton, with a smile. “You are going with me to headquarters, or I will accompany you to your bank; which do you prefer?”

“In two minutes I could show you what a fool you are making of yourself; but I prefer to teach you a lesson. I submit to this indignity in the interest of good government.”

“All right, Marsh; I see you are the same old Chesterfield,—just as smooth as ever. You’ve no objection if we ride, I suppose?” and Walton hailed a passing cab. As they jogged up town both men remained silent. Turning a corner, the cab gave a sudden lurch, the superintendent’s hand in some mysterious manner caught in his prisoner’s whiskers, and they came away from his face. The two men looked one another squarely in the eye. Marsh was the first to speak. “You’re a nervy one, superintendent,” he said. “What do you want me for? I’m living straight.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but I want to have a quiet little talk with you; besides, I heard you were dead.”

Marsh smiled. The loss of his whiskers showed him to be a man of about forty, with a firm jaw, a keen blue eye, and a high forehead. “I wish to God I was dead,” he said. “When a man tries to live straight he gets snagged and is disgraced.”

The cab drew up at the big building on Mulberry Street, and the superintendent, pushing his prisoner before him, led the way to his private room. “Now, Marsh, you say you have been living straight. Prove it and I’ll release you.”

The man eyed his captor sullenly. “Not till I’ve seen a lawyer,” he said.

Walton touched an electric button. “Lock this man up,” he said to the officer who appeared. As Marsh was led away the chief pushed another button. “Bring me,” he said to the messenger, “Convictions, letter M, ’84.”

Hastily turning the pages, Walton read: “Marsh, John, alias Gentleman John, generally known as Chesterfield, because of his manners and politeness, born at Sodaville, Mich. All round crook; specialty, counterfeiting United States notes. One of the most dangerous men in his line. Convicted of counterfeiting and sentenced to Albany for five years in 1870; sent to Jackson, Mich., for three years for forgery in 1878; last conviction, Joliet, counterfeiting, 1884, five years. See page 756.” Turning to the page indicated, Walton read: “Escaped from Joliet and committed suicide.”

“So he didn’t commit suicide,” mused the chief. “Well, I always had my doubts about it. I have an idea he had a hand in this counterfeiting business, and if that’s so it’s a pretty good morning’s work—almost as good as finding the Marchburn woman. I had better let Brixton know about this; it may give him a pointer.”

A clerk brought in a telegram and handed it to the superintendent. Walton read:

“SODAVILLE, MICH., Jan. 24.—Can you mail me at once portrait of
Chesterfield Marsh, escaped Joliet, and committed suicide about
1884?

“RICHARDSON.”

“By Jove,” said the superintendent, “that’s curious. I wonder what he’s struck now. Well, I guess I’ll hang onto Chesterfield for a few days, anyway.” Then he telephoned to Brixton, who was now working night and day on the counterfeit money case, which divided public attention with the Marchburn mystery. To the police these cases had proved two of the most remarkable criminal problems they had ever been called upon to solve. Congress had added to the excitement by adopting the recommendation of the Secretary of the Treasury and offering a reward of fifty thousand dollars for the arrest and conviction of the counterfeiters.

Brixton came in dejectedly in answer to the summons. To Walton, who was an old friend, he admitted that he was beaten.

“Brace up, old man,” said Walton; “I’ve got something good for you,” and he at once told him of the arrest of Marsh and Richardson’s telegram.

A gleam of excitement blazed from the secret service man’s eyes. He jumped from his chair and paced the room a couple of times before he could control himself; then, leaning over his friend’s desk, he talked rapidly. “By jove, Walton, you’ve got our man. There is only one man in the country who could have done the job, and that’s Marsh. I have thought about him a dozen times since I’ve been at work on the case, but always supposed him to be dead. What a confounded idiot I am not to have investigated that suicide story; yet I never had reason to doubt it.”

Both men felt certain that they were at last hot on the right trail, and that Marsh was still engaged in his old business of counterfeiting. While discussing the next move to be made Brixton suddenly said: “What does Richardson’s telegram mean?”

The words produced a peculiar effect upon Walton, which was reflected in Brixton’s face. Both men scrutinized each other for a brief space of time without speaking. It was as if they were grappling with the same thought, and yet both were afraid to frame in words what was passing through their minds. It was Walton who at last broke the silence and in a nervous sort of way said:—

“That is absurd.”

“What is?”

“What you are thinking about.”

It was curious that neither man had openly expressed his thoughts, and yet each knew what was in the other’s mind just as well as if the words had been uttered.

“I don’t know about that. Of course it looks ridiculous to commence with, but not any more so than that West Virginia case.”

“I don’t remember that,” said Walton.

“It was one of my most interesting jobs. For months we had been trying to break up a gang of counterfeiters working in West Virginia, and had failed, just as in the present instance. The thing looked pretty bad, and the merchants of the State were so worked up about the ‘queer’ that a bill was introduced in the legislature authorizing the governor to employ private detectives, as the government secret service men had shown their incompetence. Before the bill was acted upon we arrested some of the gang, and on the day when the bill came up for action we obtained conclusive evidence that the member of the legislature who introduced the bill was the brains of the gang. I went to the capitol and listened to this man’s speech in support of his measure, and after the bill had passed I arrested him and found in his pockets some of the money made by his gang. I sent him over the road.”

“You think, then,” said Walton, “that Marchburn had some connection with the counterfeiting gang.”

“I do.”

“Did Marsh murder Marchburn?”

“I don’t know about that. I rather think not, because Chesterfield, from what we know about him, is a coward and not the man to kill; but he probably knows who did. There’s a connection between the murder and the counterfeiting, and when we pull the right string both knots will come untied.”

Walton told his associate of his theory as to the murderer being a woman.

Brixton doubted it. “But it’s of no consequence,” he said. “Whoever fired the shot was a member of the gang; Marchburn knew him and expected him to call that evening. When we land our man we shall have the murderer and the counterfeiter as well.”

How was Marsh to be made to confess? Numerous plans were discussed and rejected. Finally Brixton made this suggestion: “Make Chesterfield understand that he is suspected of the murder and that you have the dots on him. You’ll have to sweat him and put him through the third degree. Don’t say a word about the counterfeiting. When he’s charged with the murder, and things begin to look black, he will squeal to save his neck. He’ll give his pals away dead sure and tell all he knows about the counterfeiting. I believe the scheme will work.”

Walton agreed with him and proceeded without delay in putting his prisoner through the sweating process. Early in the morning he had read the papers in his cell, and a detective who secretly watched him noticed that he devoured every line printed about the Marchburn murder. Later, the superintendent had him brought to his office and there subjected him to a rigorous cross-examination, and no man knew better than he how to worm the truth out of a criminal. But in Marsh he found more than a match. He either dodged every question or else declined to answer, and neither threats nor promises elicited anything of importance. For more than an hour the man submitted to being worried by his inquisitor, when at last he said:

“Chief, what are you trying to make against me?”

Walton had not taxed him with the murder, as he hoped his prisoner would make some incautious admission which would tell him what he wanted to find out. But Marsh’s question seemed to have made the time ripe for the great stroke. Looking him steadily in the eye, the chief said: “For the murder of Lawrence Marchburn.”

The prisoner gave a short, nervous laugh. “You’re clean off,” he said. “I didn’t murder him and I had nothing to do with it; but I know the man who did.”

Walton had counted upon his declaration producing a confession, or at least some signs of weakness, but this answer astounded him.

The man never flinched. “It’s God’s truth. I can tell you who committed the murder,” he repeated.

“Very well; who did it?”

But Marsh was too old a bird to be caught with chaff. “What do I get if I tell?” he asked.

“I think they would like to have you back in Joliet,” the chief answered, “and that means five years to commence with. If you give me the name of the man, and it is proven that you had nothing to do with the murder, I will see that you are not troubled.”

Marsh appeared to be thinking deeply. “Shall I have to appear as a witness?” he asked.

“Not unless it is necessary; I won’t put you on the stand if I can make the case without you.”

“Will you release me as soon as you are satisfied you have the right man?”

“Yes.”

“Then arrest Frank Richald, who was Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer. He’s your man.”

“How do you know?”

“I won’t tell; but see if I am not right.”

Walton ordered Marsh back to his cell, somewhat puzzled by the result of the interview. He did not believe all that Marsh had told him; but the mention of Richald’s name indicated that he was getting down to the man’s confederates. There was only one thing to do. The superintendent ordered Johnson to arrest Richald. He took his arrest quietly. Brought before Walton, he said, without waiting to be questioned: “I am innocent; but circumstances are against me.”

With a quick, sudden movement, Walton seized hold of the corner of the skirt of Richald’s brown overcoat and intently examined a dark spot on the front. “Marchburn’s blood,” he said tersely.

“I know it,” was all the prisoner said.

“Why did you murder him?” asked Walton.

“I did not murder him,” he said firmly. “When I reached the office on the night of the murder Mr. Marchburn was lying dead on his desk. I was stunned and horrified. I know now I should have given the alarm; but there were so many strange things in connection with my being there at that hour that I foolishly imagined my safety lay in flight. Some of Mr. Marchburn’s blood was on my hand, and I bound my handkerchief around it to escape observation. To avoid meeting any one I started to walk down the stairs; then I was afraid the janitor might see me and think it strange I was walking, so I called the elevator on the floor below our office and rode down.”

“What brought you back to the office that evening?” Walton asked.

“That I cannot tell you.”

Walton ordered the young man to a cell.

Next day the papers told of the arrest. They also added something about the man who stood charged with the crime. Richald was the son of a once former wealthy New York merchant, whom every one respected. At his death it was found that his estate was badly involved, and all that was left to his widow and his two children was a small estate. On the interest of this Mrs. Richald lived, her son contributing generously of his wages to her support. Two years before the murder Frank had secured a position with the Bank Note Company as Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer.

Walton now bent all his energies to securing a fuller confession from his prisoner, to ascertaining what had become of the pistol, and the motive for the crime. His best men were set to work raking over nearly every hour of Richald’s past life. Meanwhile, at the earnest request of Brixton, Walton had decided to hold onto Marsh. Walton was pretty well convinced that, while Marsh did not commit the murder, he had some connection with it, and was not going to let that elusive individual get out of his clutches so long as there was a possibility of proving it. Brixton, on his side, was certain that Marsh was in some way implicated in the counterfeiting, and proposed to keep his eye upon him until he could charge him with the crime or bring it home to some one else. The capture of Marsh seemed like a lucky find.

On the morning of the second day after Richald’s appearance in court a carriage drew up in front of the police headquarters, from which a stately looking elderly gentleman and a tall young woman alighted. The gentleman asked to see the superintendent. Walton did not need to look at the card to know his caller, Phineas Yarrow, one of the noted lawyers of the city.

The woman was dressed all in black, and was so slight that she seemed unusually tall when standing alone. She remained closely veiled.

“This young lady is a friend of Mr. Richald’s,” said the lawyer. “She is very anxious to speak with the prisoner. I am willing to vouch for all she says or does.”

Walton shot a keen glance at the girl. “This is rather unusual,” he said; “but I will accede to your request, provided, of course, the interview takes place in my presence.”

Shortly afterward Richald entered the room, and as he caught sight of the girl he trembled and appeared dazed. For a moment she hesitated, then, with a cry which touched the hearts of the older men, she rapidly crossed the room, threw her arms about the young man’s neck, and kissed him passionately.

Whether they were sweetheart and lover, husband and wife, or brother and sister, Walton had no means for knowing; but that the girl played an important part in the case he felt certain. Hurriedly writing a line, he handed it to an officer, and from that time Frank Richald’s visitor was under the shadow of the law.

For several minutes the prisoner and his visitor conversed in anxious whispers; then, going to the lawyer, the young woman said: “After you have shown me to the carriage Mr. Richald has something important to say to you. He will tell you everything.”

“Now tell me all,” said the lawyer, seating himself by the side of Richald. In eager whispers he told his story. When he had finished the old lawyer paced up and down the room, showing that he was laboring under intense excitement. Stopping suddenly, he said: “You must repeat this to the superintendent, here and now.”

Without hesitating, Richald in a firm voice commenced his recital—Yarrow an excited listener, and the superintendent coolly indifferent; but Richald had spoken for only a few moments when Walton’s studied indifference gave way and he was soon closely following every word. When the young man had finished the superintendent leaned across his desk, and, clasping his hand, said, “I believe you.”

“But there is no time to be lost,” he continued. Pushing several of the electric buttons on his desk, he gave his orders to the officers who appeared. Then, turning, he said, “Mr. Yarrow, will you come back at six o’clock this evening? And, Mr. Richald, I shall still have to subject you to my hospitality.”

That evening the lawyer once more entered the superintendent’s room. He found Walton and Richald busily engaged in conversation, and with them was Brixton. “Now we will get to business,” said the superintendent, seating himself at his desk.

Into this company Marsh was called. “In the first place,” said the superintendent, “it may be well to explain that Lawrence Marchburn and the prisoner were brothers.” Turning to Marsh, he said, “Now tell us your story.”

“You know all about me, superintendent,” the man commenced, and his eyes were fixed upon Walton, as if he alone were present, “and that I have always been a counterfeiter and a crook. I went crooked very young. My father was a man of considerable means, and my brother Lawrence, who was always of a jealous and grasping disposition, worked upon him so that he refused to have anything to do with me. When he died he left all his money to Lawrence and cut me off without a penny. When I escaped from Joliet I determined to make a last appeal to my brother for help. I reached his house late one night and he received me in his library. At first he told me never to enter his house again, but during our conversation he changed his mind, and after he had given me food he said:

“‘Jack, they tell me you are one of the cleverest counterfeiters in the country.’

“I answered that I believed I had that unenviable reputation.

“‘Then here’s a scheme. I’m in a pretty tight hole. I have lost a good deal of money lately in speculation, and I have used some belonging to an estate. I am going to start a factory to make counterfeits. I shall have an office in New York and a factory in New Jersey, where we can work undisturbed and everything will look straight. I have money enough to start the factory and buy all the machinery. After a year we can retire with two fortunes and become respectable. If you have any scruples of conscience I’ll pay your fare back to Joliet.’

“Of course I consented. There was nothing else I could do.

“I fell in love with and married the daughter of my landlady, and when the baby came she was the happiest woman in the world, and I—” Marsh passed his hand across his face and there was a catch in his voice which showed the struggle he was making to remain calm.

“Well, I was determined to quit the whole business and live straight. I told this to Lawrence, and that I wanted my share of the money he was keeping for me. We had a dispute, but settled it by my agreeing to remain another six months.

“Just before the time was up he went to my wife and told her I was an escaped convict, but that he was trying to get things fixed so I need not fear arrest. He warned her not to allow me to go away, as that would be dangerous. She told me all. Then I resolved to end the matter at once. When he next came to the factory he told me that Richald, his stenographer, had discovered what we were doing, and would give the snap away. He said something must be done to close Richald’s mouth until he could close up the factory and clear out. He pretended to be fully as frightened as I was, and I was badly scared, for I did not at last want to be lagged. So I agreed to do whatever he thought best.

“He sent for me to come to New York. It had been arranged that I should go to his office, knock three times on the door, and if the clerks were all gone my brother would open it. After he had done so, he said, in the most cold-blooded way, that Richald would be there in a quarter of an hour; that we must get him to go to the factory, and on the way there, in a lonely spot, shoot him. He would make it appear that Richald had stolen some bonds, and when his body was found it would look like suicide. I told him that, whatever had been my past life, _I_ would not commit murder. He cursed me for a coward, and said he would have me sent back to jail. I defied and left him.”

“Now,” said the superintendent, turning to Richald, “will you tell your story?”

“Two years ago,” began Richald, who was trembling with excitement, caused by Marsh’s recital, “I was engaged as stenographer by Mr. Marchburn, and shortly after became engaged to his daughter, the young lady who was here to-day. A few months ago we were secretly married, and about that time I accidentally overheard a conversation between Mr. Marchburn and his brother, which put me in possession of the colossal plot to swindle the government. I was in doubt as to my duty in the matter, but finally concluded to tell Mr. Marchburn what I knew. He declared that Marsh was the real head of the conspiracy, but, owing to circumstances, he had been unable to extricate himself from his clutches; he would, however, close up the factory as soon as possible. On the day of the murder Mr. Marchburn made an appointment for me at his office. Before leaving for New Jersey he handed me a package which he said contained several thousand dollars in negotiable securities, which he intended to have taken to his bank, but had forgotten to do so, and requested that I bring it back to the office later.

“I was a few minutes late in keeping my appointment, and when I entered Mr. Marchburn’s room I found him dead. It flashed across my mind that I might be accused of the murder; that it would be difficult for me to account for the securities, and in explaining my presence in the office I should have to reveal the conspiracy, which, for the sake of Mr. Marchburn’s daughter, I was reluctant to do. Yielding to a sudden impulse, I left the office, without raising an alarm. And—”

Just then an electric bell rang and the superintendent put his ear to a tube that hung above his chair. As he listened his face flushed. He looked up and, with an accent of conviction that caused Marsh to move uneasily in his chair, exclaimed: “Gentlemen, at last the missing link is at hand!”

The next moment the door was thrown open and an officer ushered in a middle-aged man with a traveling-bag in his hand. Stooping over the superintendent’s chair, the officer engaged him in a whispered conversation. As he proceeded, a look of triumph shone in the superintendent’s eyes. Swinging around suddenly in his chair toward Marsh, he asked abruptly: “Marsh, did you ever see this man before?” For several moments the prisoner, with eager curiosity, eyed the new-comer from head to foot. Then, turning to the superintendent, he said, with attempted composure, but with that tell-tale falsetto break in his voice, “No, I never saw him—”

“That’s the man!” cried the stranger, advancing and pointing excitedly to the prisoner. “I could tell his voice among a million.” Then, turning to Walton, he continued breathlessly, “Mr. Superintendent, on the evening of the murder I was in my insurance office in Temple Court. I had just been called to the bedside of my sick wife in Florida and rang up the sleeping-car office in Jersey City to engage a berth. I couldn’t get the connection, as the wires were crossed. I rang again and again, but, instead of getting a reply from the central office, I heard a violent quarrel going on between two men. One of them threatened to call the police, and the other shouted, ‘If you do that I’ll shoot you.’ Indeed, I did hear what sounded like the muffled report of a pistol. At that moment I was connected by the central office, and thought no more of the matter until I was seated in the cars an hour later. Then, in recalling the affair, it occurred to me that possibly I had overheard a scrap of a theatrical rehearsal, because the voice of the man who threatened to shoot had a stagy sort of falsetto break in it. And it wasn’t until I was overtaken three days ago by New York papers containing full accounts of the Marchburn murder that I knew that I held the clue to the mystery. An hour later I was on the way to New York and came directly here from the train.

“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, pausing impressively and pointing to the cowering figure of the prisoner, “that is the man whose voice I heard over the telephone. I heard him speak. I heard him threaten. I heard him rush across the floor. I heard him fire the fatal shot. It was he who murdered Lawrence Marchburn!”

Four months later the jury gave the same verdict.

Their Colonial Villa.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

The right to dramatize is reserved by the author.

“It is very inconvenient to be obliged to live in one place all the time. If we had two houses, we could spend part of the time in one and part of the time in the other.”

Young Mrs. Arburton was one of those fortunate brides who are able to set up housekeeping immediately on the return from the wedding journey. Young Mr. Arburton thought it best to build or buy a small house and to furnish and occupy it as soon as possible.

“Of course, my love, I see how important it is that the house should be close down by the river bank near your office, so that you can come home to lunch, and I do so enjoy seeing the steamboats pass on the river.”

“Good idea. I must be handy to business.”

“And at the same time, you must see, John, that I’ve always lived at the court end of the town, on the bluff overlooking the river and near the shops and the homes of the best people. That’s why I think it would be so nice if we could have two houses, one down by the river near your office, and one in town, on the Heights and near the churches and all the nice people. We could live every other week in each house.”

They were staying at her mother’s on the Heights, pending the purchase or erection of the new house. Mrs. Arburton had advanced this happy thought of having two homes at the breakfast table. The idea pleased her mother greatly, and she remarked to her son-in-law that, in her opinion, it was an excellent arrangement. She would gladly live in the uptown house and take care of it while they were spending the week in the other house down by the river.

“My love, we must do it. We never need move anything, for you could keep a suit of clothes in each house. I’m sure I shall never be happy to live down on the riverside. There’s really nobody living there, and still I never, never can be happy if you are not able to come home to lunch.”

Young Mr. Arburton quite agreed with his wife and her mother. It would be very desirable to live on the bluff, two hundred feet above the river, and very desirable to live immediately below, down by the boat landing and near the office. It would be very convenient to live in two places at the same time. How to do it was the problem.

Immediately after breakfast young Mr. Arburton started off to business. To reach the lower level of the city, where his office and his great lumber yards stood close by the river, and almost immediately under the lofty bluff on which the new or upper town was built, he was obliged to take a trolley car that slid swiftly down a long iron viaduct or inclined plane. There had been at one time, before the days of the trolley, a more direct, but much slower method of reaching the lower town. This was a sort of huge hoist or elevator, upon which the horse-cars were slowly dragged up and down by means of a cable. At present, this route was seldom used, as it was, in the opinion of the general public, altogether too dilatory transit.

Business was quiet that day, and Mr. Arburton had ample opportunity to consider the problem of keeping house in two places at the same time. He felt sure he must gratify his wife’s natural desire to live in town, and he was equally sure he must reside in the immediate neighborhood of his yard and its great interests. It was very like the ancient question as to what would happen if a body, moving with perfectly irresistible momentum, were to meet a perfectly immovable body.

He returned home that night quite radiant. He had solved the question.

“It is all right, my love. It can be done.”

“Oh! I felt sure you would see that my idea was admirable. Which house shall you build first—the one on the Heights or the house down by the river?”

“Both can be built at the same time.”

“Well, dear, of course, you see the house up here in this fashionable quarter must lie much larger and nicer than the house down by those horrid lumber yards. I shan’t mind if the lower house is a plain little box. No one will ever call there, and any simple, inexpensive, wooden cottage will answer. Besides, while we are staying down there I shall not receive at all, and I shall have my cards marked with our uptown address.”

“Very well,” remarked Mr. Arburton; “I’ll see the architect. I dare say it can be fixed.”

Mrs. Arburton and her mother were delighted, and when Mr. Arburton suggested that he wished the new house—

“You mean the new houses, dear.”

“We’ll waive that—it’s only a detail—our future domiciles are to be a surprise.”

“How lovely in you, dear. You mean you intend to build and furnish them complete without letting me see them?”

“That’s about the idea. Leave it all to me.”

“Then, my love, mother and I will visit Aunt Sarah in New York for a month.”

Mr. Arburton was hardly prepared for this. To lose his young wife for two months was not a wholly pleasant prospect. However, he expressed himself as resigned; for he would be very busy building and furnishing the new house.

“You mean our new houses, dear. I declare it is an inspiration. We can spend every other week in society and have the other week to rest in peace and be by ourselves, quite out of the world.”

The next day young Mrs. Arburton and her mother started for New York, and young Mr. Arburton went to the office of the defunct horse railroad company to see about a house lot, it being reported that they had real estate to sell—cheap.

Thirty-two days later young Mrs. Arburton and her mother returned. It was dark when they arrived, and of course they went at once to their former home. Naturally the return of the young wife had a most happy effect upon the young husband. He was lively, was merry, and seemed to be immensely amused over the prospect of moving at once into the new house.

“Is it all done?” cried both ladies, “and so soon?”

“Oh, it don’t take long to knock up a house in these days. We can move in to-night. Everything is ready for you.”

“Which house shall we live in first?”

“Take your choice.”

“Then I’ll spend the first week in the uptown house.”

“All right. I thought so. As soon as you have had supper we’ll go over there.”

“Is it far from here?”

“No. Only a short walk. I thought you might like to be near your mother.”

“My love, you are an angel!”

This remark clearly indicated an unstable frame of mind, and further reports of the conversation may be cheerfully omitted.

About nine o’clock the young couple started, satchels in hand, to take possession of their new home on the Heights. Mrs. Arburton was charmed. It was just what she wanted, a pretty two-story colonial villa at the end of a broad avenue, and close to the edge of the bluff overlooking the river. The parlor was small, but exquisite, the dining-room cozy, the kitchen perfection.

“Oh, and the view from the chamber window! Isn’t it grand? Why, the house must be on the very edge of the bluff. My love, you have made me perfectly happy. It is such a pretty house, and right in the very best neighborhood.”

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Arburton remarked that he would come home to lunch.

“Oh, no, dear. I wouldn’t think of it. It’s too far to come way up here just for lunch. I’ll put up a little basket for you.”

“It will not take me two minutes to run over here from the office. I’ll come home at noon.”

This he said as they stood at the kitchen door.

“What on earth are you talking about—”

She would have said more, but just at that moment her husband opened the back door and stepped out into the dusty road that led to his lumber yard. Mrs. Arburton stood by the door, looking up and down the commonplace road, at the towering piles of lumber across the way, at the tall stacks of a passing steamboat, just visible over the lumber heaps.

She kissed her husband in a mechanical way, and then closed the door and went to her chamber and sat down by the window. Clearly this was the lower town. There had been some mistake. She finished her morning household duties and dressed to go out. Leaving the house by the most convenient way, she crossed the street, and, turning back, looked at the house. It was a plain, three-story wooden house, and in every way suitable for such a commonplace business neighborhood.

“I must have been dreaming about that colonial villa. I’ll go and call on mother.”

She took the trolley car up the great incline to the upper town and went to her mother’s house. The moment she arrived her mother began to ask about the new house.

“Oh, it’s just a plain, three-story, wooden affair down by the lumber yard.”

“I thought you were to occupy the uptown house first.”

“Yes, I thought so, too; but we stayed last night in the lower town.”

Promptly at noon, just as the big whistle roared its hoarse summons to rest, Mrs. Arburton returned to her humble dwelling in the lower town. Lunch was served at once, and then her husband returned to business, leaving his wife alone in the new house. She explored it thoroughly, and felt sure that the parlor and dining-room were the same as she had dreamed about the night before. At six o’clock Mr. Arburton returned to dinner, and after that he proposed that they make a few calls on friends in the upper town.

“Oh, no, not to-night. It’s too far and we shall be so late getting back again.”

“Nonsense, my dear. Put on your things and I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

Five minutes later young Mrs. Arburton appeared arrayed in her best.

“I suppose the nearest way is to go out the back door.”

“What’s the use of a front door if we do not use it?” said her husband. So saying, he opened the front door and led her out into the brilliantly lighted avenue in the upper town.

Mrs. Arburton was perplexed. She took her husband’s arm and walked on for a few steps in silence. Then she stopped and looked back at the house. It was the colonial villa of her dream. Was it a dream? She wanted to ask questions, but wisely said nothing. The young couple spent the evening in calling, and then returned to their home.

Early the next morning Mrs. Arburton drew up the curtains of her room and looked out. There, far below, were the river and the lower town. It was not a dream.

Then for a week nothing in particular happened. Mrs. Arburton was entirely happy in her charming colonial villa. Her mother called and admired everything.

“I suppose next week you will bury yourselves in the lower town. Of course your other house cannot be equal to this lovely place.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Why, my child, you told me it was a plain three-story affair. You said you stayed there that first night.”

“Did I? I must have been dreaming.”

The next morning young Mrs. Arburton began to wonder if her mind had given way. She was awakened by the hoarse boom of the lumber yard whistle. She drew up her curtain and pulled it down, again quickly. The street was full of teams. She pinched her arm. She looked at the mantel clock. No; she was awake. Being a wise woman, she said nothing, and after breakfast she bade her husband good-by at the back door.

“I’ll run over to lunch, dear.”

“Very well, Mr. Arburton.”

He looked at her with a peculiar smile.

“What’s the matter, love? Are you offended?”

“Oh, dear, no! I’m a little—a little confused, that’s all. I’ll go and call on mother. I’ll feel better—for a walk.”

“Yes, do. Take the trolley back to town.”

She did, and the moment she reached the broad avenues of the upper city she left the car and stood irresolute on the sidewalk.

“I wish I had been more observing. Let me see. There was a row of trees on each side, and the houses were all of Milwaukee brick.”

She wandered up and down several streets and avenues looking for the colonial villa.

“It was so stupid in me not to know the street and number of our own house. If I knew that I could ask a policeman. I declare, I was never so turned round in my life. This looks like the neighborhood—and yet—”

She gave it up in despair and took the trolley back to her home in the lower town. Then for several days nothing happened. Mrs. Arburton tried to be happy and failed miserably. Her husband, of course, observed it, and said at the dinner table:

“My love, I fear you do not enjoy being down here among these lumber yards and shops. After dinner we’ll go up town.”

She was delighted. When she reached the Heights she would ask him to take her to the other house. Immediately after dinner she went to her room to put on her hat. When she came down again she found her husband calmly reading in the drawing-room.

“I thought we were going to the Heights, dear.”

He looked up in some surprise, and, instead of replying, asked if she wished to go out.

“Yes. I do. I—I want to go to mother’s.”

“Certainly, my love. I’ll go with you.”

A moment later he was ready, and calmly opened the front door and led her out into the broad, familiar avenue in the upper town.

She stood bewildered on the stoop, and looked at the street, at the lemon-colored houses opposite, and at the colonial villa behind her.

“What are you waiting for, dear?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering where we live.”

“Why, how absent you are, dear. This is our uptown house.”

It was all right. The other house was the dream. They spent a pleasant evening with her mother, and then they returned home. It was indeed all right, and just as it should be. She had certainly eaten something that was not best for her, or she would not have dreamed three times about the house by the river. Under the assurance of a stable residence in one place Mrs. Arburton’s spirits rose, and her health visibly improved. She resolved never to mention her absurd dream about the other house. She felt sure that it had never been built—and yet! Oh! she would not think about it any more. She would enjoy the happy present in her lovely colonial villa in the fashionable quarter of the town.

Mr. Arburton never came home to lunch now. He started off very early every morning, and was always late to dinner. It was not in young Mrs. Arburton’s nature to ignore this long.

“My love,” she said one stormy night when he came home tired, cold, and hungry, “My love, if the other house is finished we might go there and stay till this stormy weather is over. I miss you dreadfully at lunch, and it’s such a pity to let you travel so far in the rain.”

“All right, my dear. It would be better to go back again.”

“Back again!” Then it was not a dream.

The next morning young Mrs. Arburton was convinced that her mind was entirely unhinged. She did not dare to mention it to her husband. She went about her morning duties mechanically. They were in the lower town house. She knew the smell of the lumber yards only too well.

The thing was unbearable. She would settle the matter or perish in the attempt. The moment her husband had gone to his office she put on her things, took the trolley, and went up to the Heights. She found the avenue without the slightest difficulty. The colonial villa had totally disappeared. She asked a policeman if he had seen a white villa in the neighborhood. The man grinned broadly and said he guessed it was off duty.

She turned away indignant. What did the insolent creature mean? Nothing was to be gained by waiting there, and she took the trolley back home. On reaching the lower town she lost her way for the first time in her life. She wandered past several lumber yards, looking for that three-story house, and could not find it. Once she felt sure she had reached the spot—the house was not there. Thoroughly alarmed at what she regarded as her serious mental condition, she went at once to her husband’s office.

“Mr. Arburton is here?”

“No, ma’am. He started to go up to the Heights on business, and said he should stay to lunch at his house.”