Matters were in this way until he awoke one day to find his account overdrawn on his bankers. Then it was that he began to remember his operation in Greenwich street, and he seems to have thought that if he succeeded in New York, surely nothing could stand in his way in some sleepy town in Europe.



He went to Brussels prospecting, and soon pitched upon an establishment which he thought likely to reward his industry. But the result showed that to walk into a bank when the way was left open, with the authorities anxious to see him there, and to force his way in when the entrance was jealously barred with the guardians determined he should stay out, were two very different things. He made the attempt, was arrested and sentenced to sixteen years' imprisonment. His German friends heard of his mishap, and his glory faded like the early dew.

Naturally, every one thought that the count's career had closed, that the star of his fate had declined, that the bars of his prison house were about him forever. They were greatly mistaken. After some twelve or thirteen years he succeeded in getting a pardon and managed to make his way to America. His first visit was to the agents in whose hands he had left the management of his park lots. He went into their office, not knowing whether or not he was a pauper. He came out knowing himself to be nearly a millionaire.

During the almost twenty years of his absence his lots had increased enormously in value. Once more he was a rich man, once more he might emerge from his eclipse and become a power of a certain kind in the class of society he could get access to, but his experience had taught him something. His advancing years had left him but little desire for display. He came back to a world which knew him not: and few of those who notice a benevolent-looking old gentleman, who often passes an afternoon in upper Broadway, suspect that under an assumed name he hides the identity of Max Shinburne, the bank burglar.

When Hurley awoke from his drunken fit in London and recognized that his partner had both robbed and deserted him, he felt that his mission was over, and that nothing remained but to return at once to America. Loud and long and wrathful were the complaints over Shinburne's treachery. Whatever he did to others, all felt that his dealings with them ought to have been "on the square," but there was no help for it. He had disappeared, and faint, indeed, was the chance that they would ever see him again. The success of the crime, so far as they were concerned, had, after all, been a failure. Vanished hopes and cheated visions were their share, instead of the wealth they had anticipated, and in their devouring rage they tried to console themselves with the thought of what they would do to him if they ever met Shinburne.

The only man who had any real success from the scheme was the president. Exposure had become impossible. He had taken good care not to leave too much in the safes for his accomplices, and he was henceforth a wealthy man. The bank, desperately shaken by the robbery, fell so greatly in the esteem of the public that not long after it failed. The president gave up banking, and began to speculate in real estate. He increased in riches and prospered in the world. He called his lands after his own name. He thought his house would continue forever, and men praised him, because he did well to himself. He settled his children comfortably in life, and when he died, not so very long ago, all felt that the world was better because he had lived in it, and that, although their loss when he was taken was heavy, it was, nevertheless, his great gain.



CHAPTER VII.

GILDED SIRS WHO ARE NOT WISE.

After a pleasant voyage the Russia arrived, and one May morning I walked into the Northwestern Railway station in Liverpool to take the train for London. The bonds were in a little handbag, and I was free to look around. Everything was novel and strange, and all things told me I was in a foreign land. I had, like most young people, a particularly good opinion of myself and something of an idea as to my own importance.

We arrived in London amid a drizzling rain, and I was much impressed with the mighty roar of the traffic in the streets. We drove to Langham place, where I had a regular English tea, and liked it immensely, too. The next night I left Victoria Station for Dover, and crossing the Channel to Ostend, went through to Brussels and stopped there, having wanted, ever since boyhood, to visit the field of Waterloo. I looked through the city that day, visiting the famous City Hall and one of the art galleries. Retiring early I arose early and drove out to the plain immortalized by the giant struggle of those valiant hosts, but did not purchase any of the relics which were freely offered. These have been sold by shiploads to two generations of visitors. Returning to Brussels, I paid my bill at the Hotel de Paris, and was amused over the inventiveness of the proprietor in making charges—towels, candles, soap, attendance, paper, envelopes, being among them.

Going to the station I bought my ticket for Frankfort—that old town I was destined to see so much of during the next few years. On my journey I would pass through Cologne, and from there the railway skirts the bank of the Rhine. This being my first visit to Europe, I was intensely curious to see everything, especially the Cathedral at Cologne, and was eager to linger a few days along the banks of the Rhine. But I was more eager to complete the bond negotiations, and wisely resolved to go direct to Frankfort, sell the bonds, then, with the money in my pocket and all anxiety over, I would be in a state of mind to enjoy a short holiday.

I traveled through Belgium and some parts of Germany by daylight, and was, as most Americans are who travel on the Continent, shocked to see the employment of women. Soon after leaving Brussels I saw the, to me, novel sight of a number of women shoveling coal, handling the shovel like men. In other places I saw them laboring in the brick yards, digging and wheeling clay, and everywhere they were to be seen working at men's work in the fields.

A traveler in my compartment proved a most entertaining companion. He described himself to me as one who "went about pottering over a lot of antiquities and fooling around generally."

But my friend, the pottering old antiquary, gave me something of a surprise. At Chalours all of our fellow travelers in the compartment left us. Two of them were voluble French women, and they kept it up with amazing energy for the six hours from Brussels to Chalours. At every unusual swaying of the car there would be a volley of "Mon Dieus!" and ear-piercing exclamations, and it was certainly a relief when they left.

Bringing out a box of cigars, and my companion producing a flask of wine, we soon became confidential. Presently, to my great amusement, my Old Antiquary, warmed by the wine, confided to me that he was a detective police officer and chief of the secret service at Antwerp, that he was then working on a famous case, and had been shadowing one of the ladies who had journeyed with us from Brussels. Before leaving Brussels, he had discovered his quarry was to quit the train, and as he had to go on to Mayence, he had turned the business over to a confederate.

I was young, and no doubt he thought me innocent; certainly he did not withhold his confidence. This is the case he was investigating:

There was a wealthy gentleman by the name of Van Tromp living in Antwerp, a widower, 70 years of age, the father of a grown-up family, and many times a grandfather. It had been his custom to go to Baden-Baden every Summer, spending money freely both in pleasure and in the famous gambling resorts there. The last time he had met a woman, the Countess Winzerode, one of the many adventuresses to be found there, and speedily became infatuated. This Van Tromp was a descendant of old Admiral Van Tromp, who, in the mighty life-and-death struggle between Holland and Spain, and in the two wars with England, the first when Cromwell ruled, the second when the Second Charles was on the throne, held up the fame and glory of Holland. In one case he swept the proud navies of Spain from the seas and carried the Dutch flag around the world. In the other, he was only vanquished after stubborn sea-fights lasting for days, and only ended then because the stout admiral lay on his deck with an English bullet in his heart. This Van Tromp was the heir of the fame and the wealth of all the Van Tromps, and both had gone on accumulating for 300 years.

The self-styled Countess knew all this, and, as the sequel shows, knew her man. She was 40, had been beautiful, was still comely, with good figure, fair-haired, but with steel-blue eyes. She spoke many languages and had dwelt in every land from Petersburg to Paris. It is needless to tell how they first met or of the intimacy that sprang up between them, but I will merely say in passing that within five days of their first meeting he had given her a magnificent diamond bracelet, which had been in his family more than a century. This alarmed his two daughters, who were terrified at the mere suspicion that their father was in earnest, and might possibly present them with a stepmother, above all, a comparatively young stepmother, and, so far as physique went, a magnificent animal, with promise of a long life—so long that her rights of dower would make a cut in the Van Tromp estates and treasures, which might well cause the old Admiral to rouse himself from his three-century sleep in Dordrecht Church and once more walk these glimpses of the moon in protest of the sacrilege. Then the scandal of a Countess-adventuress becoming a Van Tromp—head of that family, too! They knew of his penchant for the Countess, and cared nothing for it, until, with a feeling akin to horror they observed at the dress ball one night the Countess airing the historic bracelet. It would require a volume to relate the scenes that followed in the Van Tromp domicile on this paralyzing discovery; but prayers, tears and histrionic touches were all met by the stolid reply of Van Tromp: "I please myself."

As a last resort the daughters appealed to the Countess, offering all their ready cash and a pension if she would only disappear. But visions of the Van Tromp diamonds and of the Van Tromp bank account were in her head and she was deaf to every appeal. In fact, she despised these heavy, matter-of-fact Dutch ladies, and rather gloried to think that she would soon be the female head of the Van Tromp house and stepmother to these two highly respectable dames, who would perforce have to live in her shadow. But then, of course, the Countess was a woman, and it is to be feared that even good women love to triumph over others. She, of course, could have no love for this portly old gentleman of seventy. But it is pitiful to think he was madly infatuated. The poor old man, in spite of his unromantic appearance, had warm blood in his veins and plenty of romance in his heart. At last, in spite of gossip and opposition, they were married, and then, instead of settling down, as the happy groom had hoped, to a life of wedded bliss in one of his country houses at Dordrecht, Lady Van Tromp insisted on spending her honeymoon in Paris. There they went, and the very day of their arrival the bride resumed a liaison with a beggarly count, who, not being an actual criminal, yet was written black enough in the books of the Paris police, and for whom the Countess had as warm an admiration as one of her cold, calculating nature was capable of feeling.

Van Tromp speedily found his dream of bliss blown to the winds, but he was not so blind as not to see that his wife not only did not love him, but was false to him as well. Poor old Van Tromp felt he had made his last throw for happiness, and hoping against hope, dreamed she in time would learn to appreciate his devotion and would love him, and so tried to persuade himself of her truth. The first anniversary of the marriage found them at Baden-Baden, and there the unhappy husband, thinking to give his wife a pleasant surprise, entered her chamber at an unusual hour bearing a diamond necklace for a present, and found her in a position which could no longer leave any doubt as to her faithlessness. Seizing a chair he felled her companion, who never stirred again; but the shock was too great for the husband, who himself fell to the floor and instantly expired—the doctors said of heart disease, and I think they were right. This event was only a few weeks old. The will had been read, and it was found that he had literally left everything "to my wife, Elizabeth."

Here my friend, the chief of police and a distant relative of Van Tromp, came to the front, determined quietly on his own account to investigate Lady Van Tromp. He found this last was at least her third venture on the stormy sea of matrimony. He had a fancy that some one of her husbands might still be living and undiscovered. If this could be proved, then her marriage to Van Tromp was no marriage, and the ducats, dollars and diamonds bequeathed by Van Tromp to "my wife, Elizabeth," would instantly melt into air—into very thin air, so far as the Countess was concerned; provided, of course, they had not actually passed into her clutches. In fact, they were legally hers, for the will had been admitted to probate. Those of the family objecting could offer no valid opposition, and she had been put in possession, but, by a strange neglect on her part, left everything intact, save a deposit of 300,000 gulden in the Bank of Amsterdam, which she secured and set out for Naples with a new lover.

The detective—whom I will call Amstel—discovered that she had first been married when only 15 years old to a young Swiss in Geneva, who soon left her and fled to America. He had subsequently returned to Europe, but Amstel was unable to discover his whereabouts or if he was living. He suspected that the Swiss was not only alive but in communication with the Countess, and that she, in fact, might be his legal wife. He had followed the Countess from Naples to Paris. There she left her lover and was now on her way to Nuremberg, as Amstel believed, to meet her first husband, but she had arranged to remain a few days with some old friends of hers. Every movement she made there would be watched, while Amstel, going on to Cologne to look up some clues, intended to wait there until informed that she had departed, and when the train arrived at Cologne he proposed to enter it and follow my lady on, hoping to witness a meeting between her and the much hoped-for husband. Happily we had arrived at Cologne at this point in the story, and as Amstel was to remain here we had to say good-bye; but for the whole twenty minutes of my stay we walked up and down the platform talking eagerly of the case. I had become much interested, so deeply, indeed, that had I had leisure I certainly should have turned amateur detective and joined Amstel.



The train started, and, promising to write me in New York the outcome of the case, we shook hands warmly and parted. He wrote me twice, and the following year I returned to Europe and met Amstel at Brussels. We had a very delightful time together, during which he told me the sequel of the Van Tromp episode. Instead of one, the Countess had two husbands living; but the Van Tromps preferred to buy off the woman at a good round sum rather than have a public scandal.

Amstel interviewed the Countess, and gave her the choice between arrest and a full release of all claims on the Van Tromp property for the sum of 100,000 gulden. She made a hard fight, but at last gave in gracefully. But my chapter has grown too long already, and I will close it with the remark that I myself met the lady at Wiesbaden in 1871, and became acquainted with the brilliant adventuress. She will appear again in the sequel.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE MERRY SUMMER OVER AND NO HARVEST STORED.

From Cologne to Frankfort is about 140 miles, and swiftly our train sped along up the Rhine—the lovely stream about which poets have raved for twenty generations. What classic ground! What scenes have its waters reflected, its mountains looked upon! In the old days its rolling floods made a deep impression on the stout Roman heart. More than one army, carrying with it the hearts of the Roman world, had crossed that river and plunged into the unknown forests beyond, only to go down in the shock of conflict with the brave but barbarian foe, leaving not one solitary survivor to carry back tidings to Rome of the fate of her army. And down through all the linked centuries the history of the Rhine has been the history of giant armies marching against each other, and of brothers slaughtering brothers. To-day the plains of Germany and France bear a million of armed men, ranged face to face, with only the Rhine between, eagerly awaiting the signal to pour a deadly rain on each other. And for what?

The last face that I saw at the Cologne station was that of Amstel, lit up with smiles as he waved his hand in adieu. Sitting cozily in the corner of the carriage, eager to see all that was to be seen, I found, as all tourists do, much to charm and delight. But my thoughts were on the bonds I had to sell, and I was glad enough when at 5 o'clock our train drew into the depot at Frankfort.

Alighting I took a cab and drove to the Hotel Landsberg, and, although tired, the scenes and surroundings were too novel for me to think of sleep. So I dined and went out to view the city, but as I will have occasion to refer to the place again, I will leave any description of it until another chapter.

In London there was an American banking house that has since failed, but which at this time was doing a large business in the way of issuing letters of credit. The firm was patronized chiefly by Americans. It issued credits, or letters of credit, without inquiry, to any one applying for them. While in London I called at their office, 449 Strand, and paying $750 was given a credit for L150, which I took under an assumed name. I wanted this letter to serve as an introduction to some of the bankers at Frankfort, and to open the way for the negotiation of the bonds. The Frankfort correspondents of the London firm were Kraut, Lautner & Co., on the Gallowsgasse. The next morning I repaired to the office of this firm, and producing my letter was very cordially received, and invited to make my headquarters in their office during my stay at Frankfort, which for the next day or two I did. However, I called on several other bankers, also feeling the way, and finally selected the firm of Murpurgo & Wiesweller, bankers widely known and of enormous wealth. I had several talks with Murpurgo, and told him I was arranging to purchase a number of copper mines in Austria, and if the deal was closed I should sell a large block of American bonds and use the cash I realized to pay for the purchase of the mines. I suppose he thought to make a good thing out of it, and was eager to purchase.

My reader will recall that payment upon all United States bonds payable to bearer, as mine were, could not be stopped, and so far as the innocent holder was concerned he was perfectly secure. But the custom among bankers was, whenever any bonds were lost by theft or fraud, to send out circulars containing the numbers, asking that the parties offering them might be questioned and held. But as American bonds were sold in millions all over the Continent, and were passing freely from hand to hand, as a matter of fact, little or no attention was paid to such circulars, but, of course, had strangers of disreputable appearance offered bonds in large sums, the lists might have been scrutinized and awkward questions asked. Therefore I felt a trifle nervous, and determined to run no chance of losing my bonds—at least not all of them. So I resolved to go to Wiesbaden, some fifteen miles away, stop at some hotel under a different name, leave the bonds there, and take the morning train for Frankfort, conduct my negotiations, and return to Wiesbaden every evening. It was at this time easy to lose one's identity in Wiesbaden, for the town then was, along with Baden-Baden, the Monte Carlo of the Continent, and adventurers, men and women, from all over Europe flocked there in thousands to chance their fortune in the gambling halls. Although a little in advance of this portion of my history, I will here relate an adventure of mine there, some years after the period of which I am speaking.

I will, however, preface my narrative with a brief account of the history of the place. The city of Wiesbaden, previous to the Franco-German war of 1870, was the chief town of one of those petty principalities which were plentifully sprinkled over the face of Europe. Since the old Roman days the town had been famous for its hot springs, and consequently for its hot baths, and a good many people—during the Winter particularly—resorted there to bathe and to drink the waters. As a matter of course, the townspeople, as the custom of such places is, have recorded many a marvelous cure, ranging all the way from headache to hydrophobia. But still the town was of little importance save locally. The petty ruler, with a title longer than his income, lived in the pretentious castle, beguiling the time by smoking cheap cigars or ordering on banquets whose piece de resistance consisted of Gebratene Gans und Kartoffeln, the unlucky bird being tribute in kind from the farmyard of some peasant subject living in a miserable hut on black bread.

But a change was impending. A mighty wizard had visited the place, with an eye quick to see the possibilities of the situation, with a brain to plan and a hand to execute. His name was Francois Blanc, the head of the great gambling establishment at Homburg. Vast as were his ambition and achievements, he was a man of the simplest tastes.

To see him—as I often have—in his seedy coat, his old-fashioned spectacles on the tip of his nose, one would have taken him for a country advocate whose wildest dreams were of a practice of two thousand thalers a year, with an old gig and wheezy mare to haul him around the country side from client to client. Before his Wiesbaden days he had been the guiding spirit in the direction of the splendid gambling halls, the Casino at Homburg. Blanc was impervious to flattery; a hard-headed, silent man, a man without enthusiasm and without weaknesses, who kept a lavish table and ate sparingly himself, who had a wine cellar rivaling that of the Autocrat of All the Russias and yet contented himself with sipping a harmless mineral water; who kept and directed a huge gambling machine—a mighty conglomeration of gorgeously decorated halls, wine parlors and music rooms, crammed day and night by giddy and excited throngs, but himself never indulging in anything more exciting than an after-dinner game of dominoes or a quiet drive with his wife through the country lanes.

Thus this Francois Blanc, with perfect equanimity, watched the thousand thousands of butterflies and moths of society scorch their wings in the terrific flame that glowed in his Casino, while he looked on, a cynical observer, despising the fools enraptured with roulette and fascinated with rouge-et-noir.

But one thing he was not afraid of, and that was spending money. To compass his business ends he laid it out lavishly, and in the end he drew all Europe to Wiesbaden. Still broader and still deeper he laid the foundations of the fortune that ultimately grew to colossal proportions. But he did not make Wiesbaden famous without keen opposition. He made the fortune of the beggarly Prince Karl and the whole hungry crowd of royal highnesses in spite of themselves. At every fresh opposition he simply opened his purse and a golden shower fell on them.

It required a hard head to withstand the attacks made on him when it became known that he had bought up both prince and municipality, and proposed to make Wiesbaden par excellence the gambling city of the Continent. But, despite of all, he pushed on his plans to wonderful success. A great park was laid out and stately buildings arose, all dedicated to the goddess of chance. Slim was the chance the votaries of the game had in his gorgeous halls. He threw out his money in millions, but he knew the weak, foolish heart of man, the egotism of each and every one of us, that leads us to ignore for ourselves the immutable law of numbers. So he counted upon his returns, and never counted in vain.

As I say, he had a hard head to withstand the attacks made upon him. Every day the post brought hundreds of letters containing propositions of threats from people who had lost their money and demanded its return with fierce threats, pitiful supplications and warnings of intended suicide, place, date and hour carefully specified, so there could be no mistake, and more than one attempt was made upon his life. But the equanimity of Francois Blanc was equal to all adventures. Threats, prayers, temptations, left him untouched. This man of ice, self-possessed, cold, indifferent to the ruin of the thousands of victims of his will, had a fad or fancy. It was for raising red and white roses, and while the mad throngs were fluttering in frenzy around the tables in his halls at Homburg, Wiesbaden and Monte Carlo, he, hoe or trowel in hand, would be training and transplanting his roses, solicitous over an opening bud or deploring the ravages of an insect; or, again, refusing all invitations, would sit down with his wife to a dinner of boiled turnips and bacon, washed down with a glass of Vichy water and milk. This was the town and these the scenes constantly occurring there.

Now for my adventure. In 1870, just before the war cloud burst, covering all that part of the world, I was stopping for some weeks at the Hotel Nassau. It stands in the main street, opposite the park gate leading to the Casino. All the world went to Wiesbaden to be amused. However fashionable frivolity and vice may be elsewhere, here it was strictly de rigueur, and to pretend to decency and sobriety would be to stamp one's self a heathen and barbarian, all unversed in the glorious flower-wreathed Primrose Way of our orb.

The daily routine for the throng began with coffee in bed at 8 a.m., then dressing gowns were donned, and the bath in underground floors of the hotel were sought and a bath had in the hot mineral waters, which were conducted to all the hotels direct from the hot springs of the town. Half an hour in the bath, then a light breakfast, preparatory to sallying out for an hour on the Spaziergang around the Quellen to drink the water, listen to the band, see and be seen, but, above all, to gossip and tell lies. At 11 a.m. the gambling began in the Casino, and with a rush the seats around the tables would be filled. Then speedily there would be rows behind rows of eager players or spectators, and what a sight it all was to the cool-headed observer.

With what keen interest all watched the result of the first turn of the card at the card tables and the color of the first hit at roulette. For all gamblers are superstitious, and are devout believers in omens. Those whose luck or pocketbooks held out gambled steadily on, or, if luck turned against them, would leave the table, go to do some fantastic thing to change their luck and then return. At 2 p.m. the band (a very fine one) played in the Musik Saal, and most of the idlers and morning players gathered there to listen to the music and to drink and dine. Here in this hall the intrigues begun on the promenade or in the gambling-rooms were helped along by the ample opportunities of meeting, with the passions stimulated by the music and the wine. At 4 o'clock many took an afternoon nap. Then came the chief event of the day, the ponderous table d'hote. At 9 p.m. every one flocked to the Casino, and the game went merrily on until midnight. Then to bed, each and all with more or less Rudesheimer or Hochheimer stowed away.

At the time of which I speak many were my idle days, in which I was free to seek pleasure. I used to find much enjoyment in frequenting the Casino to watch the people and to play the role of "looker-on in Vienna," which, by the way, is a star role and therefore rather agreeable. One evening while watching the rouge-et-noir I noticed a lady just in front of me, magnificently dressed in all, save that there was an entire absence of jewelry. She was literally dressed to kill, and, although near 50, yet to the casual observer she seemed no more than 40, or even less. She was a well-preserved woman of the world, and was known as the Countess de Winzerole. This was the adventuress who had married Van Tromp some two years before. What a career had been that of this woman!

She had been mistress from first to last of a dozen men, noblemen, diplomats, soldiers, but being an inveterate gambler, one after another saw, with dismay, the cash, estates, diamonds, carriages, costly furs and laces he showered upon her all go whirling into the ever-open maw of the Casino, or in the drawing-room games of the bon-ton in Paris or Petersburg. One brave youth, an officer in the Prussian Guards, had, in his infatuation for the Countess, and impregnable, as he thought, against bankruptcy by reason of his great fortune, tried to satisfy her cravings for splendor of entourage and her infatuation for gambling. The result was that one day the crack of a pistol-shot was heard in the Countess' chamber, and the servants rushing in found the young bankrupt dead, lying across the bed, with a bullet through the heart. The next day a horde of clamorous creditors besieged the house, where the Countess calmly told them she had sent for her bankers and on the morrow they would be paid. That night his comrades buried their dead friend with military honors. At midnight the cortege passed the hotel, and all eyes watched the lovely Countess robed in white as she appeared, her bosom heaving with emotion, while she waved a farewell to her dead lover. Ten minutes later she fled through the back door and over the garden wall, falling into the arms of another lover waiting there. He himself did not go the way of the last, but half of his fortune did; so one morning, leaving a polite note of farewell, he, taking for companion the dressing maid of his mistress, embarked for America.

At the time I met her the Countess' reputation was too well known and her beauty too much fallen off for her to make any more grand catches. A local banker at Wiesbaden became very friendly. However, the friendship lost all its warmth when the banker's stout wife one day caught them together, and having already provided herself with a whip in anticipation, visited them both with a jealous woman's rage and a sound thrashing.

Now, the Countess spent her time around the tables, following the winners and getting douceurs from them. These were by no means small—most of them being gifts pure and simple, given from mere goodness of heart or sheer prodigality for there were too many gay and beautiful women flocking around ready to smile on winners in the game for the Countess now to make even a temporary conquest. However, at this period she lived well—even extravagantly—but, of course, saved nothing. As related, I first met the Countess here at the table where the game was going on. She had just staked and lost her last gulden. She was betting on the black, and four times in succession the red had won. She turned, and looking in my face, implored me to bet a double Frederick on the red. I instantly placed the money on the red and won. She begged me to transfer the stake to the black. I did so, and black won. Placing her hand on the stake, she said: "Sir, leave it; black will win again." Sure enough, it did. She seized the cash, $80, and handing me a double Frederick, said in her most bewitching manner: "Oh, sir; be generous and let me keep this!" I said: "Certainly, madame." She promptly staked it, and in two turns of the cards it was gone.

We met several times the next few days, but merely bowed without speaking.

One afternoon, entering the Musik Saal, I took a small table, and, ordering a bottle of wine, sat down to listen to the music and watch the throng. The Countess came in, and seeing me alone, came straight to me, shook hands warmly and sat down. I, of course, invited her to have a glass of wine. We soon finished that bottle and ordered another. We had what was to me a most amusing talk. She was a character—had been everywhere and spoke all the modern languages. She assured me that I was a very charming gentleman. In paying my bill I incautiously displayed a gold piece or two, and, seeing she was going to ask me to give her one, I saved her the trouble by placing one in her hand. In time we became quite good friends. Twice I paid her board bill in order to rescue her wardrobe from the clutches of her landlord, and once I saved her from the hands of an irate washerwoman. When, after a time, I left Wiesbaden, I left her as gay, as prosperous and as extravagant as ever.

I did not see Wiesbaden again for over two years, but the second week of January, 1873, found me there. The Prussian Government now ruled in the town, and refused to renew the license of M. Blanc. It had expired fourteen days before my arrival. What a change had fallen on the town! The Casino was gloomy and cold, the gay crowds had fled. All the life and movement of the street and promenade was forever a thing of the past. I had located there simply as a precaution, disposing of large amounts of bonds in Frankfort, fifteen miles away, and returning to Wiesbaden each night. At this time I put up at the Hotel Victoria, near the railroad station. One Saturday, going up to Frankfort rather late, my business detained me until after dark. On reaching the station I happened to look into the third-class waiting-room, and there I spied a figure alone that looked familiar. I soon recognized the Countess. From her appearance and surroundings it was plain that there was now no wealthy lover at her beck and call. Because she looked so unhappy I gave her a cordial greeting, which she returned rather wearily. It was very cold, and I was clad in furs from head to foot; besides, I was, apparently, on the full floodtide of fortune, having with me then a very large sum of money, some of which she could have had for the asking.

I said: "Come, Countess; let us go together first class to Wiesbaden." She replied that she lived at Bieberich, a small town on the Rhine, four miles below Mayence, and four miles from Wiesbaden. As the train was starting I bade her good-bye, but asked permission to call on her the next day. She consented, giving her address as Hotel Bellevue.

The next morning was very cold, but I enjoyed that, so, after a light breakfast, I started over the hills for a walk to the town, arriving there soon after noon. I found the hotel, a fifth-rate one, and entering, was shown to the room of the Countess. What a change for her from the past! Her room was a small one, plastered, but unpapered, and with a few articles of furniture of the cheapest. The poor woman was too evidently in a state of frightful depression, and well she might be. Hers had been a butterfly existence, life all one Summer holiday, no hostages given to fortune, no bond taken against future wreck or change. Like the butterfly, she had roamed from flower to flower, sipping the sweet only, or, like the cricket, had merrily piped all the Summer through, thinking sunshine and bloom eternal. Even when youth and beauty had fled, and lovers no longer stood ready to attend and serve, she still found a good aftermath in her happy harvest field on the floors of the Casino, but when the Casino lights at Wiesbaden went out, then, for the Countess, had the Winter indeed come.

My walk had given me something of an appetite, and it now being 2 o'clock I at once proposed to have dinner. To my surprise she said she had already dined, and upon my remarking that it was early for dinner, she replied that it was, but as she was owing quite a hotel bill she feared to give any trouble lest the landlord might present his bill, and in default of payment she was liable to arrest and a very considerable imprisonment. I need hardly tell my readers that they do these things differently in Germany than with us. I could easily afford to be generous with other people's money, and did not mean to see the Countess suffer for a hotel bill. Ringing the bell, I told the waiter to bring me some dinner and a bottle of wine. The Countess looked very uneasy over my order. Of late years she had seen life from the seamy side and had observed so much of the falseness and cruelty of men that she had apparently lost all faith in them, and no doubt thought me an adventurer, one who might possibly dine and order expensive wines, leaving her to face an angry landlord. While dinner was being prepared she told me she was in the greatest distress; had not even a single kreutzer to pay postage, and, worst of all, was owing for two weeks' board. She had no means to fly, no place to fly to, and if she remained incarceration awaited her. She had for weeks been writing everywhere to every one she had known, former lovers, distant, but long-neglected relatives. The result—dead silence; no response from anywhere. She at last was alone, caught in the world's great snare, with no friendly hand to shelter or save. It was a sight to read this woman's face. There swept over it all the conflicting waves of regrets over might-have-beens and the gloomy shades of despair. Both proprietor and waiter appeared to set the table; it was for one, but wineglasses for two were brought unsolicited. They were officiously anxious to please "Your Highness," as they christened me. The Countess sat looking gloomily out of the window across the Rhine, while I watched her face until an infinite pity for the shipwrecked soul filled my mind. Dismissing the waiter I went to the window, and standing by her chair I said: "Don't worry any more, Countess; I will pay your bill." At the same time drawing from an inner pocket a book crammed with notes, I placed seven 100-thaler notes in her lap, saying: "This one is for your board bill, and the other six are for your pocket money." I need not attempt to picture her amazement and delight. Certainly she appeared very grateful. We had a long conversation and I was talking to her like a brother. Perhaps had she still been beautiful and young my manner and language might have been less brotherly. I told her she had danced and sung, but at last the time had come for toil, and suggested she should go to Brussels, which is ever thronged with tourists, where her knowledge of languages and her savoir faire could be made available in one of the many shops where gimcracks are sold to travelers. I advised her to offer a small premium for a position. This she said she would do.

In saying good-bye I promised to see her again the next night, but I found a telegram awaiting me on my arrival at my hotel which called me to meet two of my companions at Calais, and I was forced to leave by an early train. The next time I saw the Countess was at Newgate. She visited me there, and was in perfect despair over my position and her inability to serve me. For those who may care to know more of her, I will say that, following my advice, she went to Brussels and obtained a position in a Tourist Exchange and within a year married the proprietor, who was a Councilman and a man of considerable local importance. She made him a good wife and became a true mother to his five daughters. When he died he made her guardian to both of them and his wealth. She became very religious, and to the last was a devout member of the Roman Church. She died in 1886, thirteen years after the episode at Rieberich. Her ashes rest in the little graveyard of the Convent des Soeurs de Ste. Agnes, on the Charleroi road, two miles from the city, and on her monument is engraved:

TO ELIZABETH, The Beloved Wife, Pious and True. She Served God and Has Gone to Live with the Angels



CHAPTER IX.

"WE HAVE ANOTHER JOB FOR YOU."

About every second day I called on Murpurgo & Weissweller in Frankfort, and talked over matters, and easily saw that everything would go right. All that was necessary was to produce the bonds, and they would hand over the cash. Here in America, though we scrutinized a man's garments, the quality and fit of the same having a certain value, we never take much stock in a stranger because an artist tailor has decorated him, or because he has plenty of money. But in the seventies, all over Europe, from the mere fact that a man was an American and had the appearance, dress and manner of a gentleman, they always took it for granted that he must be a gentleman.

Therefore, seeing that I was taken for a capitalist, and that no question would be asked, I told the firm my deal in Austrian copper mines appeared so certain to be completed that I had ordered the securities I intended to dispose of to be forwarded from London. Giving them a list, they gave me a memorandum offer for the lot. I accepted their offer. The next hour was a very bad sixty minutes for me. There was considerable delay, and my suspicions were fully aroused, and at one time I thought they had made some discovery; but, as a fact, my suspicions were wholly unfounded.

The banker and clerks were simply hurrying around, anxious to oblige me and have the money out of the bank before it closed. At last the amounts were figured up and verified by myself. One of the partners hastened off to the bank and in five minutes returned with a very pretty parcel of 200,000 gulden; but, in spite of the evident safety of the business, I was nervous, and resolved to put a good distance between me and the town as speedily as possible. Before 5 o'clock I was in Weisbaden, and, going directly to the Casino, where they kept at all times a million francs, in addition to German money, and where the possession of large sums attract no attention, I readily exchanged my money for 350 one-thousand-franc notes.

* * * * *

Going to Rothschild's, I bought exchange on New York for $80,000, and left the same night for London. Very many times I journeyed over that route in after years, but never with so light a heart. I was young and enthusiastic; all the glamour and poetry of life hung around me, while I was too inexperienced to notice whither I was drifting, or to understand the powerful current upon which I had embarked. In fact, I had sold myself to do the devil's work, and day by day the chain would tighten, while all the time I thought I could when I pleased stop short on the downward grade and take the back track. More experience would have taught me that every one who forsook the path of honor not only thought the same, but had a purpose to even everything up some day and make restitution. And to-day there is not a criminal but who, at the start, looks forward to the time when he will no longer war against society, but will go out and come in at peace with all men. But when one comes to think of it, what a fool's game is that of a man who fights against society!



The criminal has but two arms, very short and weak they are, and of flesh, too. He has but two eyes that cannot possibly see around the nearest corner, while society has a million arms of steel that can reach around the world, and a million eyes which are never closed, that can pierce the thickest gloom with sleepless vigilance. The poor, unhappy criminal, by fortunate dexterity, may escape for a little, but at last society lays her iron grasp on him, and with giant force hurls him into a dungeon. As for the short-lived, tempestuous success that some few criminals have, is there any sweetness in it? I say no; success won in honest fight is sweet, but I know from my own experience that the success of crime brings no sweetness, no blessing with it, but leaves the mind a prey to a thousand haunting fears that make shipwreck of peace.

There were no sleeping cars in all Europe then, so I sat up in a compartment and really enjoyed the ride, viewing the country by moonlight. At midnight we arrived at Calais, and took the boat for Dover. Then the express for London. Arriving at Victoria Station I took a cab to Mrs. Green's, where I had breakfast a l'anglaise.

I had a little adventure that night going down the Strand. At Bow street, on the corner, is the "Gaiety," a famous drinking saloon, flooded with light inside and out, with more than a half-dozen handsome barmaids. Barmaids are a great institution in England—that is, they have never more than one man behind a bar, none at all in the railway bars. And a fearful source of ruin to the girls, as they are to thousands of young men—I might say tens of thousands every year. These girls are chosen for their beauty and attractiveness. Yearly, in London and in other large cities of England, a "Beautiful Barmaid Show" is one of the stated features, and is held in some public garden or monster hall. These exhibitions are wonderfully popular, and thousands flock to them. Various beauty contests are got up, and all the popular features of voting, etc., are in vogue. Those of the young women who win the prizes make their fortunes, for they are at once engaged at high salaries for the more aristocratic barrooms. Fancy what an attraction and even fascination the gin palace with lovely girls behind the bar must have to the youth of a great city. Many of them strangers, busy during the day, but with nothing to do at night, with the choice of the street or a sombre room, but sure of a sweet smile of welcome from a fascinating woman in the barrooms. How easily and how naturally, too, does a young man become ensnared. But how if he has no money? No smiles and no welcome for him! And then what a temptation to help himself to his master's cash!

Happy for our country that our laws forbid women entering that occupation!

While standing in the brilliant light of the Gaiety, watching the thronging crowd of passers-by, with its sprinkling of unfortunates, I saw one poor, bedraggled creature, wan-faced and hollowed-eyed, with hunger and despair imprinted on every feature. Looking sharply at her she caught my eye, and, crossing the street, she spoke to me. The poor thing looked as if she had been dragged through all the gutters of London. She said that herself and her baby were actually starving—that her husband had been out of work thirteen weeks and had then deserted her, owing twelve weeks' rent, and the landlady had just told her that unless she paid her some rent before 9 o'clock that night she would be turned out with her baby into the streets.

Those of my readers who have been in London know something of what it would mean for this woman to be turned out into the streets of that fearful Babylon. No wonder, then, the poor soul was frantic with despair. In her poverty a shilling looked as big as a cartwheel, and when I said to her: "Will you promise to go direct home if I give you a sovereign?" she cried out: "Oh, sir, God forever bless you if you will!" I gave her the $5, and as she started to run I caught her by the sleeve and said: "I will go home with you to see if you have told me the truth." She lived close by, in one of those teeming courts that run off from the Strand. We found her baby naked on a heap of rags, in a small, dirty room, containing two broken chairs for furniture. I felt that there were in the large city thousands of similar cases, but this one was brought home to me. I was young and impressionable—more than that, I had other people's money to be liberal with; so I called up the landlady, who, almost dumb with surprise, received the arrears of rent, along with a month in advance. Eliza, for that was her name, told me she could get work if she had clean clothes for herself and baby, which she could buy for L2. I gave her five, and giving her my address in New York, told her to find work and let me know how she got on. She did find work in an eel-pie shop in Red Lion Square, High Holborn. I saw her two years later in London, and possibly may refer to her again in this story.

* * * * *

I went down to Liverpool and embarked on the good ship Java. Ten days later we sailed through the Narrows.

During my last day in London I went to Westminster Abbey, and spent three hours in that Valhalla of the Anglo-Saxon race. It made a tremendous impression upon my mind. In no other work of human hands do the spirits of so many departed heroes linger, certainly in no other does the dust of so many of the great dead rest, and as I read memorial upon memorial to departed greatness I realized that the path of honor and of truth was the only one for men to tread. All through the voyage the influences of the Abbey were upon me; I felt I was treading on dangerous ground, and resolved I would have no more of it. Would I had then resolved, when I met Irving & Co., to throw all the plunder in their faces and say: "I'll have none of it, and here we part!" I felt that I ought to do that, but weakly said: "I need the $10,000, and I'll give the rogues their share and then see them no more." I had fully made up my mind to that, knowing Irving would be on the wharf, eager to meet me.

In sailing through the Narrows and past Staten Island I was making up my mind as to the little speech I would make. We rapidly neared the wharf in Jersey City, and I quickly recognized Irving standing on the edge of the closely packed crowd, watching the steamer with a nervous look on his face. A rogue suspects every one, and although by this time he had become pretty well satisfied as to my good faith, no doubt he would be happier when he had his share of the plunder safe in his pocket. I was standing close to the rail between two ladies, and saw Irving before he saw me. Waving my handkerchief, his eye suddenly fell on me. With a smile and pointing significantly to my pocket, I gave him a salute. An eager look came into his face, and waving his hand he cried out: "I am glad to see you!" and no doubt he spoke the truth. When the gangplank was thrown ashore, and I saw him making his way toward it, evidently intending to board the steamer, I thought how surprised he would be when I told him I would have no more of his game. He sprang on board, rushed to me with a beaming face, grasped my hand, and putting the other on my shoulder, led me toward the gangway. He had not spoken yet, but as we were going down the gangplank he said: "My boy, you have done splendidly," and then, putting his mouth close to my ear, whispered: "We have got another job for you, and it's a beauty!"

I don't mean to pester my reader with a moral, or by too much moralizing, although I am tempted to do so. There is ample material for a course of sermons in that "we have another job for you" coming to me just then. But, leaving my reader to draw his own moral, I must go on with my narrative.

Going up the wharf with Irving, I was on the point of telling him I wanted no more jobs, but weakly put it off, and by so doing, of course, made it more difficult. He told me Stanley and White were waiting at Taylor's Hotel on Montgomery street, a few doors up from the wharf. We soon were there, and they gave me a warm and even enthusiastic reception. Then I began to tell some of my adventures on the journey, to which they listened with unfeigned admiration, and, opening my bag, I produced the sixteen bills of exchange for $5,000 each, informing them they should have their cash in ninety minutes. It was curious to see these men handle the bills of exchange, passing them from one to another, examining them with anxious care. But where were my good resolutions, and what had become of them? Why, they, under the effect of the wine and the magnetic influence of these three minds, had gone flying down the bay, and under a favorable gale were fast speeding seaward beyond the ken of mortal eye, not to be found by me again until years after, when, with the toils about me, I found myself in Newgate. Then the fugitives all came back, this time to stay.

My three graces who adorned the Police Department of New York were full of matter of a new enterprise, which by my co-operation was to make the fortunes of us all. But they were too evidently anxious, too eagerly desirous to handle the greenbacks my bills of exchange represented, to fix their minds upon anything else.

Stanley and White went away together, but first each once more told me privately that he depended upon me to put in his own hands his share, showing how these rogues suspected each other, and, indeed, were full of suspicions of every one and every thing. Irving crossed the ferry with me, but on the New York side dropped behind, and, although I paid no more attention to him, no doubt he followed me. The excitement of success and of being at home again banished any possible regrets or fears over the course I had entered, and with a light heart and buoyant step I quickly made my way to a friend of mine, a well-known broker in New street, shook hands with him, and, telling him, very much to his surprise, that I had just returned from Europe, asked him to step around the corner to the office of the bankers and identify me. In a minute we were there. Indorsing the drafts, I told them to make it in five-hundreds; they sent out to the bank for them, and I was speedily on my way to our rendezvous with 160 $500 greenbacks in a roll, and meeting the three at the wineroom I made their eyes grow big when I flashed the roll on their delighted orbs. The division was speedily made, I retaining $10,000 for my share, and each promptly threw out a thousand, and we shook hands all around and parted.

Here were four conspirators of us, and it was comical to see how anxious we all were to get away so that each could stow his plunder in a safe place. For my part I went home, but I shall say nothing of the meeting with the members of my family. I told them I had made a lot of money in a speculation, and not knowing the inside history, or suspecting anything, they rejoiced with me and were proud and happy for their boy. I spent about a thousand dollars making things comfortable for them, but to their grief I told them that circumstances required me to take up my former quarters at the St. Nicholas.

It would be interesting to tell of my reception among my acquaintances on Wall street and other parts of the city. Rumor magnified my resources, and it was reported I had cleared a hundred thousand dollars in some fortunate deal. It was strange to see the new-found deference all around, from my former employers down to my old waiter at downtown Delmonico's, where I dined; but I will pass over all these matters and proceed with my history of the Primrose Way.

The next few days I went about engaged in the to me very agreeable task of paying all my debts. The largest debt I was owing was one of $1,300, partly borrowed money and partly a long-standing balance due on a speculation negotiated on my account, and which did not pan out, but entailed a loss. Then I indulged pretty freely in many little extravagances in the way of tailor bills, etc. Two friends struck me for a loan, and, strange to say, both remain unpaid to this hour, along with some twenty-five years' interest. So, within a fortnight of my landing I found my $13,000 reduced quite one-half, and as I was cherishing visions of unbounded wealth, I began to feel quite poor, and anxious to see some outcome to this "other job" my friends said they had ready for me. It was at the very door.



CHAPTER X.

A NINETEENTH CENTURY PRODIGAL.

Let no man who may be tempted to commit a crime ever fancy that if he takes the first step down hill he will stop until he reaches the bottom. If one of my readers flatters himself he can go one step, with no more to follow, on the downward road, let such an one read this story to the end and then forever abandon such an idea as a fancy born of inexperience. For this history is as a handwriting on the wall, full of warning to all and every one who may be tempted to take one step in any other path than the path of honor.

In 1865 there lived in London a famous Queen's Counsel, Edwin James. Fame and fortune were his. A born orator, a talented scholar, he rapidly pushed his way from the very bottom of the legal profession to all but its topmost height. At 40 he found himself facile princeps of the English Bar, and public opinion, that potent factor in popular government, had already singled him out for the high position of Attorney-General. That secured, only one step remained to place him in the seat of the Lord Chancellor. Truly, an imperial position—one that satisfied the proud ambition of a Wolsey and fitted the genius of a Thomas a Becket. It carries with it the position of keeper of the conscience of Her Majesty, giving the possessor precedence in all official functions over the English aristocracy, next to royalty itself.

But about this time dark whispers began to fly about through the clubs of London. Soon it became known that Edwin James, the Lord Chancellor to be, was in the toils, and it shortly transpired that, in spite of the fact that his income from his profession was nearer twenty than ten thousand pounds per annum, it had proved insufficient and he was heavily in debt, and worse.

It would seem he was keeping up what in the polite language of society are known as dual houses. A woman of brilliant beauty presided over one, and the marvelous beauty of its mistress was only equaled by her extravagance. He also had a fondness for associating with younger men than himself, and had got into a particularly fast set of young lords and army men. At his club he had lost large sums at baccarat and loo, and, in an unhappy hour for himself and his, he stooped from his high position and—miserable to think of—committed a crime. This, in the expectation that he would relieve himself from some of the more crushing obligations he had heaped upon himself, either through the extravagant vagaries of his imperious mistress, or by his own rashness in trying his luck among a lot of titled sharpers. He had among his clients one fast, even madly extravagant youth, heir of an historic name and of a lordly estate. To supply his extravagance "my lord" had applied to the money lenders—those sharks that in London, as elsewhere, fatten on such game. These gentry were eager to lend the young blood money upon what are known in English law as post-obits, which loans in this particular case carried the trifling interest of about 100 per cent. per annum. James was cognizant of his friend's excursions among the money lenders, and no doubt he thought the young spendthrift, when he came into his fortune, would never know within a good many thousands how much he had borrowed, nor even the number of post-obits he had given.

I will just explain that a post-obit is a form of note or due bill given by the heir of an estate (usually of an entailed estate), which matures the moment the drawer of the document enters into that estate. That is to say, the tender-hearted son discounts his father's death to provide fuel to feed his flame. So Edwin James, driven to his own destruction, stooped from his imperial position into what one might call ankle-depth of crime.

How little he dreamed there was a beyond—a huge, seething sea of crime; an ocean whose billows are of ink, and which would soon sweep him from his high place into the black waters, there to be buffeted until, honor and hope all gone, he would, throwing his hands to heaven, with one despairing cry, sink into its inky depths, adding one more ruined life to the millions already engulfed. In that long, sad catalogue of the dead there is probably not one, who, when taking the first step into crime, ever thought a second would follow the first.

But to come back to our gilded sir. He made out two post-obits for L5,000, wrote his client's name at the bottom of each, gave them to the money lenders, who, never doubting that the prodigal son had signed and given them to his counsel, made no question, but gave James the money for them at once. But James had reckoned without his host, for this nineteenth century prodigal was made of keener metal than he of the first. Strange to say, and utterly unexpected as it was to all who knew him and had looked upon his riotous living, he kept his books straight, and knew to a single guinea how much and to whom he was owing.

His discovery of the forgery was accelerated by the sudden and most unexpected death of his father, his return home and stepping into his estate.

The various post-obits were presented and placed before him. He instantly pronounced the two for five thousand pounds each to be forgeries, and the crime was easily laid at the door of the Queen's Counsel. The heir indignantly refused to condone the offense, and, revealing the fatal secret to a few, within a month it was known in every clubroom in London. From there it got into the newspapers, and they, under a thinly disguised alias of a "distinguished member of the Bar," gave more or less accurate details of the damning truth. His former client eventually said he would not prosecute the forgery if the criminal left England; if not, he would immediately go before the Grand Jury, procure an indictment, and have this man, who had moved a prince among men, arraigned in the dock at the Old Bailey, there to plead and stand trial like any common criminal.

And he fled. Of course, like all fugitives from justice throughout the Old World, he looked to America for a city of refuge, and here he came. Not to keep my readers too long from the main narrative, it will suffice to say that soon after his arrival he applied for admission to the Bar of New York, but first he won to his cause the high-souled Richard O'Gorman, then a leader of his profession.

It was for Edwin James a lucky stroke, for at this time O'Gorman was in full possession of his magnificent powers. Few could resist his magic. His great heart was stirred, and he took up the cause of his friend as if he had been his brother. The English lawyer's reputation was known to every member of the Bar of New York, and there had been and still was a bitter opposition to his admission; but when it became known that their eloquent leader was his champion, many began to feel that after all "the poor fellow ought to be given another chance," and when at the next meeting of the Bar Association O'Gorman in a set oration brought all his splendid eloquence into play the cause was won.

Great-hearted O'Gorman had helped this lame dog over the stile, but the dog's heart was not in the right place, and, as my reader will see in the sequel, he soon went lame again. * * *

* * * * *

In the rear room of a somewhat luxurious range of offices in a building on Broadway, facing the City Hall, four men were engaged in discussing what was evidently an exciting topic. The door of the main office bore the sign "Edwin James, Counselor-at-Law and Register in Bankruptcy." He was one of the four. He had failed lamentably in his efforts to secure a practice. The effects of O'Gorman's eloquence had in the gray light of commonplace day faded away, the more so when the ideal his magic had created in the minds of men was in hourly contrast with the man himself and his history. His professional brethren looked upon him with suspicion, and there was a general impression abroad that his escapades were not over yet.

He had launched out in his office and home somewhat extravagantly, and now, once again pressed by clamorous creditors, he had once more drifted upon the borderlands of crime, and was here with his companions planning a criminal transaction in order to pay his more pressing debts.

One of these four was Brea, who, with a keen eye to business, had married the discarded daughter of a wealthy but not over-respectable New York family, and he had, unsuspected, pulled the wires so that James had been employed as the family lawyer, and in that capacity had drawn the will of the mother. She was an imperious, hot-tempered body, one who, when aroused, was accustomed to use language more vigorous than polite, and who not infrequently went to fisticuffs with her daughters. The husband and father, the creator of the fortune, was dead and the vast family property, in securities, stocks and lands, was vested absolutely in the mother. In the old lady's will Brea's wife, the second daughter of the house (there were no sons), was down in the very first paragraph for the magnificent sum of "one dollar lawful currency," and her name nowhere else appeared in the lengthy document. The old lady was such a termagant and so implacable in her hatreds that it was a moral certainty she would never relent and change her purpose toward her daughter. But James had also drawn up a second will of his own and Brea's concoction, and a precious piece of villainy it was, in which the wife was down for legacies amounting; to $750,000. The genuine will James kept in his own possession, ready to destroy the very moment word came that the old lady was an immortal, while the spurious will was kept in the vaults of the Safety Deposit Company, there to remain until the death of the testatrix, when, of course, it would in due time be produced.



Brea had been introduced to the other three men, and cultivated their acquaintance in the belief that they would some day be useful to him. He had a few days before introduced them to James. As a matter of precaution he had concealed from them all knowledge of the will. At the same time he gave them a hint that there was something in the wind, but that some way must be found to secure at once a few thousands, enough for a year or two, until the good time came when fortune was to lavish her favors on them all with a liberal hand. But money must be had at once, for Brea and James were in sore straits, particularly James, who had been threatened with arrest, and was so far involved that he always entered and left his house at night in order to escape importunate creditors. This was James' second interview with the men, and the first time he had been alone with them. He saw at once that he had to do with able, clear-headed men, took them into his confidence, and, in order to excite their hopes and to bind them to him as well, he confided to them the plot of the forged will, producing the genuine for their inspection. He assured them that it was a sure and speedy fortune, as the lady was old and frail in health, and he also promised they should share between them $100,000, provided they would stand by to give a hand in the somewhat improbable event of the other heirs disputing the will, but above all, if they would devise some means to furnish him at once $10,000, or at least $5,000. Money he must have, and he could no longer do without it.

The result of our conference in James' office was that the very next day an office downtown was engaged under a fictitious name, and a simple, unsuspicious fellow hired as porter and messenger. After some little negotiation, we obtained particulars of parties banking with the then great firm of Jay Cooke & Company, corner of Wall and Nassau streets. Briefly told, the result was that four days later a messenger walked into their banking house with a check for $20,000, purporting to be signed by another firm, who banked with them. Along with the check went a letter bearing a signature well known to the cashier, asking him to pay the check to bearer. The result of all being that five minutes thereafter we were walking unconcernedly up Broadway, and sending a message to James to meet us at Delmonico's, corner of Broadway and Chambers street, we sat down awaiting his arrival. He had anxiously been looking for news, and almost before we had seated ourselves he entered, eager and anxious-looking; but, when he glanced at our faces, a happy expression came over his own, and without a word he put out his hand. After a warm greeting, I produced the roll, and, to his delight, I handed over to James ten five hundreds. On the morrow I went to the office, and, paying my messenger a week's wages, besides making a small gift, told him he need not come any more.

With this twenty thousand coup we fondly thought all our troubles and all our unlawful acts were ended. We now had a few thousands, sufficient to last until the $5,000 we had invested in the will case should bring in a dividend that would mean a fortune for us all. So we took things easy about town, and altogether thought ourselves pretty good fellows, and this world a very good sort of place to be in.

Thus the Winter passed by and the Summer was at hand. Our thousands of the year before had dwindled to hundreds, and the old lady whose heirs we had constituted ourselves seemed to have renewed her youth, and threatened to outlive us all.

Besides this there had grown up a repugnance in our minds to the business, and when one day my friend Mac remarked it was a scoundrelly business to rob the heirs of an estate, and they women, George and I heartily acquiesced; and we vowed we would take no part in the matter, and then and there resolved we would throw both James and Brea over, but first to use Brea and James for our own purposes. Once more we found ourselves planning a coup in Wall street. Talking the matter over, we three soon had a plan, and, being dowered with intense energy, it promised a successful termination. Audaciously enough we determined the lightning should strike once more in the same place—that is, to make Jay Cooke & Company again the victims. Irving and his honest fellows were to co-operate by watching everything, and, if any arrest threatened, to be on hand to make it themselves; and then let the prisoner escape. Most important of all, when the bankers drove up in hot haste to Police Headquarters to give information, James, Honest James, would be on hand to receive them, would call in his two trustys to get with him full particulars of the robbery and a description of the men. Then the bankers would be sent away with assurances that "we know the men and will have them," but at the same time warning them to keep the matter a secret in order better to enable them to catch the villains.

If successful, the detectives were to receive 25 per cent. between them. Our plan required James to play an important part, and, although no confederacy could be fixed on him, yet he would hardly escape questioning and a very considerable degree of suspicion, so much so that it probably would put an end to any lingering remnants of character he had on hand or in stock. But he was tired of America, and determined to go to Paris with his share of the plunder. Our visits to James had always been in his private office, and his clerks had never seen either of us or Brea.

Our plan was to make use of James' office in a way that will appear later. As related, he was suspected by his profession, but the general public thought him a very great man. He had appeared as (volunteer) counsel in two or three murder cases and had delivered powerful addresses which had attracted considerable notice in the papers.

One day, soon after our plan was matured, Brea went to Philadelphia, and, by a mixture of audacity and finesse, procured from Jay Cooke himself (the parent house of the New York firm of Jay Cooke & Co. was in Philadelphia) a letter of introduction to the manager of the New York firm. He wanted the letter ostensibly in order to consult the manager about certain investments which he, as executor of an estate, desired to make for his wards.

The transaction was made to appear as one of considerable magnitude, in which there would be large commissions paid. With the grand send-off of a letter from Jay Cooke to his subordinate in New York, the speculation opened well—so well that we at once decided what we would do with the money when we got it—a case in point for the old proverb. We had ascertained the name of a Newark manufacturer who had recently failed in business. I will call him Newman. On the morning after his return from Philadelphia, Brea presented himself at James' office—it being arranged that James himself be out, so Brea told the clerk that his name was Newman, that he had lately failed in business, and intended to employ Mr. James to put him through the bankruptcy court. The clerk told him to come again at 12, and he would find Mr. James in. At 12 he came; the clerk introduced him. James kept the clerk conveniently near, that he could hear the conversation. Brea, as Newman, told James he had used in his business $240,000 belonging to his wife and her mother, and that in scheduling his assets he proposed to use enough to make those amounts good, intending to conceal the fact from his creditors. He determined to invest the amount in bonds—so ran his story—and was going to deposit the money in the bank that very afternoon, at the same time producing his letter of introduction from Jay Cooke. All of this, of course, being for the eye and ear of the clerk, who might be required as a witness of his employer's good faith.



Brea-Newman also paid James, in presence of the clerk, a retaining fee of $250, which was privately returned. James banked in Jersey City, and when Newman said, "Introduce me at your bank, as I want a small credit handy," James said, "My bank is in Jersey City." The clerk's brother was paying teller at the Chemical Bank, and, as was expected, he at once spoke up, saying: "Let me introduce Mr. Newman in the Chemical Bank," so down went Newman and the clerk, and in ten minutes our man had the Chemical Bank checkbook in his pocket and $5,000 to his credit in the bank. The same afternoon he presented his letter of introduction at Jay Cooke & Co.'s, and was cordially received. He, of course, told a totally different story there. In this case a relative, lately deceased, had left him an estate of great value. He was, he said, realizing on his real estate, and buying bonds as fast as his money came in, and he wanted to invest a million in various railway bonds. At present he had $240,000 on hand, which he wanted to invest in Government bonds. He then left for the time being, leaving a good impression, which his refined manner and appearance confirmed.

So far all was well; that is, all was well from our point of view. The next two or three days Brea paid several visits to the Chemical Bank, getting small checks for $500 and $1,000 certified, and now had his account drawn down to $1,000. The day before he had called on Jay Cooke & Co. and told them he would take $240,000 in seven thirties, "Bearer" bonds, and that he would call the next day and pay for them. At the same time he got them to give him a proforma bill for them.

The eventful day had come, and James, to get his head clerk out of the way, sent him to the Admiralty Court to take notes of the evidence in a case going on there.

At 10 o'clock Brea sent a messenger with a note to the bankers, requesting them to send the bonds to Edwin James' office, and he would pay for them on delivery. He could not come himself, as he was in consultation with the executors of the estate.

In the mean time a check for the full value of the bonds, $240,000, had been made out. It was drawn on the Chemical Bank, and was, in fact, similar to those always given between bankers on bond transactions.

Brea had drawn his own check for $240, and had it in his hatband with the $240,000 dummy check. The plan is palpable enough. When the messenger brought the bonds Brea, or Newman, was going to say: "All right, I have the check here; bring the bonds and we will go to the Chemical Bank and get them to certify my check." Then when at the bank he would take out both checks, letting the messenger only get a glimpse of one, and that would be the small $240 one, which Brea would pass in through the window with a request to have it certified. This would be done, and when handed out, of course, Brea was to change it and hand the messenger the big one of home manufacture.

It seemed impossible for the scheme to fail, and success in it meant on the surface comparative wealth for us all, with, perhaps, in the not distant future an entrance through the McAllister-guarded portals of the Four Hundred.

But here we have a vivid instance of how easily an elaborate scheme can by the merest accident fall to pieces.

The night before the expected coup we met James for a final full-dress rehearsal for the morrow, and after everything was settled adjourned to the uptown Delmonico's for supper. It so happened that Detective George Elder was there. This Elder was a bright fellow, was in a ring—but not in our ring—and, of course, had his bank account, diamond pin and turnout for the road. He had had some acquaintance with me, but the rest of the party were strangers. I did not see him at the time, but it would seem he was curious, even suspicious, from some scraps of conversation he overheard. However, neither his curiosity nor suspicion would have been of any consequence or concern to us had it not been that, in going out, Brea left on the table with some papers the memorandum or pro forma bill of the bonds given him the day before by the bankers. Strangely enough, the body of the bill alone was intact. The heading bearing the name of the firm and purchaser had been torn off and destroyed.

Elder picked it up and, having some vague suspicions of a plot somewhere, he determined to go around among the hundred or more bankers and brokers in and around Wall street and investigate quietly, without making any report to his superiors, his immediate superior being, of course, our honest friend, the worthy chief of the detective force, who was anxiously looking for his percentage of the deal. The whole force was split up into cliques, each intensely jealous of every other, each with its own stamping grounds, and each strictly protected his own preserves.

At 9:30 the next morning Elder started around carrying the fragment of the memorandum he had picked up from bank to bank and from one broker to the other. He had spent over an hour making inquiries, and walked into Jay Cooke & Co.'s office just as the messenger was leaving with the bonds for James' office. Fifteen minutes more and the game was ours! Elder produced the memorandum, and they at once recognized it as their own. Elder asked them if they knew their man and were sure it was all right. They said it was perfectly right, that Mr. "Newman" had been introduced by the head of the firm in Philadelphia, and was also a client of Edwin James; but then it was strange the bill should be mutilated. Elder averred his belief that a fraud was intended, and suggested that he and the manager should accompany the messenger with the bonds. This alarmed the manager, and he directed Elder and the messenger to await his return. Seizing his hat, he started for James' office to investigate. James was there, and Brea (the pseudo Newman) was in the private office with the two checks ready, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the messenger with the bonds.

Myself and all the other members of our party were nearby, watching and awaiting developments. The manager, considerably perturbed, entered the office, and James saw at once the business was a failure, for he knew, of course, that any suspicion as to good faith would be fatal to the success of the plot. Brea, hearing the voices and supposing it was the messenger with the bonds, opened the door of the private office and was vexed to see the manager, who, shaking him by the hand, told him the bonds would arrive soon, at the same time saying: "I suppose you will pay currency for the bonds?" To which Brea replied: "I will go to my bank with you now and get my check certified for the amount and give it to you, or leave it until the messenger comes with the bonds."

This offer, along with Brea's coolness, apparently disarmed all suspicions, and he said: "Oh, all right, the messenger will go to the bank with you." He left the office, but stopped in the hall for a moment, then turned and hastily re-entering, said: "By the way, Mr. Newman, please draw the currency from the bank, and pay the notes to the messenger upon delivery of the bonds."

So the grand coup had failed, ignominiously failed, and through what appeared a trivial accident. More such "accidents" at critical periods will appear before this history is ended.

The dummy check was still in our hands, and was at once destroyed, so, with nothing to fear, we coolly walked up Broadway to dinner, and talked of the future over a bottle of wine. At last we fixed upon a definite plan. Clinking our glasses, we drank to "Eastward, Ho!"



CHAPTER XI.

"CRACK THE LAWYER'S VOICE THAT HE MAY NEVER MORE FALSE TITLES PLEAD, NOR SOUND HIS QUILLETS SHRILLY."

The Eastward Ho was a hint of a project we had frequently talked over as a possible speculation. Here we see how men are led on step by step from bad to worse when once they set out on the Primrose Way.

In returning from Europe with the $10,000 commission in my pocket, I vowed never again to engage in any unlawful speculation. I was through! No criminal life for me! Then came the day when we struck for the $20,000 and won, and we were all happy in the thought that our last unlawful deed was over.

Then we took the third step we had vowed never to take, and had discussed the $240,000 project. We had spent money on it, had laid our plans cunningly and deep, and were confident of success. We had even planned how to invest our thousands in an honest business, and so win the esteem of all good men, and, of course, in some happy future would make restitution. But that is a future which never comes in the history of crime. These three wrong steps had been taken only after convincing ourselves that the circumstances justified each separate act.

Such is the contradiction of human nature that even when planning crime we not only intended to make restitution, but despised all other wrongdoers and reprobated their crimes. Each wrongful act of ours was to be the last, and it was with something like despair that we began to realize that there was no stopping place on the dangerous road we were treading.

My $13,000 commission from the European trip had melted away. Our share of the $20,000 got from Jay Cooke & Co. was fast going. Our deep-laid plot to win $240,000 had miscarried, and now the necessity was upon us of engaging in another illegitimate operation if we would continue in our life of ease and luxury.

For the next few days we did little but dine and plan. Discussion followed discussion, and through them all we clung to the general proposition that we would not do any more in our particular line in America. At last we resolved to go to Europe and realize the fortune that seemed to elude our grasp at home.